Savage Night by Jim Thompson

with them—No one could think there was anything w-wrong with—”
    I didn’t hear what she said. I didn’t want to. I heard but I made myself not hear. I didn’t want any explanations. I didn’t want it to be all right. I was scared sick, so damned sick, and I was already sliding into Fruit Jar’s shoes. And I couldn’t pull back, I couldn’t run. They were all watching and waiting, looking for the chance to trip me up.
    All I could do was kill.
    “Get out of there,” I said.
    I was slapping the newspapers into my palm. “Get—slap—out—slap—of there—slap, slap, Get—slap…”
    Her face was as white as the suds, but she had guts. She forced the smile back, tilted her head again. “Now, honey. With you standing there? Why don’t you go on and get in bed, and I’ll—”
    “Get-slap-out—slap—of there—slap, slap…”
    “P-please, honey. I’m s-sorry if—I’ll be sweet to you, honey. It’s been more than a year, and h-honey you don’t know—Y-you don’t know how s-sweet—all the things I’ll—”
    She stopped talking. I had my hand knotted in her hair, and I was pulling her up out of the water. And she didn’t try to pull away. She came up slowly, her neck, her breasts, the soapsuds sliding away from them like they didn’t want to let go.
    She stood up.
    She stepped out of the tub.
    She stood there on the bathmat, fighting with everything she had to fight with—offering it all to me. And she saw it wasn’t enough. She knew it before I knew it myself.
    She raised her arms very slowly—so slowly that they hardly seemed to move—and wrapped them around her head.
    She whispered, “N-not in the face, Carl. J-just don’t hit me in the—”
    I flicked the newspapers across her stomach. Lightly. I flicked them across her breasts. I drew them back over my shoulder and—and held them there. Giving her a chance to yell or try to duck. Hoping she’d try it…and stop being lucky.
    There were too many lucky people in the world.
    “You’re a pretty good actress,” I said. “Tell me you’re not an actress. Tell me you haven’t been leading me on, acting hardboiled and easy-to-get so you could screw me up. Go on, tell me. Call me a liar.”
    She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even move.
    I let the newspapers drop from my hand. I stumbled forward, and sat down on the toilet stool, and made myself start laughing. I whooped with laughter, I whooped and choked and sputtered, rocking back and forth on the stool. And it was as though a river were washing through me, washing away all the fear and craziness and worry. Leaving me clean and warm and relaxed.
    It had always been that way. Once I could start laughing I was all right.
    Then, I heard her snicker, and a moment later that husky saloon-at-midnight laugh. And she hunkered down in front of me, laughing, burying her head in my lap.
    “Y-you crazy tough little bastard, you! You’ve taken ten years off my life.”
    “So now you’re sixteen,” I said. “I’m going to count on it.”
    “Crazy! What in the name of God got into you, anyway?” She raised her head, laughing, but looking a little worried. “It was all right to come in, wasn’t it, as long as sis and—”
    “Sure, it was all right,” I said. “It was swell. I’m tickled to death you’re here. I’ve just had a hell of a hard day and I wasn’t expecting you, and—Let it go at that. Let me up off this toilet before I fall in.”
    “Yeah, but, honey—”
    I tilted her chin up with my fist. “Yeah? We leave it at that or not?”
    “Well—” She hesitated; and then she nodded quickly and jumped up. “Stinker! Toughie! Come on and I’ll give you a drink.”
    She had a pint of whiskey in her overnight bag. She opened it after she’d slipped into her nightgown, and we sat cross-legged on the bed together, drinking and smoking and talking. There weren’t many preliminaries to go through. I’d broken the ice but good there in the bathroom. She knew who I