A novel about sex, murder and intrigue at a state university.
CHAPTER TWO
Bob Bielanski put the cheese-covered cracker in his mouth, chewed once, then looked for a place to spit. Finding none, he calmly swallowed and turned to Ken Abud.
“What is that?”
Ken shrugged. “Blue cheese?”
“It’s Stilton.” Daniel Lazar spread some on a cracker, and topped it with a berry. “It’s made in Britain from cow’s milk.”
Bob examined the cheese. “What’s the green stuff?”
“Mold.” Daniel popped it in his mouth, then turned and put their cheese plates in the sink.
Bob and Ken quietly spit the cheese into their napkins, crushed them into balls, and hid them in their pockets. Bob wiped his mouth with his hand and whispered to Ken. “He might’ve suggested I salt a cow pie and eat that.”
“You disappoint me, Bob.” Daniel faced them and set a crystal decanter on the island between them. The decanter was filled with liquid that resembled human blood. “If you want to write, you’ll have to experience the world. And for you Midwesterners, that means traveling beyond the flavor boundaries of high fructose corn syrup.” He set four glasses on the counter. Each was spotlessly clean. “Now finish your champagne.”
Bob and Ken knocked back their glasses.
Daniel lifted the decanter and poured until each glass was a third full. “Notice the color,” he began. “A touch of brown is normal for a wine this age.”
Bob picked up a glass. “How old is it?”
Daniel set down the decanter. “Twenty five years.”
Bob stared at the glass. “So the poets are correct when they say wine gets better with age?”
“Not all wines.” Daniel handed a glass to Ken. “But this one certainly qualifies.”
Bob sniffed it. “It all seems counterintuitive to me. I mean, if a wine’s so great, why wait twenty-five years to drink it? Shouldn’t it be great right away?”
Daniel picked up his glass. “Let me answer your question with some questions of my own. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Do you think you’re a great writer?”
Bob nodded. “I have my moments.”
“Then why wait 25 years to write something great? Why do you need to study with me?”
Bob looked at Ken.
Ken shrugged. “He has you there.”
Bob turned back to Daniel. “I guess that’s why you’re the professor.”
Daniel nodded, then cleared his throat. “All right, class. Who can recite a poem about wine?”
Ken piped up. “They ask thee concerning wine and gambling. Say `In them is a great sin, and some profit, for men. But the sin is greater than the profit.’”
“Ah, the Koran.” Daniel smiled. “But aren’t you falling into iniquity, Mr. Abud?”
“Hardly.”
“But your surname”¦.”
“My parents are Christians, from Lebanon.”
“Oh, thank God,” Daniel laughed. “I thought you were going to declare a Fatwah on me.”
Ken laughed too, but Bob interjected. “With all due respect, Dr. Lazar, that’s insensitive.”
Daniel looked indignant. “I was concerned for his soul.”
“You were concerned he might be a Muslim.”
Daniel glared at Bob. “Which would be an issue, when serving alcohol.” He turned to Ken. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” Ken looked uncomfortable.
Daniel turned to Bob. “Alright, Mr. Politically Correct. Your turn.”
Bob looked confused. “What?”
“Give us a poem about vino.”
Bob looked alarmed. “I haven’t had time to prepare. I’ve been grading papers.”
Daniel turned to Ken. “Have you been grading papers?”
Ken smiled, then nodded.
Daniel turned again to Bob.
Bob sighed, then closed his eyes. “I cried for madder music and for stronger wine”¦.But when the feast is finished “¦.”
Daniel whispered, “Come on”¦Ernest Dowson”¦.”
Bob shook his head. “Lost it.”
Daniel raised his voice. “But when the feast is finished, and the lamps expire, then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine.” He looked askance at Bob, then raised his glass. “Gentlemen, take your glasses, but don’t drink. Just rotate and sniff.” He put his nose deep in the glass, then came up for air. “I decanted this two hours ago. It’s just beginning to blossom.”
They heard the front door open, then shut. Next came the sound of high heels stabbing the hardwood floor. Seconds later, Marina Gomez entered the kitchen, swinging her purse. Bob and Ken stared at her pelvis, which was barely covered by a leather miniskirt. She stopped in front of Ken, hugged him; moved on to Bob, kissed him on the cheek; then walked up to Daniel and kissed him on the mouth. Bob looked away.
Daniel handed her his glass. “Don’t drink this yet.” He got the other glass for himself.
