Masters Of Noir Vol Iii Part 4

"I don't care," he answered, wondering how he'd gotten the words out. For sometimes they wouldn't come, and with girls in particular.

They began to walk, no destination in mind. A cool wind lifted off the river. The noises of the city pulsed louder, the lights began to blind Six Fingers. Cissie's closeness made pins and needles go through him. She was talking, babbling nothings. Once her hand touched his and he felt flame shoot up his arm. Anger almost overwhelmed him and he wanted to strike her, wanted to flee. Both sensations coming instantaneously only served to hold him there.

They walked to the park, came back to the candy store and drank a c.o.ke.

"I'm going home," Cissie said, dropping her straw in her gla.s.s and looking at him oddly.

Six Fingers nodded, thinking of Joey's taunts. He had to go along with Cissie but didn't want to. He had to like a girl, and Cissie made him angry.

They left the candy store and conversation died. Cissie's chatter had been better than this silence; he felt uneasier now, frightened, yet didn't realize the source of his fear.

They turned into a dark block. Subdued voices came through the silence, the clink of a gla.s.s, but Six Fingers saw no one. Cissie had moved close. Her hand brushed his again and lightning seemed to flash across his brain. She took his hand then and he wanted to pull away but couldn't, wanted to run yet his legs refused to obey.

At last they stood at her doorway; close now, she faced him and he could feel the warmth of her body, a strange delicate odor drifted toward him. Her face was blurred by the shadows but her eyes shone. He thought she was smiling but wasn't sure.

"Well?" she said.

"Well, what?"

"I do have to go up, you know."

He nodded his head yet he realized that her words held another meaning. She was not merely telling him she was leaving. The phrase meant much more but he didn't know how to answer.

Cissie moved closer then and, with their bodies almost touching, looked into his eyes, waiting as she had done with all the others. But Six Fingers didn't respond, though he wanted to kiss her. He was filled with a wild desire to grab her, but swiftly countering this came the other feeling, a mixture of fear and anger. Without meaning to, he took a backward step.

"Come here," Cissie said, reaching for him, and back another step he went.

Cissie appeared puzzled now.

"You're not afraid of me?" she asked.

"No."

"Then come here," she said and, this time as she reached for him, he suddenly turned and ran.

It was early when he came home, an unusual hour for him to return. More unusual for him to go to his room and remain there.

This puzzled his mother and she finally went to his room. The light was out and he lay on his bed, still dressed.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

No answer. When she asked again, he snapped at her and, thinking he was in one of his moods, she left him to himself.

Not till midnight, when the house was totally quiet, did he come from his room. Straight to the refrigerator he went and whatever he could lay hands on he piled on the table. Then he ate ravenously.

Next morning he appeared to be his ordinary self at breakfast, neither talkative or moody. Yesterday was like a bad dream laid aside. First thing after leaving the house, he went for a ride on his bike. When he returned, he chained the bike to the iron fence outside the house, walked to the corner and there was Joey and some other friends. As he greeted them he saw that they appeared amused. They exchanged glances and didn't answer him.

"What's wrong with you guys?" he asked.

"Hah!" said Joey. "So you were with Cissie last night."

"So what?"

"Yeah, what happened?"

"You couldn't guess," Six Fingers answered with a knowing air.

"We don't have to. We know," said Joey.

"Know what?"

"Cissie told us all about it. You were scared of her. You ran."

Six Fingers wanted to answer but words wouldn't come. His ears were filled with the taunts of his friends and the sound of their laughter. Worse yet was what Cissie had done to him, made of him a fool. More than anything he was angry with her and finally he managed to say, "She's a liar. I didn't run, she did."

"That wasn't how we heard it," Joey answered.

Six Fingers had lied of course, but immediately the lie had become the truth to him, why, he didn't know, but he believed it now. She had run from him and he insisted that this was so, raising his voice in a way that almost convinced his tormentors.

Nevertheless, Joey refused to accept this and kept taunting him. Then the others joined in again.

"Yeah, I'm going to show her," Six Fingers said. "I made her run."

"Just how are you going to show her?" Joey wanted to know.

The threat uttered in anger was no more than that but soon as Six Fingers uttered it, he realized he'd said too much. He didn't know what to do to regain his status. But no more were the words out of his mouth when he realized that he'd meant what he'd said.

"Well, how?" Joey asked again.

"You'll see," said Six Fingers and, unable to explain, he turned on his heel and walked away.

