‘I killed a goddam fucking mirror!’ he shrieked, and was about to sling the poker away when something did move in the tub, behind the corrugated shower door. There was a frightened little squeal. Grinning, Mort slashed sideways with the poker, tearing a jagged gash through the plastic door and knocking it off its tracks. He raised the poker over his shoulder, his eyes glassy and staring, his lips drawn into the grimace he had imagined on Shooter’s face.
Then he lowered the poker slowly. He found he had to use the fingers of his left hand to pry open the fingers of his right so that the poker could fall to the floor.
‘Wee sleekit cowerin’ beastie,’ he said to the fieldmouse scurrying blindly about in the tub. ‘What a panic’s in thy breastie.’ His voice sounded hoarse and flat and strange. It didn’t sound like his own voice at all. It was like listening to himself on tape for the first time.
He turned and walked slowly out of the bathroom past the leaning door with its popped hinge, his shoes gritting on broken mirror glass.
All at once he wanted to go downstairs and lie on the couch and take a nap. All at once he wanted that more than anything else in the world.
24
It was the telephone that woke him up. Twilight had almost become night, and he made his way slowly past the glass-topped coffee table that liked to bite with a weird feeling that time had somehow doubled back on itself. His right arm ached like hell. His back wasn’t in much better shape. Exactly how hard had he swung that poker, anyway? How much panic had been driving him? He didn’t like to think.
He picked up the telephone, not bothering to guess who it might be. Life has been so dreadfully busy lately, darling, that it might even be the President. ‘Hello?’
‘How you doin, Mr Rainey?’ the voice asked, and Mort recoiled, snatching the telephone away from his ear for a moment as if it were a snake which had tried to bite. He returned it slowly.
‘I’m doing fine, Mr Shooter,’ he said in a dry, spitless voice. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m-a country fair,’ Shooter allowed, speaking in that thick crackerbarrel Southern accent that was somehow as bald and staring as an unpainted barn standing all by itself in the middle of a field. ‘But I don’t think you’re really all that well. Stealing from another man, that don’t seem to have ever bothered you none.
Being caught up on, though … that seems to have given you the pure miseries.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Shooter sounded faintly amused. ‘Well, I heard on the radio news that someone burned down your house.
Your other house. And then, when you come back down here, it sounded like you pitched a fit or
something once you got into the house. Shouting … whacking on things … or maybe it’s just that successful writers like you throw tantrums when things don’t go the way they expect. Is that it, maybe?’
My God, he was here. He was.
Mort found himself looking out the window as if Shooter still might be out there … hiding in the bushes, perhaps, while he spoke to Mort on some sort of cordless telephone. Ridiculous, of course.
‘The magazine with my story in it is on the way,’ he said. ‘When it gets here, are you going to leave me alone?’
Shooter still sounded lazily amused. ‘There isn’t any magazine with that story in it, Mr Rainey. You and me, we know that. Not from 1980, there isn’t. How could there be, when my story wasn’t there for you to steal until 1982?’
‘Goddammit, I did not steal your st-‘
‘When I heard about your house,’ Shooter said, ‘I went out and bought an Evening Express. They had a picture of what was left. Wasn’t very much. Had a picture of your wife, too.’ There was a long, thoughtful pause. Then Shooter said, ‘She’s purty.’ He used the country pronunciation purposely, sarcastically. ‘How’d an ugly son of a buck like you luck into such a purty wife, Mr Rainey?’
‘We’re divorced,’ he said. ‘I told you that. Maybe she discovered how ugly I was. Why don’t we leave Amy out of this? It’s between you and me.’
For the second time in two days, he realized he had answered the phone while he was only half awake and nearly defenseless. As a result, Shooter was in almost total control of the conversation. He was leading Mort by the nose, calling the shots.
Hang up, then.
But he couldn’t. At least, not yet.
‘Between you and me, is it?’ Shooter asked. ‘Then I don’t s’pose you even mentioned me to anyone else.’
‘What do you want? Tell me! What in the hell do you want?’
‘You want the second reason I came, is that it?’
‘Yes!’
‘I want you to write me a story,’ Shooter said calmly. ‘I want you to write a story and put my name on it and then give it to me. You owe me that. Right is right and fair is fair.’
Mort stood in the hallway with the telephone clutched in his aching fist and a vein pulsing in the middle of his forehead. For a few moments his rage was so total that he found himself buried alive inside it and all he was capable of thinking was So THAT’S it! SO THAT’S it! SO THAT’S it! over and over again.
‘You there, Mr Rainey?’ Shooter asked in his calm, drawling voice.
‘The only thing I’ll write for you,’ Mort said, his own voice slow and syrupy-thick with rage, ‘is your death-warrant, if you don’t leave me alone.’
‘You talk big, pilgrim,’ Shooter said in the patient voice of a man explaining a simple problem to a stupid child, ‘because you know I can’t put no hurtin on you. If you had stolen my dog or my car, I could take your dog or car. I could do that just as easy as I broke your cat’s neck. If you tried to stop me, I could put a hurtin on you and take it anyway. But this is different. The goods I want are inside your head. You got the goods locked up like they were inside a safe. Only I can’t just blow off the door and torch open the back. I have to find me the combination. Don’t I?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mort said, ‘but the day you get a story out of me will be the day the Statue of Liberty wears a diaper. Pilgrim.’
Shooter said meditatively, ‘I’d leave her out of it if I could, but I’m startin to think you ain’t going to leave me that option.’
All the spit in Mort’s mouth was suddenly gone, leaving it dry and glassy and hot. ‘What . . . what do you -‘
‘Do you want to wake up from one of your stupid naps and find Amy nailed to your garbage bin?’ Shooter asked. ‘Or turn on the radio some morning and hear she came off second best in a match with the chainsaw you keep in your garage up there? Or did the garage burn, too?’
‘Watch what you say,’ Mort whispered. His wide eyes began to prickle with tears of rage and fear.
‘You still have two days to think about it. I’d think about it real close, Mr Rainey. I mean I’d really hunker down over her, if I were you. And I don’t think I’d talk about this to anyone else. That’d be like standing out in a thunderstorm and tempting the lightning. Divorced or not, I have got an idea you still have some feeling for that lady. It’s time for you to grow up a little. You can’t get away with it. Don’t you realize that yet? I know what you did, and I ain’t quitting until I get what’s mine.’
‘You’re crazy!’ Mort screamed.
‘Good night, Mr Rainey,’ Shooter said, and hung up.
25
Mort stood there for a moment, the handset sinking away from his ear. Then he scooped up the bottom half of the Princess-style telephone. He was on the verge of throwing the whole combination against the wall before he was able to get hold of himself. He set it down again and took a dozen deep breaths – enough to make his head feel swimmy and light. Then he dialled Herb Creekmore’s home telephone.
Herb’s lady-friend, Delores, picked it up on the second ring and called Herb to the telephone.
‘Hi, Mort,’ Herb said. ‘What’s the story on the house?’ His voice moved away from the telephone’s mouthpiece a little. ‘Delores, will you move that skillet to the back burner?’
Suppertime in New York, Mort thought, and he wants me to know it. Well, what the hell. A maniac has just threatened to turn my wife into veal cutlets, but life has to go on, right?