A Self Made Monster Read online

  Sandy laughed too. She laughed freely at his candid snort, and at her own drunkenness. The room had been tipping left since her third beer.

  The bartender had delivered Sandy’s beer and John’s gin & tonic. He waited to see who would pay for the drinks.

  “She’s paying for the drinks,” Alex said.

  Sandy laughed again. The laughs were coming so easily. She waved a ten at the bartender.

  Alex lightly pushed Sandy’s hand away. “Just kidding.” He paid the bartender and sat on the stool. “The trio’s back,” Alex noted. “Let’s see if we can name the tune.”

  “All these jazz tunes sound alike to me.”

  “You’ve just got to concentrate.” He laughed inwardly. He was alert, witty, focused. He felt wonderful when he had a victim. The anticipation was energizing. His headache had melted like ice cubes in warm water.

  The trio kicked into a double time cover of “It’s Easy to Remember.” He told Sandy the name of the tune, then noted the composers, Rogers and Hart.

  “They’re famous, aren’t they?”

  “You’d probably recognize a lot of their tunes.” He rocked his head back and forth. “You know, ‘Isn’t It Romantic?’, ‘Spring Is Here’, stuff like that.”

  “Geez I don’t think so.” She found herself leaning toward the man, rolling her shoulders to the music. Her spilling orange curls had loosened and now reached the middle of her back. She realized she was flirting and chuckled. The man understood her chuckle and smiled.

  “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” Sandy asked.

  The thought of Sandy’s blood thrilled him. “Very much so.”

  Alex hummed along with “Blue In Green”, the trio’s last tune. When the trio left the bandstand, Sandy asked that he walk her to her car. “You can tell me how much I can get on a trade-in,” she joked.

  They walked toward the parking lot. Alex wanted to remain a gentleman for the moment, so he kept a polite distance. Sandy wanted to close the distance, so she began to walk suggestively. She imagined that her walk was alluring. She offered her new friend a cheesy smile, held it, then raised her eyebrows playfully, then smiled again. I know I’m acting silly, she wanted her eyebrows to say, but I’m loaded and I think I like you.

  Sandy wanted Alex to smile at her drunken riot of facial tics. So he smiled.

  Inside the car, she rolled down the window. “Give me your phone number, I’ll call you next weekend.”

  “Give me yours first.”

  She did. He invented a number with the same prefix.

  “What a coincidence. Do you live around here?”

  He nodded. “What’s your street?”

  “Broadway, almost on the corner of California.”

  “I live just a couple blocks away.” He stepped away from the car. “I’ll call you soon, okay?”

  “You bet.”

  Alex opened his mouth as if to speak.

  Sandy leaned half way out the window. “Did you say something?” she teased.

  “Not yet.” He looked to his left, to his right. Nobody within thirty yards. “I’m sorry if this is a bit odd, but…”

  “I hope really fucking odd.” More facial tics to show her good humor.

  “Could you give me a lift? I took a taxi down here, you see, and since we live close…”

  Chapter Twelve: “You’ll Wake the Neighbors”

  Alex sat on a fake leather couch in Sandy’s living room. Sandy had stepped into the bathroom ten minutes ago, and he wondered if she had passed out. Her speech was slurred as she wobbled to her apartment building. The lobby elevator was not working, so they took the stairs to her fifth floor apartment. She had fallen twice, but she just laughed. “I’m smashed and it’s harder to be hurt when you’re, when you’re, when you get hammered.”

  Her apartment was pleasant, and Alex was comfortable. Stucco walls, a miniature forest of houseplants on the floor, in the living room window, and on the window sill. Light gray carpet, art deco prints, and a gleaming kitchenette to the side of the living room. At the end of the hallway, two bedrooms and a bathroom.

  He waited calmly, his senses enlivened with anticipation. He heard her singing “Speak Low”. Soon she was walking down the hallway in a bathrobe.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he whispered. “And healthy looking.”

  She smiled. No facial tics this time, only half closed eyes and candid smile. “You’re astute. I just got a physical last month, and I’m in shape for a big fuck.”

