Poisonous Kiss (8 page)

     Martin gave the shot. He was fast, a few seconds and it's done. He put down the mouse and turned on the video camera, sighing. Usually he turned it on later. Next he reached for the chronometer. I almost hated him for being so calm and professional.

     The mouse looked around calmly, his little nose twitching. Martin put on a glove and prodded him a little. The mouse moved away, offended. Martin and I both glanced at the chronometer. The seconds passed and I began to relax. Then the mouse started staggering and I turned away, not wanting to see the end.

     I thought of John Arany. He had looked worn out this morning. He was silent while I took blood from him and Ellen performed some basic tests. He cast furtive, searching glances toward Martin as they shook hands. It had been strange to see them together.

     I thought of yesterday, when I made love with Martin in this same place. My face was flaming, my hair was still disheveled when I left. Hatred blazed from Ellen's eyes.

     I thought of the camera, which recorded it in the same impersonal way that it records the demise of the mice.

     I thought of the tapes on which John spoke about his sudden attacks, sickness and violent anger.

     Then it was over. I heard Martin disposing of the mouse and clacking away at the computer. Next I glimpsed his shadow by the cages. He took out another mouse. I didn't pity this one either. I would have killed all of them with my own hands if it could help John.

     "Why did you do it?"

     It took a few seconds to realize Martin had broken the silence. It was strange. This was the first time he raised the question, and I was silent as I a thought about the answer. I'd been searching for that answer for days.

     "I wanted to help," I whispered.

     "Help whom?"

     I turned toward Martin. He was standing with the mouse in his hand waiting for the answer. I realized with astonishment that he was jealous. He'd never been jealous. But then again, I never saw another man's face in my mind while we were making love. How could he know how I feel?

     It flashed through my mind that I shouldn't underestimate him. I shouldn't underestimate either of these men.

     "How do you mean?" I asked hoarsely. I wanted to buy a little time, but he didn't even deign to answer my question as he walked toward the next shot, already prepared and waiting on the table.

     I worked myself into a rage. It was easy, I had so much tension bottled up and ready to explode.

     "It was you who said this is the only missing link in your experiments, wasn't it? How many evenings have I sat and listened to you complaining that you can't make any progress?"

     He gave the shot and put down the mouse, pretending he didn't hear me. His usual reaction when I'm angry. He never realized how hurtful that can be. He'd explain later: "But you're not yourself when you get upset. It just makes more sense to wait until you're yourself again and not argue with a stranger unnecessarily." I caught him by the shoulder and shook him.

     "Answer me, for God's sake! You said that, didn't you?"

     He glanced at the chronometer and gently pushed away my hands.

     "I never told you to give 20 CCs to anybody without consulting me before-hand."

     I forced myself to calm down. Controlling anger is a regular part of my job. I could even smile at him, but then I am also a woman, not just a psychologist. I moved closer to him and touched him again. Only this time in a gentle way. My hand rested softly, gently on his shoulder as I looked into his eyes. My voice was soft too, coy and girlish, ready to cry.

     "I thought you'd be happy." I didn't need to force the teardrops. "That was my first thought when I read through Arany's file. I thought he's your man. I mean, a detective who let his partner be killed. Your chance of a lifetime."

     I saw on his face that he was fighting with himself. He turned away, to look at the mouse, but he couldn't run away from my voice.

     "Then I studied him. I learned he's an excellent shot. He's muscular, and was among the best in self-defense at the academy. I performed a few basic tests on him. His reflexes and capability for making decisions are much better than average. Good judgment and intelligence. Several years of experience. What causes a man like this to freeze up, and not shoot?"

     Martin didn't answer this rhetorical question. He was looking at the mouse and I was looking at it, too. I hit the arm of the chair when I saw the mouse begin to stagger.

     Martin looked calm as he mixed up a new dilution. He checked something on his computer. I couldn't believe, another overdose.

     "You felt pity for him," my husband said in a small voice. "He was a young, goodlooking boy, but his life was a mess. He had lost his partner, he had lost his belief in himself. He had just lost all illusions about himself and discovered he was a failure. Something was missing, something you could give him. And only you could give it."

     He injected the little animal without waiting for an answer. He watched the mouse and the second hand. After one minute, he reached in the cage and the mouse attacked his gloved hand. Martin pulled out his hand and looked at me questioningly.

     "He looks like a nice guy," he said, as he prepared another dose at the same dilution. I watched him reach into the other cage absent-mindedly, take out a mouse and give it the shot. My eyes blurred in the lab's harsh light. I saw him wise and old. Wiser and older than had I thought he was.

Arany splashes away the leftover bits of shaving cream with a handful of water and looks in the mirror. A stranger looks back, a stranger with cool, cruel eyes. He shudders and turns away. His suit lies over the back of an armchair in the living room. The last time he had worn it was at Carl's burial. But this time he chose a more colorful tie. He put on the shoulder holster, and after moment's hesitation he tucks the small pistol that Ericsson had given him into his pants. Maybe I should put a shotgun in my jacket too, he thinks, smiling. The stranger with the cruel eyes is armed.

     He leaves his car in the garage and calls a taxi. The odor of his liberally applied after-shave mixes with the smell left here by earlier fares. The air conditioner is wrestling wearily with the heat, which had only abated slightly in the evening. He should have rolled down the window. He is bathed in sweat when he arrives.

     He pays, gets out and slowly looks around. He sees bars, clubs, pubs, discreet and not so discreet massage parlors, stretching on for several blocks. And it is so crowded you'd think half the town had decided to have a drink today. But Arany knew there is a crowd like this here every evening. Half the town is always after a little fun, and you can find it here. You can have sex, quick and pleasure less in a dirty little room, you can drink yourself unconscious in a dark club, and if you're real lucky, you'll still have a little change in your pocket when you wake up. Or you can loose everything gambling on cards or dice. You can also be knocked down, knifed, shot dead. Life itself is a big gamble.

