The Kill-Off

to the desk. Sat down on a corner of it in front of me, one thick leg swung over the other.

'Well-' His hard, hazel-colored eyes rolled over on my face. 'Figure on sleepin' in here tonight? Want me to move you in a bed?'

'I'm sorry.' I got up reluctantly. 'I was just-uh-'

'Yeah? Something on your mind?'

'N-no. No, I guess not,' I said. 'I just dropped by to say hello. I didn't have anything to do for a while, so I-'

He looked at me steadily. He spat at the spittoon without shifting his eyes. I cleared my throat, feeling a hot, embarrassing flush spread over my face.

He stood up suddenly, and started for the door. Spoke over his shoulder, his voice gruff.

'Ain't got nothing to do myself for a few minutes. Come on and I'll buy you a sody.'

I followed him to a far corner of the ballroom; followed, since he kept a half-pace in front of me. I wanted to pay for the drinks, but he brushed my hand aside, dropped two dimes into the Coke machine himself.

He handed me a bottle. I thanked him and he grunted, jerking the cap on his own.

We stood facing the distant bandstand where the musicians were arriving. We stood side by side, almost touching each other. Separated by no more than a few inches-and silence.

He finished his drink, smacked his lips and dropped the bottle into the empty case. I finished mine reluctantly, disposed of the bottle as he had.

'Well…' He spoke as I straightened from the case; spoke, still looking out across the ballroom. 'You and Myra steppin' out again tonight?'

I said, why, yes, we were. As soon as she got off work, that is. And after a moment, I added, 'If that's all right with you, Mr. Pavlov.'

'Know any reason why it shouldn't be?'

'Why-well, no,' I said, 'I guess not. I mean-'

'I'll tell you,' he said. He hesitated, and belched. 'I ain't got a goddamned bit of use for you. Never have had, far back as I can remember. But I guess you already know that?'

'Yes,' I said. 'And I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Pavlov.'

'Can't say I'm not sorry myself. Always rather like someone than dislike 'em.' He belched again, mumbling something about the gas. 'On the other hand, I got no real reason not to have no use for you. Nothing I can put my finger on. You've always been friendly and polite around me. I don't know of no dirty deals you've pulled, unless'n it's this stuff with Ralph, and I can't really call that dirty, considering. Might've gone off sideways like that myself when I was your age.'

'I knew you'd understand,' I said. 'Mr. Pavlov, I-'

'I was sayin'-' He cut me off curtly. 'I got no reason to feel like I do, and reasons are all I go by. People don't give me no trouble, I don't give them any. I rock along with 'em as long as they rock with me. And whether I like 'em or not don't figure in the matter. All right. I guess we understand each other. Now, I got to get busy.'

He nodded curtly, and headed back toward his office.

I moved toward the exit.

Myra had come in while Pete and I were talking, and she called to me from the ticket booth. I looked her way blindly, my eyes stinging, misting. Not really hearing or seeing her. I went out without answering her, and sat down in my car.

I got a cigarette lighted. I took a few deep puffs, forcing away my disgusting self-pity. Recovering some of my normal objectiveness.

Pete detested me. It was fitting that he should-things being as they were. And I would not have had it any other way-things being as they were.

But what a pity, what a goddamned pity that they were that way! And why couldn't they have been another, the right and logical way?

Why couldn't my own dear father and mother, those encephalitic cretins, those gutless Jukesters, those lubricious lusus naturae-why couldn't they have had Myra inflicted upon them? Why should Pete have to suffer such a drab, spiritless wretch as she? Why couldn't they have had her, and why couldn't he have had-

Myra. A feeling of fury came over me every time I looked at her. I'd had some plans for her-vague but decidedly unpleasant-long before she came to the office that day a couple of months ago.

Father was away on some calls. I glanced at the notes on her file card.

This was her second trip. She was having menstrual difficulties-something that a good kick in the stomach or a dose of salts would have jarred her out of. But father, that wise and philanthropic Aesculapian, had set her up for a series of hormone shots.

She said she was in a hurry, so I prepared to administer the medication.

Yes, I do that: take care of routine patients. Rather, I did do it, until father became wary. I know a hell a lot more about medicine than he does. A hell of a lot more about everything than he does. In this case, for example, I knew that what Myra needed-deserved-was not hormone.

I gave her a hypodermic. She 'flashed'-to use the slang expression; barely made it to the sink before she started vomiting. I told her it was perfectly all right, and gave her another shot.

Well, someone like that, someone with only part of a character, is made for the stuff. The stuff is made for them. She was hooked in less than a week. She doesn't go to father any more, but she does come to me.

I 'treat' her now. I give her what she needs-and deserves. When I am ready to. And after certain ceremonies.

Ten-thirty came. Not more than five minutes later, which was as fast as she could make it, she was running toward the car. Begging before she had the door open.

I told her to shut up. I said that if she said one more word until I gave her permission, she would get nothing.

I had her well trained. She subsided, mouth twisting, gulping down the whimpers that rose in her throat.

I drove to a place about six miles up the beach-Happy Hollow, it is called, for reasons which you may guess. I suppose there is some such place in every community, dubbed with the same sly euphemism or a similar one.

It-this place-was not a hollow; not wholly, at least. Most of its area was hill, wooded and brushy, marked with innumerable trails and side-trails which terminated in tire marked, beach-like patches of sand.

I stopped at one of these patches. The only tire-marks were those of my own car.

I made her take her clothes off. I grabbed her. I shook her and slapped her and pinched her. I called her every name I could think of.

She didn't speak or cry out. But suddenly I stopped short, and gave her the shot. I was tired. There seemed no point in going on. Action and words, words and action- leading to nothing, arriving nowhere. It wasn't enough. There can be no real satisfaction without an objective.

Myra lay back in the seat, breathing in long deep breaths, eyes half shut. She didn't have a bad shape. In fact, without clothes on-she simply couldn't wear clothes-she shaped up quite beautifully. But only aesthetically, as far as I was concerned. I felt no desire for her.

I wanted to. My mind shrieked that I should. But the flesh could not hear it.

She dozed. I may have dozed myself, or perhaps I merely became lost in thought. At any rate, I snapped back to awareness suddenly, aroused by the dull lacing of light through the trees, the throb of a familiar motor.

Myra sat up abruptly. Stared at me, eyes wide with fright. I told her to sit still and be quiet. Just do what I told her to, and she'd be all right.