Sunset People. Herbert Kastle

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СКАЧАТЬ like running out of gas and hitting on closed joints a long time ago. Besides, we can choose from a dozen seafood places.”

      She nodded, but he could tell she was still pissed. So he decided not to wait. He took her arm and hurried her to his car, where he handed her the brown paper bag with the thick plastic bag inside.

      She sniffed it, beginning to smile. “Dusted?”

      He nodded. “Three full ounces.”

      She leaned toward him from the passenger’s seat. Her lips brushed his cheek.

      “And then there’s something a little heavier,” he said. He reached into his breast pocket and took out the bulging wallet, and from it the thick, rubber-banded sheaf of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He riffled it under her nose.

      “Ummm!” she exclaimed, reaching. “Smells like two or three grand!”

      He let her take it. “Five. For our second honeymoon. Vegas or wherever. Right here in L.A. if you want. Clothes and jewelry and anything that makes you happy.”

      “Great!” She began to put the money in her purse.

      He laughed, and took it back and put it away. “First the reconciliation.”

      “All right,” she murmured. “Let’s pick up some Chinese or fried chicken and go to your place.”

      “How about picking up your clothes? I’m talking about a permanent deal.”

      Her green eyes were on him, and they were warm. “One step at a time, black beauty.” She leaned over and kissed him again, on the mouth this time. “Step one,” she said, and her hand pressed his thigh and began to slide upward.

      He hadn’t kissed her, held her, in almost three months. He was so hungry for her he was trembling. But he pushed her away. “Not in the parking lot.”

      He began to drive, saying they’d pick up her car in the morning. He drove two blocks, reaching out to touch her short-cropped platinum hair, her soft cheek, telling her how much he’d missed her, how much he loved her. . . and her hand returned to his thigh.

      He went another block before she reached his crotch.

      “Remember our first time? On your lap in the Fairfax Drive-In movie? You couldn’t wait, black beauty. I’ll bet you can’t now.”

      He wanted the comfort of his bed. He wanted the pleasure of her naked body stretched out beside his. But she began squeezing, and he just had to stop.

      They were on a side street somewhere between Santa Monica and Fountain, and it was very dark. She rolled a joint and they shared it. It was heavy junk because of the dust, and they lost all restraint. He had her boobs out and was kissing them. She had his cock out and was stroking it.

      And then she bent her head and took him in her mouth. He grasped her head with both hands, pressing down, making her deep-throat him, loving her gargling sounds, loving the sight of his woman sucking him . . .

      The voice said, “Filth! You’re forcing her! Black filth!”

      Mel jerked his head to the left, to his open window.

      Beth-Anne straightened.

      They both saw the fat man. And the long gun.

      “He wasn’t forcing me!” Beth-Anne said. “If that’s what you’re worried about, forget it!”

      “She’s my wife, Mel said, shoving his wilting penis back inside his fly. And knowing what he knew about Whitey, added, “She’s Negro too, but it doesn’t show,” Negro because some nuts hated the word black.

      The gun was in the window, but the man didn’t seem sure what to do. So Mel reached for the ignition, still talking: “Too much wine with dinner. Spur of the moment. Married folks on a lark. You got every right to be disgusted. Never happen again.”

      Beth-Anne was frozen, eyes glued to the gun. Her big show-girl tits were hanging out, and the fat man was staring at them. Mel didn’t know if that would help or hurt and was ready to burn rubber.

      “Get your hand away!” the fat man said, and Mel let go of the key. The fat man looked around quickly, and so did Mel, and there was no one there, no one to help.

      “Show me your licenses,” the fat man said. “If your last names match, I’ll let you go.”

      Mel smiled, relief washing over him like a cool wave. He turned to Beth-Anne. “Make yourself presentable, dear.”

      She said, “Presentable?” and then, “Oh!” and began stuffing her boobs back inside her dress.

      The fat man leaned closer, breathing loudly. The gun moved inside the car, right in front of Mel’s face, which wasn’t very professional. Mel could grab it . . .

      But he was the wrong guy for heroics. Besides, it could go off in Beth-Anne’s direction.

      And why bother when the licenses would prove they were married and the freak would let them go?

      Mel took out his wallet, and only then remembered the five thousand. He began to sweat. If he lost the money, he knew he would lose Beth-Anne. And Christ, he hated to wait more months!

      The gun hiccupped and jerked in front of his face, then drew back out of the window. Mel turned to Beth-Anne. She was falling over against the opposite door. There was a sharp smell, a burning smell, and Mel remembered it from Italy and Monte Casino where he’d been a cook in Mark Clark’s Eighth Army and there’d been no need for cooks during three terrible days of assault when the burning smell and dead men had been everywhere.

      Beth-Anne had a small spot close to her ear. It leaked a little.

      Mel said, “Dear Jesus,” and turned to his window; turned directly into that extended barrel. He wanted to beg and grovel and live. And said, “Dirty white fuck!” and reached for the gun.

      As soon as he walked into the house, Lila went at him.

      “What were you doing in the back yard just now? And don’t play dumb . . . I heard you clearly. And where were you anyway! I called the store and it was closed two hours ago!”

      Before he conld begin to answer, she said, “Just look at you, Frank Berdon! Your hair . . . your face!”

      He stepped quickly from the kitchen to the foyer mirror, expecting blood . . . and there was nothing. His hair was slightly mussed in front; he was somewhat sweaty, somewhat pale.

      He stepped back into the kitchen, to where she sat at the table, a cup in her hand. “I’d like some coffee too,” he said. He spoke quietly, to make sure his voice would remain steady.

      “Then get it!”

      He went to the electric coffee machine and poured a cup. His hand shook, and he blocked it from her view by turning away. He took several long sips before facing her. “That lilac bush in back is dying.”

      She began to say something about it being dark out, and he interrupted: “A little water in the morning, a little at night, and maybe we’ll save СКАЧАТЬ