  He took her in his arms and heard her blood rushing through her. It was especially turbulent in her neck and chest.

  “You like this?” She ground her breasts against his chest.

  “Very much.” He wondered if he should excuse himself to go to the bathroom; he wanted to put on his rubber gloves.

  Now she rubbed her tummy against him in a circular fashion. With each completed circle, she pressed her breasts against him and squeezed his buttocks. He smiled, followed her cue. They moved to the middle of the living room.

  Her perspiration and rising pulse excited him. He imagined her carotid artery ejaculating into his mouth. He had managed to slip on one glove by thrusting his hips as a distraction.

  “Off with that.” She began unbuttoning his shirt.

  After she unbuttoned the shirt, he shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor. With a big grin, he slipped on the second glove.

  She stepped back, eyes widening.

  “Don’t worry about the gloves,” Alex smiled. “You’ll like the feel of them.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she whispered. She backed into the kitchenette, arms folded across her breasts.

  He followed.

  “Frank, Jesus Christ, Frank.”

  Alex turned.

  A tall swarthy man stared at Alex.

  “You asshole, Frank, you asshole. I changed the locks. I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

  “The goddamned door was not locked. I walk in, and what do I see? I see you naked and crawlin’ all over this creep.” Frank pointed at Alex, and hate hardened his black eyes. He removed his trench coat, revealing thick hairy arms and a big chest straining against a tee shirt.

  “I should kill you both,” Frank declared. Sandy blinked through tears.

  “No need for hostilities, Frank.” Alex tried to sound frightened. “Please. Why don’t we sit down and discuss this quietly. There’s always a way to settle differences without resorting to hostilities.”

  Frank removed his cap, tossed it over his shoulder. The gesture was theatrical, and Alex wondered if Frank rehearsed it before a mirror.

  “He’s right, Frank. Let’s talk.”

  “We’ll talk after I pound his goddamned face.”

  “Please. Civility is most precious at the very moment it’s being threatened,” Alex suggested.

  “Shut up!”

  “Suck me off.”

  “Christ shut up, he’ll kill us,” Sandy pleaded.

  “No really. Suck me off, Frank, and then I’ll fuck her.”

  “Now you shut up!” Frank demanded. “You’re a freak.”

  “And a mass murderer.” Alex gripped his own neck and stuck out his tongue, pretending to choke himself.

  Sandy starting crying, and Alex, still pretending to choke himself, told Sandy to calm herself and sit. She sat.

  “Goddammit, I’m the bastard that gives orders in my apartment,” Frank roared. “You don’t have nothin’ to say in here!”

  “You’ll wake the neighbors,” Sandy warned.

  “I don’t give a hard shit about the neighbors. They can kiss my—Hey, let go of me!”

  Alex had grabbed Frank’s neck.

  “I’m warning you, let go!” Frank managed to punch Alex.

  “Rude host,” Alex half-whispered. He stomped Frank’s foot.

  “Stop it,” Sandy pleaded. She tried to pull Alex off her husband.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Alex ordered. He gripped Frank’s neck, squeez
ed, and smashed his face against Sandy‘s. A sharp report echoed through the apartment. The sound was exciting, like a baseball player hitting a home run, so Alex crashed their faces together again.

  Frank dropped to his knees. A purple bulb disfigured his forehead. Alex removed his knife from his jacket pocket. He was about to cut Frank’s throat, but on a whim, he jabbed the knife into Frank’s eye. The eye leaked like a runny poached egg. To silence Frank, Alex stuffed Frank’s cap into his mouth.

  Sandy crawled slowly from the kitchenette to the living room. Alex watched, fascinated by her halting, awkward motions; she crawled like a partially squashed insect. Finally, she made it to the end table, where the phone was.

  Alex took a running start and kicked Sandy’s head. Her head struck the end table, and one of the table’s legs spun across the room like a cheerleader’s errant baton. A bloody clump of flesh and hair stuck to a corner of the table. Alex removed the flesh and ate it.