     As a rookie, Arany spent almost a year in these streets. He watches the beautiful girls and the less beautiful ones, too. He watches the faces, red from drink, and hears the happy drunks shouting at each other. He sees the pimps taking their women to dinner. The big bull marches at the front of the procession, the women after. The guys are always in a hurry, like they have a lot to do. The whores lag behind and sometimes get a slap for it. They all have hamburgers on the next corner and then the women go out. The bull stays behind to drink a beer, but his eyes don't really leave them.

     A woman steps in front of Arany. Her skin looks strange, as if her face had half melted.

     "Do you want it?"

     "Not with you," he answers. He sidesteps and checks in a shop window to make sure he isn't followed as he walks on.

     He feels some remorse. I was crude, he thought. I should have just said no. I can't hate her for being ugly. The guilt is a good old, well-known feeling. Did it mean he's going to be himself again?

     He turns into a doorway and is hit by the cool air. He just stands there, enjoying the quiet for a moment, but he gets the feeling he's being watched. He walks on. There is no doorman in this house. He follows a thick, dirty looking, blood-colored carpet to the elevator. A cleaner, greenish carpet covers the floor upstairs. Arany walks past doors with brass knockers and only first names on the plates: Sophia, Evelyn, Marianne …then toward the end of the corridor: Madame Stephanie.

     He stops and takes a deep breath before ringing. The door is opened by a pretty young woman, around twenty, in conservative attire. She's the first woman who is not offering Arany a generous view of breast and legs since he stepped out of the cab. She had dark hair, impish eyes, a smiling face.

     "Yes sir?" she asks sweetly.

     Arany feels a little embarrassed. He didn't expect something like this. The whole set-up makes him think of the kind of brothel you see in Western movies. He feels like he's about to enter a friendly drawing room, filled with jolly gentlemen and a blind pianist.

     "I'm John Arany," he stammers out at last. "I have an appointment."

     She gives him a happy smile

     "Of course. Please come in."

     Arany smiles back. There is something in this young woman that reminds him of Celia. He suddenly feels desire, even though he had never considered buying love before. But why not? Celia can't be his. He remembers how she had looked at her husband, like the old man were at least half god.

     He enters through the dark, ornamented door and finds no blind pianist, no jolly gentlemen carousing. The place looks like any office, kind of like Celia's, with its desk, settee and comfortable armchair. There is nobody in it. Arany hesitates, then sits in the armchair, crosses his legs and begins to drum his fingers on his knee. He would have bet that Madame Stephanie had some way to watch him while he waits for her.

     Another young woman enters, at least as pretty as the first one who had opened the door. She has short blonde hair, a sweet, heart-shaped face, with big, green eyes full of wonder. She wears a gray suit with an open necked white blouse. She has a beautiful, long neck, small breasts and a skirt that ends an inch over her knees, showing just the outline of her well-shaped thighs.

     "Would you like to drink something? How about a scotch and ice?" Her voice is warm.

     Arany nods as he watches her move around. She is graceful, and the curve of her neck is charming as she bends forward to drop ice into the glass. Their glances meet, and they smile at each other while she puts the glass onto the small table. Not bad, warm, friendly, as if she's having a fine time. Madame Stephanie has the top prices, but it seems customers get their money's worth.

     Then the woman disappears. Arany slowly sips his drink and begins to cool down. He thinks of Gladys Ferrow, who might have started out the same as this woman. "She's blond, slim, with big tits," Gladys had said when describing the woman with Frost. Her voice had been full of jealous approval.

     The door opens. The woman coming into the room looks about forty. Arany stands up to greet her. He sees a tall, slim woman. Nice figure. The hair is artificially red but is painted with taste. A golden necklace, a slim bracelet and a few rings on the manicured, aging hands. Her hands betray her. But Arany still finds it hard to believe his advance information: She is really near sixty.

     She's almost as tall as he is. Her intelligent, brown eyes study him while they shake hands. She moves behind her desk and pulls out a slim cigar, lighting it with a big table lighter before Arany has a chance to offer a light. Sweet-smelling smoke rises toward the high ceiling.

     "Well, how can I help you?" She has the booming voice of an ancient actress, the only thing that doesn't fit in with her elegant carriage. Her words sound false and theatrical.

     Before answering, Arany takes one more sip. It's an excellent scotch. On the way here he had invented a detailed story. He had once met a prostitute downtown who had a perfect look. Now he's hiring actresses for a sex movie and he wants to find the woman again—because she had the perfect look. Sitting on the soft back seat of the cab, gliding through the city, the story had sounded basically believable. But here, in front of those watchful, clever eyes, it seems silly.

     "I'm looking for a girl," he says at last. He blushes and is angry with himself for being so awkward.

     "I understand. Most men come here looking for a girl. Except of course police officers, and the IRS."

     Arany puts down his glass and looks at her impenetrable face. is that remark a coincidence? An old cop once told him not to believe in coincidences, it can be costly.

     They sit in silence. There is real silence in this room, the double windows don't let in any outside noise. Arany thinks again of Celia's office, of that armchair where he reveals his most secret thoughts. Except one, of course. How would Celia react if she knew that he dreams about her. That he saw her in that dark-haired, impish-eyed little whore. She must be used to it, he muses. No doubt at least every other patient of hers declares his love.

     He realizes he can't break this woman with silence. She'll sit there all day, smiling at him from behind her stately desk. Or she'll push a hidden button to start the machinery outside, alarming lawyers or tough guys. Looking at this woman, Arany would expect lawyers.