Marina’s long, painted fingernails wrapped around the stem. She put her nose to the rim. “Woah. Pretty musty. Can I mix it with Diet Coke?” She looked at Daniel’s face, then laughed. “Just kidding.” She stroked his cheek. “I know this is very special.”
Daniel explained, “It’s a 1982 Chateau Cos d’Estournel.”
Marina gasped. “That’s older than I am.”
Bob and Ken exchanged glances.
Daniel turned to Bob and Ken. “My turn.” Then he looked at Marina and clinked his glass to hers. “Wine comes in at the mouth, and love comes in at the eye; and that’s all we shall know for truth, before we grow old and die.”
Marina held her finger to his lips. “I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh.” She smiled. “Yeats.”
Daniel touched her chin. “Look who’s moved to the head of the class.”
A phone beeped. Marina pulled a pink phone out of her purse, looked at the message, and frowned. “Sorry, I have to answer this.” She set her glass on the counter and started texting a reply.
Daniel again turned to Bob and Ken. “Gentlemen”¦drink.”
___________________________________________________
CHAPTER THREE
Vicky Heyerdahl sang along with Marvin Gaye, and for a moment there was peace in her world. It was just her and Marvin – alone – in Hurley’s Bar, singing “Let’s Get it On.” Then the train horn sounded, and reality came roaring back. The room began to shake. Whiskey bottles knocked against vodka and gin. Vicky cursed, ran to her remote and turned up the volume. When that wasn’t enough, she stood next to one of the speakers, putting her ear against the fabric. At the counter, two men hunkered over their drinks.
Ronnie Odom heard the music from the men’s room. He sat in one of the stalls, holding an open phone. The display showed a photo of a young woman. She had black hair, brown skin and black eyes that looked warily at him.
The music got louder. Ronnie heard someone step into the bathroom.
“Hey, Ronnie?” It was Rusty Stubbs.
Ronnie growled. “What?”
“Vern wants another shot. It’s your round.”
Ronnie heard Vern Krpan shout from the bar. “Tell him to stop jerking off and get in here.”
Ronnie reached for more toilet paper. “Tell Vern to fuck himself and order another round.”
“But,” Rusty hesitated. “It’s your turn.”
“I’LL PAY IT!” Ronnie looked at the phone again. “Now get out of here.”
Rusty shut the door.
Ronnie looked at the message he composed:
I luv U Marina. Walk U 2 Ur car 2nite?
He hit Send and flushed the toilet. Afterwards, he stood at the sink, washing his hands. His phone beeped. Hands still wet, he picked it up and looked at the display.
Begone, limpdick
Ronnie threw the phone at the wall and watched it shatter. He turned on the faucet and splashed water in his eyes. Next, he dried his face with a paper towel, then used it to blow his nose. Finally, he straightened his shoulders and looked in the mirror. His gaze fell on the shoulder patch on his jacket. At the top arched the words “Normal State University.” At the bottom curved “Police.”
A moment later, he walked over the phone fragments and through the door. The music smacked him in the face. Once his vision cleared, he saw Rusty and Vern at the bar. Their crew cuts pointed towards Vicky.
Vicky remained by the speaker, eyes closed. She pulled back her hair and tied it in a pony tail. Ronnie sat down, finished his beer and called for another round.
Vicky, of course, didn’t hear him. Ronnie waved his glass in the air. “Hey, Vick! We’re dyin’ here!”
Vicky opened her eyes and looked at him. After a few seconds, she walked toward the refrigerator. Rusty and Vern sat transfixed as Vicky put each boot directly in front of the other. Her wrists bent upwards and her fingers snapped silently.
Ronnie ignored the show and lit a cigarette.
Vern leaned toward Ronnie. “Why not her? I bet she looks good under those jeans.”
Ronnie put his lighter away, then shouted back. “Rule Number One”¦. Never shit where you drink.”
The men were silent as Vicky approached the counter. She set down a beer for Ronnie, a shot for Vern, and a rum-and-coke for Rusty. That done, she walked to the other end of the bar where she’d parked her cigarette.
Vern stared at his shot glass. “I don’t know,” he said loudly. “Maybe I ought to go alone on this.”
“Uh-uh.” Ronnie shook his head. “Rule Number Two”¦.Stick together, if you want some action.”
Vern looked away. “I can get a date on my own.”
Ronnie looked at Rusty. “Hear that? Vern thinks he can get a date on his own.”
Rusty cupped his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear anything.”
Ronnie reached over the bar, picked up the remote and turned down the music.
Vicky stared at him, the tip of her cigarette glowing brightly.