  Alex cut Sandy’s throat and sucked. The blood was thick, pungent. Its bouquet filled his senses until the air smelled of warm blood.

  After Alex finished, he wiped his mouth and chest with Sandy’s bath towel, and dressed. Then he stood over Frank, who breathed noisily through his bloody nostrils.

  “You were right,” Alex whispered. “You should’ve killed us both.”

  Frank tried to grab Alex’s ankle, and Alex stomped Frank’s head until it split.

  Six blocks from Sandy‘s apartment, Alex hailed a taxi.

  The cabby pointed at a police car speeding north. “That’s the third one. Busy night.”

  “Never a dull moment for the cops.”

  “I got a police scanner in the car here.” He pointed to a small box with a row of tiny flashing red lights. “There’s different stuff every night. That squad car, it’s going up to Broadway.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “From what I can tell, a domestic dispute. Some guy beating up his wife.”

  “Or visa versa.”

  They laughed.

  Chapter Thirteen: Tales Out of School

  Edward had slept poorly and was glad to see day break. He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes and yawning. All night he had fretted over his plans to seduce Holly Dish. He had revised and reevaluated his plans, but he was losing hope.

  His first plan had been to slyly ingratiate himself with her, to win her confidence, and to sleep with her: as simple as putting on a shoe, lacing it, and tying. But he knew that she was not attracted to him. At least not yet.

  He stood in front of the dresser mirror. The refection winced. His hair was oily and matted; his skin was pasty, its only color the green circles under his eyes and the red splotches of three pimples on his chin and cheeks; his trunk was pear shaped, with a sunken chest and the start of a spare tire. Edward frowned. He was only twenty-one. How had he gotten so out of shape?

  He got on the floor and did ten trembling pushups, then had to rest his burning arms.

  His fatigue increased his frustration. What can I do? he wondered. I’ve tried courtesy, flattery and humor. I’ve gotten nowhere. What does it take to get her in bed? The old reliables? Lies, booze, and drugs?

  In the coffee shop, Edward played it cool. Holly was sitting with two other women. When he walked by their booth, he ignored Holly. Holly ignored him.

  Alex drank coffee and chatted with a few students, but Edward did not join the discussion. He simply ordered coffee and sulked. When he saw Jimmy Stubbs, Edward pretended to study his fingernails.

  “All right, ladies and gentleman,” Alex announced. “We have a few hours until the matinee at the Blackstone. You’re free to do what you wish until then. We will meet in the lobby at one thirty. The performance starts at two o’clock. Please be on time.”

  Alex paused, sipped some coffee. Sandy had been healthy, indeed: Alex felt rested, focused, and brisk. He even remembered what this afternoon’s play was about. Enjoying his role of learned scholar, Alex summarized St. Joan. “Mr. Shaw’s play is famous for many reasons. In my opinion, its best quality is the humor. On the one hand, it’s the story of a woman who martyrs herself for the French Revolution. On the other hand, it’s filled with gallows humor and features an unusually full portrait of Joan. She is not a two dimensional, politically correct plaster saint.”

  Alex clasped his hands, as he imagined a learned scholar would.

  “Rather, she is full blooded and fully human, with all the failings of human beings. Human beings,” Alex announced, “are so funny in their failings.” Alex smiled at the cliché: if he could bring off that stale observation with verve, he must be fully professorial after all.

  The play was over, and Jimmy figured it had been good. He was not sure because he hated plays. But the audience had laughed at several scenes. Edward Know It All had laughed more than anybody. Twice, Jimmy had heard Edward’s smart ass snicker when no one else was laughing.

  The students boarded the bus. Most were tired, and several complained about classes on Monday. Jimmy did not mind going back. The trip had gone badly. He was still fuming because Edward Know It All was filming Holly. Edward had spent an hour filming Holly in the theater lobby, and he even threw a directorial temper tantrum when an elderly woman walked in front of the camera.

  And now Edward was yapping about the play with a couple other fungo heads. Resartus was laughing and talking with them. Jimmy had never seen Resartus so animated. He guessed Resartus had spooled a tart during their field trip.

