The Cellar

against his penis.

“Now,” he said, and picked up the soap. His throat was tight. This was what he’d wanted for so long, so long. This was what he’d always wanted. “Now,” he said, “we’re all set.”

CHAPTER THREE 1.

The Nubian guards, dressed like pimps, came at Rucker from all sides. Their black faces were glossy with sweat, their big teeth white and shiny. Some aimed handguns at his face, others began spraying him with automatic fire from AK-47 assault rifles. He cut them down, but more came running, shrieking, brandishing cutlasses. His American 180 stitched holes across their bright shirts. They fell, but more came.

Where the hell are they coming from? he wondered.

From hell.

He kept firing. One hundred and seventy rounds in six seconds. A mighty long six seconds.

They still came. Some had spears. Some, now, were naked.

He dropped the ammo drum, stuffed another into place, and kept firing.

Now all of them were naked, their black skin shimmering in the moonlight, their smiles big and white. None had guns. Only knives, swords, and spears.

I’ve killed all the pimps, he thought. Who’re these? The reserves. When I get them, I’ll be home free.

But stark fear whispered a message of death in his ear. Looking down, he saw the alloy barrel of his rifle droop, melting.

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, they’re gonna get me now. They’ll lay me low. They’ll cut off my head. Oh Jesus!

Gasping, heart racing, he bolted upright. He was alone in the bedroom. A trickle of sweat slid down his back. He ran a hand through his wet hair and wiped it dry on the sheet.

He looked at the alarm clock.

Only five past midnight. Damn. This was a lot earlier than usual. When the nightmares got him at four or five, he could go out for breakfast and start the day. When they got him this early, it was bad.

He got out of bed. The sweat on his naked body turned cold. In the bathroom, he dried himself with a towel. Then he put on a robe and went into the living room of the apartment. He turned on all the lights. Then the television. He flipped through the channels. The Bank Dick was on. It must’ve started at twelve. He got a can of Hamms from the refrigerator, a can of peanuts from the cupboard, and returned to the living room.

As he reached for the flip-tab, he watched his hand shake.

It never shook on a job.

Judgment Rucker’s got balls of brass.

If they could only see him now.

It’s those damned nightmares.

Well, those would ease off. They always did. Just a matter of time.

Watch the movie.

He tried.

When he ran out of beer, he went into the kitchen for another. He popped its tab and looked out the window. Moonlight made a silver path on the water. Across the bay, fog matted the hills above Sausalito as white as a bank of snow. Fog wrapped most of the Golden Gate Bridge, too. All but the top of its northern tower, with its red flashing light, was hidden in fog. Probably the other tower was poking through, too, but Belvedere Island blocked that part of his view. He listened to the low groan of a foghorn, then carried his beer into the living room.

He was about to sit on the couch when a harsh, male scream of horror slashed the stillness. 2.

Jud listened at the door of Apartment 315. From inside came the sound of a man taking quick gasps of air. Jud rapped the door quietly.

At the end of the hallway, a woman in curlers peered out her doorway. “Let’s keep it down, huh? You can’t keep it down, I’ll call the cops. Do you know what time it is?”

Jud smiled at her. “Yes,” he said.

The anger pinching her face seemed to let go. She made a tentative smile. “You’re the new tenant, aren’t you? The one in 308? I’m Sally Leonard.”

“Go to bed now, Miss Leonard.”

“Something the matter with Larry?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Still smiling, Sally pulled her head back inside her apartment and shut the door.

Jud knocked again on 315.

“Who is it?” a man asked through the door.

“I heard a scream.”

“I’m sorry. Did it wake you?”

“I was already up. Who screamed?”

“Me. It was nothing. Just a nightmare.”

“You call that nothing?”

Jud heard the slide of a guard chain. The door was opened by a man in striped pajamas. “You sound as if you know nightmares,” the man said. Though his sleep-tangled hair was as white as the fog, he seemed to be no older than forty. “My name’s Lawrence Maywood Usher.” He offered his hand to Jud. It was bony, and damp with sweat. The feeble grip had a weariness that seemed to sap strength from Jud’s hand.

“I’m Jud Rucker,” he said, entering.

The man shut the door. “Well, Judson…”

“It’s Judgment.”

Larry immediately perked up. “As in Judgment Day?”

“My father’s a Baptist minister.”

“Judgment Rucker. Fascinating. Would you care for some coffee, Judgment?”

He thought about the open can of Hamms in his apartment. What the hell, he could use it tomorrow for cooking. “Sure. Coffee’d be great.”

“Are you a connoisseur?”

“Hardly.”

“Nevertheless, this should be a treat for you. Have you ever tasted Jamaican Blue Mountain?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, opportunity has knocked. Your ship has come in.”

Jud grinned, astonished at the new liveliness of the man who’d screamed.

“Will you join me in the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

In the kitchen, Larry opened a small brown bag. He tilted its opening toward Jud’s face. Jud sniffed the sharp coffee aroma. “Smells good,” he said.

“It ought to be. It’s the best. What line of work are you in, Judgment?”

“Engineering,” he said, using his usual cover.

“Oh?”

“I’m with Brecht Brothers.”

“Sounds like a German cough drop.”

“We build bridges, power plants. How about you?”

“I teach.”

“High school?”