Ronnie cocked his head and stared into Vern’s face. “How you gonna get a woman to sit down with your ugly ass and have a drink?” He pointed at Vern. “Look at you. You got no money, no education, and you smell of jail. Even the skanks are gonna pass you by.”
Vern scowled at him. “You think you’ll improve my chances?”
Ronnie put up his hands. “Hey I’m no Adonis, but I get results. And if you want to get laid, you’ll stick with my plan.” He smiled. “And share in the spoils.”
Vern wrinkled his forehead. “Why do you need me? You guys could do this on your own.”
“Rule Number Three.” Ronnie looked him in the eye. “Never look a gift ho’ in the mouth. “ Ronnie’s face remained serious. “And this one’s beautiful. And young. Man, her ass is so tight, you could bounce a quarter off it.”
“What about her tits?”
Ronnie squinted as he sucked on his cigarette. “Come on, man, you’ve seen the tapes. They’re gorgeous.”
Vern thought a second. “Which one is she?”
Ronnie exhaled smoke. “The one on all fours.”
Vern snorted. “That narrows it.”
Ronnie leaned close to Vern. “Long”¦black”¦hair.”
Vern nodded slowly. Then he crossed his arms. The sleeve of his t-shirt pulled up, revealing a tattoo of a cross encircled by a snake. “I still don’t know why you need me.”
Ronnie smiled slyly. “She’s a spirited one. It’ll take two to hold her down.”
Vern put his elbows on the counter and leaned his chin on his hands. “I don’t know. You and Rusty got no priors. I’m the one who’s fucked if we get caught.”
“We won’t get caught.”
“How do you know?”
Ronnie crushed out his cigarette. “Because I scoped out the target. I know when she’ll be alone, and for how long. Plus, I know how to pin it all on someone else.”
“The professor?”
“Yeah.” Ronnie nodded. “The professor.”
Vern looked at his drink, which he hadn’t touched.
Ronnie raised his voice. “How much longer can you wait, bro? It’s been two years since you even smelled a woman. If I were you, I’d be chompin’ at the bit. Unless”¦.”
“Unless what?”
Ronnie stifled a smile. “Unless you’re used to bein’ the bitch.”
Vern grabbed Ronnie’s collar and cocked back his fist. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your eyes out and fuck your skull. You hear?”
Rusty stepped around and politely – but firmly – removed Vern’s hand from Ronnie.
Vern yanked his hand free and glared at Rusty. “What’s he paying you, anyway?”
Rusty smiled gently. “You forgot Rule Number One.”
Ronnie nodded. “That’s right.” He watched Rusty sit back down, then looked at Vern. “This place may be a dump. But it’s safe here, as long as we’re cool.”
“What about her?” Vern indicated toward Vicky. “What if she hears us?”
Ronnie laughed. “Man she’s so high, she don’t know what day it is.” Ronnie slid the shot glass closer to Vern. “Look. You could buy a bitch tonight. But then you won’t eat for two days. Aren’t you tired of choosing between sex and food?” Ronnie spread his arms wide. “Brother, you can have it all if you do like us.” He smiled. “And I’ve practically gift-wrapped this one for you. All you need to do is show up. No one will know a thing. Not even her.”
Rusty laughed. “That’s a good one.”
Vern remained silent.
Ronnie leaned closer to Vern. “Come on,” he smiled. “Who’s ready to howl tonight? Vern the Sperm, that’s who.” He turned to Rusty. “Ain’t no pussy’s safe around this guy. He might show you a thing or two.”
Vern looked over. “Vern the what?”
Ronnie grinned. “That’s what we called you in Baghdad.”
Vern pushed Ronnie back. “I never heard that.” He glanced at his drink. “What’s her name, anyway?”
Ronnie grinned. “Marina.”
Vern wrinkled his forehead. “Sounds Mexican. She fat?”
“No, she got a little brown body. Like you saw on tape.”
Vern stared straight ahead. “I watched a dozen of those tapes, including that one with the president.” He shivered. “When’s this Marina alone?”
“Tonight at ten. That’s when the Professor leaves.”
Vern looked at the clock. It was 7:40.
Rusty stood. “Mind if I watch TV? I heard this before.”
Ronnie grabbed his beer. “Knock yourself out.”
Ronnie and Vern watched Rusty escort his drink to table across the room. He took a seat and stared up at the screen.
Vern turned to Ronnie. “Why’s he in this?”
Ronnie looked insulted. “We’re a team, remember?”
Vern scoffed. “That team hasn’t worked together in two years.”