He remained in his room all that day. Most of the time his mind was utterly blank, but there were moments of anger when he thought of what Cissie had done. He had to get back at her, yet the only real way to do this frightened him. Even to approach her now would take more courage than he possessed.

By evening he had no plan in mind. He didn't eat but went out of the house and wandered through the hot streets. At last, as if he had planned it, he found himself at Cissie's door. She was nowhere in sight but he waited. An hour later he saw her turn the corner, hesitate, then come on.

Frightened now, he almost took to his heels. It was like last evening again, and he felt as if he were beginning once more.

Meantime Cissie approached, uncertain of his reason for waiting here. But she couldn't retreat now. She came on, brazenly. When close, she smiled and, as if in surprise, said, "Imagine you here."

Six Fingers stared. That unnerved her but he didn't know it.

"Waiting for me?" she asked.

"That's right."

"But you ran away last night."

He nodded this time. The same feeling possessed him. He wanted to run, the feeling was almost overwhelming, but he held his ground and at last heard himself say, "You thought I was afraid last night."

"Not exactly."

"Well, I'm not, I'm not afraid of any girl."

"That's good to hear. I suppose that means you like me?"

He nodded but this wasn't the truth. He didn't like her. More, he was still afraid and his whole body was trembling.

Cissie was at ease now, for he didn't appear angry and he hadn't been waiting to strike her. She smiled; it was obvious to her why he'd returned and she moved closer, as she had the previous evening, then closer still.

Frightened, Six Fingers stood his guard, though he wanted to run. Yet he had to prove himself. Even in this moment he could see Joey's face and hear his taunts. Well, he'd show him and all the others. It wouldn't be long now, either.

Cissie meanwhile had moved as close as possible without touching him and her eyes held his. This time it would happen, he knew, and he waited. Then Cissie spoke, the invitation innocent enough, but he knew what it meant. "It's cooler on the roof," she said, and paused, perhaps expecting a reply from him, but he couldn't answer, much as he wanted to.

"Want to go up?" she asked him casually, and he nodded. That was enough.

As they stepped onto the roof, Six Fingers was breathing hard. The darkness was striking, the sky vast. A cooling wind swept round them.

"Want to look down at the street?" Cissie asked and before he could answer, she moved away from him.

Moments later he followed. It was exactly as Joey had said, first the invitation to the roof, then to see the street-so he was prepared for her next move and not surprised. A step from her and she suddenly turned and faced him.

"Are you still afraid of me?" Cissie asked. "Are you?" And she moved closer, as if to throw herself around him, then touched his arms. He would have run but she seized him now and fear petrified him. What her intentions were he didn't know, for he felt enveloped by an implacable enemy, a satanic creature in the shape of a girl who seemed bent on devouring him. A final terrifying image and he shoved her away, backward with violence.

Moments later he looked down at the street. Voices came up from below. People were scurrying toward what appeared like a shadow on the sidewalk. Far in the distance a siren sounded, but Six Fingers didn't run, nor was he afraid any longer-only puzzled by what he had done.

JUST WINDOW SHOPPING by LAWRENCE BLOCK writing as SHELDON LORD

I climbed over the back fence and hurried down the driveway. They probably hadn't seen me at the window, but I couldn't afford to take chances. The police had caught me once. I certainly did not want to be picked up again.

It was horrible when the police caught me. I admitted everything but that wasn't enough for them. They put me in a chair with the light shining in my eyes so that I could barely see. Then they started hitting me. They used rubber hoses so there wouldn't be any marks. They hit me so much I nearly fainted.

The beating wasn't the worst of it, though. They called me names. They called me a s.e.x fiend and a pervert. That hurt me more than the beatings.

Because I'm not a pervert, you see. All I want to do is watch people. There's no harm in that, is there? I don't hurt anyone, and I never really bother anybody. Sometimes someone sees me watching them, and they get frightened or angry, but that's only once in a great while. I've been very careful lately, ever since they caught me.

And if they think I am a pervert, you should see some of the things I've seen. You wouldn't believe the things some of these normal people do. It's enough to make you sick to your stomach. Yet they are normal, and they call me a pervert, a Peeping Tom. I can't quite understand it. All I do is watch.

Ever since they caught me I have been very careful. That is why I left the window when the man looked at me. I'm almost sure he didn't see me, but he glanced toward the window and I hopped the fence and got away from there. Besides, it wasn't much fun watching at his window. The woman with him was old and fat and I was getting bored with the whole thing. There was no sense in taking chances for that.