  “Last year,” Resartus said, “we didn’t make it to Chicago. Some administrator decided the trip was too costly, and the funding was cut.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Edward said.

  “Farcical,” Resartus agreed.

  “Really sucks,” Holly added.

  “But I raised some hell and got the funding back,” Resartus continued. “Students always gain so much from the trip, so the money is well spent. And what does the administration need with that money? I don’t think one of them would appreciate the play, much less understand it.” He laughed. On cue, several other students laughed.

  Holly had not understood the play either, but she smiled knowingly. “Culture isn’t for everyone.” She waited for the group to laugh. No one did. “At least, not for administrators.”

  She got a tepid chuckle or two and decided to get serious. “Professor Resartus, what plays did the previous class see?”

  “The last play we saw was Oedipus Rex.”

  Holly nodded, pretending to know the play.

  Edward jumped in. “The Ancient Greeks wrote some good comedies. They were called satyr plays, and they were performed after the tragedies. You know, to lighten the audience’s mood.” Edward started to give a history of satyr plays, but caught himself.

  The group changed topics a few times: they talked about Chicago, about school, about their plans for graduation. Eventually they became quiet, and a few students moved to the back to doze. Holly wanted to keep talking. She wanted to impress Resartus with her knowledge because she needed his 1etter of recommendation. But she did not know what to say, so the conversation died.

  She did not, however, move from her seat. She decided to feign sleep. Sleeping with men gave her power over them, perhaps even if the sleep was just a nap on a bus.

  A half-hour from campus, Jimmy took charge. Holly had woken, and Edward was talking again. Jimmy moved to the seat behind Alex and Holly and loudly cleared his throat.

  “Holly, ” Jimmy said, “have you got any more theories about the campus murder?”

  “Theories?”

  “Yes, theories.” Jimmy leaned forward until his face almost touched the back of Holly’s seat. “I think the murderer had to be somebody who’s connected to the campus. Maybe even a student.”

  “Maybe,” Holly allowed. “But that’d be risky. The guy might be identified.”

  Alex smiled. “What’s this about a murder?”

  Holly was surprised. “You haven’t heard about it?�
�

  “Well, I knew about the female student that was murdered a while back, but…”

  “Lori was, like, she really got messed up,” someone lamented.

  “No,” Holly said. “This is another murder.”

  “Where did they find the body?” Alex asked.

  “There isn’t one,” Holly said.

  “But there is a body,” Jimmy asserted. “I know there is.”

  Edward, unwilling to let Jimmy enjoy everyone’s attention, recounted the story of lending his jacket to the maintenance man who never returned. Jimmy motioned for Edward to hurry, but Edward instead speculated about the murderer and the motive.

  “For a while, I thought somebody might be after me,” Edward grinned. “But I doubt anybody wants me dead.”

  “Well, the guy wants me dead,” Jimmy asserted. Several students scrutinized him. He paused, savoring the attention. Jane Johnston asked if Jimmy had any enemies.

  “Not until I confronted the murderer.”

  Jane let out a little squeal. “What happened?”

  Jimmy explained how he looked for clues to the maintenance man’s disappearance. He could not resist a few embellishments: the murderer took a swing at him, Jimmy claimed, but Jimmy punched back. The murderer raised his fist to punch again, but Jimmy challenged him “to take your best shot and hope it lands.” The man took a few steps backward, Jimmy explained, then ran off.

  “That’s amazing!” Jane said. “Where did the guy run to?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, where did you chase him to?”

  Jimmy smiled, leaned back in his seat. He needed a few seconds to construct an answer.

  “I started to, but I fell on the ice. When I got up, my ankle was killing me. I had a hard time walking, much less running.” He examined the faces of his audience, trying to gauge their credulity.

  “There wasn’t any ice there,” Edward said.

  “Right!” Jimmy snorted. “I guess I slipped on a banana peel.”

  “Let’s not get bogged down in details,” Alex said. “This is an amazing story. Anyway, you slipped. When you got up, the guy was gone?” He nodded at Jimmy to continue.