“Well, it’s together again.” Ronnie grinned. “Plus, he thinks I’m still in command.”
Vern sniffed. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. Who goes first?”
Ronnie patted Vern’s shoulder. “You do.”
“Wrong.” Vern pushed him away. Ronnie’s hand knocked against his bottle, spreading beer across the counter.
Vern growled. “The Professor goes first.” He downed his shot and slammed the glass on the counter.
Ronnie remembered the Professor from the videos. In one, he stood naked behind Marina, his face contorted while she bent forward, screaming things Ronnie never heard a woman scream before. Her voice echoed throughout Ronnie’s apartment. A neighbor pounded the wall, shouting “Enough, already!”
Ronnie took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. It tasted like dry oak leaves. He crushed it in the ashtray and reached for another.
He first met the Professor five years ago at a porn shop called The Grotto.
“Call me Daniel.” Professor Lazar extended his hand.
Ronnie was there to rent videos. He was surprised, and annoyed, to meet someone who wasn’t shopping.
Daniel was selling. “I specialize in erotic poetry,” he announced to the small crowd. “But I also write novels and short stories that focus on other aspects of human intercourse.” He smiled. “Not merely the goalposts.”
No one in the store appeared to understand, or care.
Daniel kept going. “My next one is called `Surrender.’” He started reading.
It was a seduction poem. Ronnie thought it similar to several plots he’d rented, so he stopped listening. He walked to Fish Friedman, who stood behind the counter.
“What do you think?” asked Fish.
Ronnie shrugged, and put the tapes on the counter.
Fish examined the tapes. “You know, we’re converting our entire library to DVD. Why don’t you just buy these?”
Ronnie thought a second. “How much?”
“Thirty bucks gets the whole lot.”
Ronnie grimaced. “For that price, I can get a real bitch. Make it ten.”
Fish laughed. “For that price, I might as well give ‘em to the homeless shelter. Make it twenty.”
“The shelter don’t allow porn. Make it Fifteen.” Ronnie put the cash on the counter.
Fish took the bills and put them in the register. “You’ll be back. Those tapes are wearing out.”
Ronnie pointed back at Daniel. “Who’s he?”
“English professor. New guy at the university.” Fish started entering data from a stack of DVDs. “He offered to read his poems if I’d sell his books. I think he’s good. They’re on sale for twenty bucks. Make a nice stocking stuffer”¦.”
The Marvin Gaye song ended, and the next train began. Ronnie took the cigarette out of his mouth and examined it. This one tasted as bland as the previous two. Perhaps the carton was old. Or maybe his taste buds were dull. Even the beer was boring — or what was left of it. The toppled glass still lay on the counter, which was wet all over.
“True,” he said, nodding. “The Professor goes first.” He looked down the counter at Vicki. “Hey Vick,” he shouted, “can we get a cleanup here?”
Vicky didn’t look at him. “I cleaned this mornin’. I ain’t cleanin’ again “˜til you boys leave.”
The horn blast grew louder, and the bottles started rattling again. Ronnie walked behind the counter, grabbed a towel, and wiped until the towel was soaked. Then he tossed it on the floor. Next, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and refilled Vern’s shot glass. Finally, Ronnie opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer and returned to his seat. Before sitting, he tossed a few bucks at Vicky. They floated to the floor, far from her. Vicky stared at him, smoking.
The diesel engine passed, leaving behind the clacking sound of cars on the rails.
Vern leaned over his shot, which remained untouched. “I don’t know. You fucked me before.” He looked at Ronnie. “Remember that cathouse up the street?”
“Hey,” Ronnie shrugged. “It wasn’t my fault the police showed. Somebody must’ve said something.”
Vern was silent a moment. “Where were you that night?”
“I told you. I was with Sabrina.”
Vern stared at Ronnie. “Sabrina told me you left.” He needled him. “She said you didn’t do anything.”
“Oh that’s bullshit.” Ronnie straightened. “I fucked her three times. Of course, she wouldn’t remember “˜cause she was high. You gonna believe a junkie?”
“Hey, that’s what she said”¦.”
“Well the bitch was on crack.”
“All right, then.”
“Okay.”
“Whatever you say, Ronnie.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well”¦.” Vern tilted his head.
“Well, what?”
“That doesn’t explain why I got arrested and you didn’t.”
“Sure it does.” Ronnie lit another cigarette. “I was at the end of the hall. You were close to the stairs. When the cops came, I had time to climb out the window.”
Vern glared at him. “You got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Sure do. I even bailed you out next morning, didn’t I?”
