Trauma by Graham Masterton

Back on Saturday morning.”
    â€œYou don’t seriously think I’m going to let you spend a night in Pasadena with that creep?”
    â€œDuke, he isn’t a creep. He’s my boss. And going to Pasadena is part of my job. He’s not interested in my body. He’s just interested in the fact that I’m good at presenting the product.”
    â€œPresenting the product? Oh, sure, I’ll bet. Ralph Kosherick has only one thing on his mind, and that’s getting you to present the product between your legs.”
    â€œDuke, don’t be so crude. And don’t be so ridiculous.”
    â€œOh, I’m crude now, am I? Just because I don’t want my wife to spend the night with some drooling what’s-it’s-name—lecher.”
    â€œGoing to Pasadena is important, Duke. It’s our major presentation for the holiday season. It could make all the difference between Glamorex really succeeding or going bankrupt.”
    â€œAnd I’m supposed to give a shit about that?”
    â€œDuke, I need the Glamorex job, and more than that, I enjoy it. It fulfills me. For a few hours every day it makes me feel like a woman instead of a cleaner, or a housekeeper, or a taxi driver. I’m going to Pasadena whether you like it or not.”
    â€œI’m your fucking husband, for Christ’s sake.”
    â€œDon’t you be profane, Duke. I’m going.”
    â€œDidn’t you hear me? I’m your husband.”
    â€œHusband? Who are you kidding? You’re just some man who sits around my house all day and expects me to wash his clothes and cook his meals and work myself half to death to keep him in beer. Husband? You can’t even get your dick up.”
    She wished instantly that she hadn’t said that, of all things. She had always promised herself that she never would. She knew that you could say whatever you liked to a man—call him lazy and cruel and stupid and narrow-minded. But telling him that he couldn’t get an erection was telling him that he wasn’t a man at all. It opened up the floor right beneath his feet.
    Duke didn’t say a word. Instead, he lifted his can of Budweiser and poured beer slowly all over Bonnie’s head. She sat on the couch with it dripping from her hair and running down the back of her neck.
    â€œSee what you fucking made me do?” said Duke.
    Then he leaned forward and screamed into her face at point-blank range, “
See what you fucking made me do?!
”

Two Phone Calls
    A few minutes before 8:00 A.M. the next morning Bonnie received two phone calls. She was frying bacon for Duke’s breakfast. The first call came from Lieutenant David Irizarry of the Los Angeles Police Department.
    â€œMs. Winter? Captain O’Hagan asked me to call you.”
    â€œOh, yes?”
    â€œIt’s about your son, Raymond Winter. Captain O’Hagan says that we’ve decided not to file charges of assault against him. However, he will be required at some point to come down to headquarters.”
    â€œI see. I see. That’s good news, I guess.”
    â€œCaptain O’Hagan will be in touch with you.”
    â€œThank you. I appreciate it.”
    The second call was from Lieutenant Dan Munoz.
    â€œBonnie? I’m glad I caught you. I’ve fixed up a job for you at Ivanhoe Drive by the Silver Lake Reservoir. Kind of messy, the kid-in-a-box case. How about meeting me three o’clock tomorrow. We can sort it all out. Who loves you, baby?”
    Bonnie hung up the phone and stared at the bacon gradually shriveling in the pan. Duke appeared, wearing a sweaty T-shirt and droopy boxer shorts. He hadn’t shaved or showered, and he staggered around the kitchen as if he were still drunk, which he probably was. Eventually he dragged out a chair and sat down, tilting wildly to one side.
    â€œYou think I don’t love you, don’t you?” he announced.
    â€œDuke—forget it.