When I got out to the street I didn't know where to go. I used to have a perfect spot. A pretty young prost.i.tute over on Tremont Avenue who saw at least ten men a night. I could spend night after night watching her. The backyard was dark and I had a perfect view. But one night she saw me watching.

She was nice about it and sensible, too. She didn't call me a pervert. But she said the men might notice me, that they wouldn't like it. She told me to stay away. It was a shame that I had to give up the spot, but at least she didn't call the police or anything.

But I couldn't watch there anymore, and I had to find a new spot. I walked down the street looking for a lighted window. I stopped at several places, but there was nothing much to see. There were just people sitting or reading or watching television.

Finally I found a house with a light on that looked promising. The backyard was dark, too, which was important. It's harder to see out from a lighted room when there is no light in the backyard.

I stood close to the window and watched. A man and woman were sitting on the bed, taking their clothes off. I watched them. The man wasn't bad looking but my attention was confined to the woman. I'm not queer, you understand.

She certainly wasn't beautiful. Better than average, though. Her face was nothing to write home about, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were rather small, but she had beautiful legs and a generally nice shape all in all. I watched her undress and began to get excited. This was going to be a good night after all.

They undressed quickly, which is not the way I like it. It's better when they take a good long time about it. But they just pulled off their clothes and turned down the bedcovers. I guess they had been married for some time.

I was really excited by this time, and my eyes were practically glued to the window. Then the man stood up and walked over to the wall. He touched a switch, and the room was suddenly plunged into complete darkness. I was so mad I could have killed him. Why did he have to do a thing like that?

I stared through the window, but it was no use. The room was black as pitch. I couldn't understand it. How could he enjoy it with the lights out? He wouldn't be able to see a thing.

I was mad, and just about ready to go home and call it a night. But the little I had seen left me so excited that I could not stop there. I walked around looking for another window.

By this time it was late and I had no idea where to go. Most of the people in the neighborhood were asleep by now. But I continued walking around, hoping against hope that something would turn up.

I was just about ready to quit when I saw a lighted window on Bushnell Road. Never having been to that house before I decided to give it a try.

I approached the window and looked in. It was a bedroom window, with a woman reading there. She had her back to me, reading a magazine. She was all alone.

Ordinarily I would not have waited. Sometimes a woman will sit like that all night, just reading. But it was late and, having nowhere else to go, I waited. Besides, I had the feeling I would get a real show for my money.

As it turned out, I was right. She put down the magazine in less than five minutes, stood up, and turned toward me. I was stunned when I got a good look at her. She was beautiful.

She was wearing a flower-print dress that made her look like a schoolgirl, but one good look at her would tell you she was nothing of the sort. Her body was far too mature for a schoolgirl's with proud, full b.r.e.a.s.t.s that nearly ripped the dress apart. Her face was as pretty as a model's, and her hair was that soft reddish-brown that drives me crazy. I was ready to watch her forever.

She started to undress. I stared at her greedily. There was no one else around, and my eyes studied every detail of her body. She undressed slowly, tantalizingly, slithering out of her dress and hanging it up in the closet. Finally she stood there nude, and it was worth all the waiting, worth all the walking that I had done that night. She was like a vision, the most perfect woman I had ever seen.

I thought I would have to go home then. I expected she would turn off the light and go to bed, and if she had I would have been satisfied. It was enough for one night. Instead she walked to her mirror and began to examine herself.

It was the perfect view for me. I could see both her back and the mirror image of her front. She looked at herself, and I watched her. Then she began to dance.

It was not exactly a dance. She moved like a burlesque dancer, but there was nothing crude about it. She knew how beautiful she was, and she moved in rhythm, making a symphony of her body and watching herself as she did. It was something to watch.

Finally she stopped dancing. She slipped on a housecoat and stepped through a door. I guessed she was going to the bathroom, which meant it was the end of the show. I could have left then, but didn't. I wanted to get another glimpse of her. She had to come back.

I stood silently at the window, waiting for her.

Suddenly a door opened. I whirled around to find her standing there, in the doorway, pointing a gun at me. "Don't move," she said. "Don't move or I'll shoot."

I froze in terror, staring down the mouth of the gun, which looked like a cannon to me. "I wasn't doing anything," I stammered. "Just watching you. I didn't hurt you."

She didn't say a word.

"Look," I pleaded, "just let me go. I won't bother you anymore. I promise I'll stay away from here."

She ignored me. "I saw you in the mirror," she said. "Saw you watching me. I danced for you. Did you like the way I danced?"