“With Nadine’s money.”
“Hey,” Ronnie exhaled smoke. “I told her you got arrested for parking tickets, but the bitch found out.”
“Don’t call her a bitch. And you shouldn’t have told her.”
“Look,” said Ronnie, “I thought since she was a kid she wouldn’t ask questions, you know. But she did. That ain’t my fault.”
“She wasn’t a kid.”
“Sixteen ain’t a kid?”
“Old enough to drive.”
Ronnie coughed. “What, your car or your cock?” He tapped his ash. “You know, that’s how stupid you are. If you’d eloped, you could’ve avoided prison time.”
Vern glared at him.
Ronnie shook his head. “Fuck, man, it was bad enough she was your cousin.”
Vern looked away. “What’s wrong with that. She wasn’t my sister.”
“No, Vern. She’s the daughter of your daddy’s sister.”
Vern managed a smile. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with cousins. Kings and queens do it.”
“Yeah, just ask Prince Charles where he got those ears.” Ronnie examined his cigarette, then crushed it in the ashtray. He got up, walked to the vending machine, and fed a five-dollar bill into the slot.
Vern stared at Ronnie’s back. “You shouldn’t have told her that stuff, Ronnie.”
“What stuff?” Ronnie growled as the machine rejected his money.
“That”¦genetic stuff.”
Ronnie flattened the bill and tried again. “The only thing I said was any kids you might have”¦might have problems. You know.”
“Like what?”
“Genetic problems.” The machine accepted the money, and Ronnie selected his brand. The pack fell to the bottom. “Anyway, let’s not dwell on the past. We’ve got big plans tonight.”
“You said the kid would end up retarded.”
Ronnie gathered his change. “Retarded, slow, missing teeth. Anyway,” he reached down, “Nadine was right to get an abortion. That kid would’ve been a freak. Have you seen my lighter?”
Ronnie’s face smashed into the vending machine. A second later, Vern’s hands spun him around. Ronnie took a punch to the stomach, then to the face. Lying on the floor, he felt for his pistol. Not finding it, he struggled to his feet and saw Vern pointing it at him.
Rusty ran towards Vern, but stopped when he saw the gun.
Vern’s forehead glistened with sweat. He aimed the pistol at Ronnie’s face. “Lost something, Mr. Rent-a-Cop?”
Ronnie’s eyes widened. “Vern”¦.”
Vern stepped closer. “That kid would’ve been fine, Ronnie. But you kept filling her head with all that DNA bullshit, and she kept listening.” He pointed the pistol at his chest. “I loved Nadine. We could’ve been happy. But you fucked it up.”
Ronnie stepped back until he bumped the vending machine. He looked at the exit. He saw Rusty, looking helpless with a drink in his hand. Ronnie turned back to Vern.
Vern was shaking. “But she went to that doctor, and got that infection. Now she can’t get pregnant, and she blames me.” He aimed the pistol at Ronnie’s face. “And all this time, we should be blaming you.”
Chick-chack.
Vicky aimed a shotgun at Vern. “Vern, I want you to bring that gun over here”¦slowly”¦and put it on the counter. Do you hear me? VERN!”
Vern turned his head toward Vicky, but otherwise didn’t move.
Vicky held the shotgun steady. “Vern, I already mopped this floor, so I’d rather not wipe your brains up. But I will if you don’t do as I told you – NOW.”
Vern stepped back, still pointing the pistol at Ronnie. He looked at Vicky again; her aim was steady.
“Put it on the counter,” she said.
Slowly, Vern walked over and set it down.
Vicky pointed the barrel at a stool. Vern sat.
Vicky grabbed the pistol with one hand, while the other aimed the shotgun at Ronnie. “And you,” she glared at Ronnie, “every child has a right to live, no matter how dumb or freakish. You jackasses are living proof.” She glanced at the pistol. “Oooh”¦.Glock. I’m keepin’ this.”
Ronnie begged. “Aw come on, Vic. That’s not mine. I borrowed it from the Chief. What do I tell him?”
“I guess somethin’ other than you lost it in a bar.” Vicky waved the pistol in the air. “Its time to put some money on the counter, boys. You ain’t tipped me yet.” Vern put two bucks on the counter. Ronnie slapped down a Five.
Vicky grabbed the money and put the pistol behind her belt. Then she waved the shotgun. “Now somebody play me some Al Green.”
Read more about Death & Circumstance and Clinton Sivert HERE.
Copyright 2008 Clinton Sivert. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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