Live Girls Read Free Page B

called, his voice cracking.

    Silence.

    All the rooms were shut except the master bedroom. Benedek started down the hall, looking at the tracks of blood on the floor. They led straight to the open doorway. Benedek's legs quivered as he neared the bedroom, trying not to look at the blood at his feet.

    “Ver-Vernon?” he said again, softer, more cautiously than before.

    He stopped a foot or so short of the bedroom, took a deep breath, then stepped through the doorway.

    Vernon Macy's suit was lying in a heap on the floor; a shirt was tossed onto the bed. They were soaked with blood. The drawer of the bedside stand lay on its side on the floor, its contents scattered everywhere.

    “Vernon!” Benedek shouted through tears. “Goddammit, Vernon, if you're here, come out! Come ... out...” His voice broke. He stared at his brother-in-law's clothes for a long time, then crossed the bedroom to the bathroom on the other side.

    A bloody bar of soap lay in the middle of the tile floor and a gray towel, blackened with blood, had been tossed over the toilet seat. Puddles of pink water had gathered just outside the shower. A bloody handprint was smeared on the opaque glass of the shower door.

    Benedek gagged once, twice, bent over gasping for air as he spun around and stepped out of the bathroom. It wasn't that there was a great deal of blood, it was knowing from whom the blood had come.

    He stood outside the bathroom for several minutes. Then, when he was finally sure of himself, he went to the phone and called the police.

    “Yeah, Target Guns."

    “Morris? This is Davey Owen at Penn Publishing."

    “Hey, kid!” Davey could hear Morris's smile through the phone. “How's it hangin’ over there, huh?"

    “Just fine, Morris, and how are you?"

    “Oh, I'm mean, kid, mean as usual, you know me."

    Actually, Davey didn't know him. They'd never met. But they spoke on the phone so often, they talked as if they'd known one another for ten years, when they'd been speaking for less than two.

    “What can I do you for?” Morris asked, his dentures clicking through his words.

    “Well, I need a little help with a story. I got a mousy type of guy whose sister is being attacked by a bunch of punks. He takes a shotgun to them. Pump action."

    “Why use pump action with all the automatics you've got to choose from? Pumps ‘re obsolete."

    “Really?"

    “Yeah. Oh, you can still buy ‘em at Sears, I think, but that tells you something right there, know what I mean, kid?"

    “Yeah. What do you suggest?"

    “Maybe a twelve-gauge."

    “Of course."

    “I don't wanna be steppin’ on your toes, though, kid. I mean, maybe you wanna use a pump action, what do I know?"

    “No, no, thanks for the tip, Morris."

    “I gotta ask, though ... how come the writer didn't know that? I mean, these are supposed to be true stories, right?"

    Davey chuckled. “Well, sometimes the truth needs a little help."

    “Yeah, know what you mean. So, kid, when you gonna drop by the shop? Meet in person? I never met a real magazine type before. Lunch'll be on me."

    “One of these days, Morris,” Davey said with a smile. “When things calm down a bit."

    “Problems?"

    “No, just busy. That's all."

    “Well, take a break some day. I'll show you around the joint. Maybe you'll buy yourself a gun. It's a jungle out there, y'know.” He lowered his voice. “I'll give you the special discount. For friends of the management only, kid."

    “Thanks, Morris. Well, I've got to go. Maybe I'll talk to you later in the week."

    “'Kay. You take care of yourself, you hear?"

    After Davey hung up the phone, he thought maybe he would drop in on Morris one day. He might enjoy himself.

    Davey pushed the manuscripts aside and rubbed his watery eyes. Casey had not come by yet. She usually came to see him when she arrived, to chat. Maybe she was late, or home sick.

    He looked around at the three walls. They seemed to creep in just a bit when he wasn't