on her? The thought made his penis jump, begin to swell, but he forced those thoughts away. They were not proper for this moment; they were thoughts from
Still naked, he ran up the stairs, and the exertion felt so good he ran up and down the stairs twenty-five times. Sweat flowed from his pores and coated him with a fine sheen. When he walked into the living room and stood before the mirror, he saw how the sweat helped define each of his muscles. He turned this way and that, flexing his arms and chest, swelling his lats, flexing the bulky quadriceps and abdominals. Even with all the thousands of hours he had spent with weights, he had never fully realized just how perfect his body had become, especially for a man of his age. He looked thirty rather than fifty. His body was more superb than any Greek statue: each muscle rippling like bundles of bridge cable beneath the firm tautness of his skin. From the broad expanse of the
He wished that he could somehow clone himself so that he could always be able to look at that body, maybe even to hold it, kiss it, make reverent love to it.
Walking back and forth through the house, he watched the clock tick toward ten o’clock. He had been home for nearly an hour and a half, and still the level of energetic excitement hadn’t abated even one iota.
He laughed out loud, full of a pure delight, and turned a graceful pirouette in the middle of the living room.
Vic Wingate was turning the crank of his antique printer; yellow handbills zipped out from under the roller and settled down into the tray. A haze of blue cigarette smoke tinted the air of the cellar. It fascinated him to watch the blank sheets of paper go in one end of the roller and pop out of the other a second later filled with words and pictures. Even though it was a lot of work to do it this way, and though he could have done it far easier and much faster on his computer, Vic preferred the ink and the mess and the feel of doing it by hand.
The stack of blank papers dwindled down to nothing and Vic stopped cranking. Stubbing out his cigarette in a dented metal ashtray he’d stolen once from the only good hotel he’d ever stayed in, Vic picked up the top copy of the freshly printed handbills. His thick lips moved as he read his own words: WHY THE WHITE RACE HAS THE RIGHT TO RULE, and below that in smaller type: AND HOW THE JEWS ARE TRYING TO USURP THAT RIGHT.
Usurp. He liked the word. Vic always had a dictionary and thesaurus handy when he wrote up his handbills.
He let the handbill flutter back down atop the others and stretched. His muscles were sore from two really difficult transmission jobs at Shanahan’s Service Station, where he worked nine to five, five days a week. It was a hard job, but it paid well and Vic loved it. He loved everything about cars. If he had the money, he’d buy Shanahan out, though he’d still do his time in the pits. Then he smiled when he realized how dumb an idea that was. Come the day after Halloween there would
He worked on his handbills for a while longer, musing now about how things were working out. It was all starting now, he knew that. The Man had a lot of pieces moving on the board, and though Vic knew most of what was in store, he didn’t know everything. He was a general, sure, but not the Man himself. That was okay with him. When the Red Wave hit on Halloween night, Vic would be nearly a king himself.
He bundled the flyers and stacked them, then massaged his neck muscles, which had grown stiff as he’d worked over the printer. Then a thought occurred to him and he looked at his wristwatch: 9:30 p.m.
“Well, well,” he murmured. A smile wriggled wetly onto his lips. “The little fucker’s late again. Oh boy.” He fingered his belt, wondering if tonight was a belt night or a hands-on night. Hands, he decided. You could never really get the feel of it with a belt. Kid felt it, sure as hell, but Vic wanted to feel it himself. He liked his hands to sting. It was no good if your hands didn’t sting, he mused, and you never got that with a belt. All you got with the belt was a jolt up the arm and the sound. The sound was good, but that sting was outstanding. With the thickness of the calluses on Vic’s hands, it took a lot of speed, a lot of impact for there to be any sting at all, and Vic always liked to challenge himself to see how many hits it would take until the sting was there, and there at just the right tingling level.
Vic figured that maybe it was time to amp up on the kid. If the Man’s other plan for getting rid of the little pussy didn’t work out, then it was up to Vic to accomplish his goal. If he upped the ante on Mike, made the beatings a bit worse — but not so bad that those cops that weren’t in his pocket would be forced to step in — then maybe the kid would finally get the fucking message and realize that, yes, life is hell so maybe it’d be better to jump off a fucking bridge. Or something. Vic had left razor blades on the side of the tub several times, but the little bastard was too damn dense to take a hint.
Not for the first time Vic wished he could just strangle the little fucker. That would feel so good! But the Man was very, very specific on that point. If Mike were to die from a corrupt or evil hand, then the Man’s whole plan would be in deep shit. Which sucked, because Vic ached to feel Mike’s throat collapse in his hands. Then he’d be free of Mike, and would be finally able to cut loose of that drunken whore, Lois. What a goddamn waste of human tissue she was. Couldn’t cook, lousy in the sack unless Vic beat the shit out of her first, and nowadays she was drunk all the time.
Upstairs he could hear the phone ringing. He listened, counting the rings. Three. Four. Five. Five? Christ, how many times had he told that cow to get the phone by three rings at the most? Fucking five rings?
Vic closed his eyes and smiled with the first real pleasure of the day. If both Mike and Lois were going to defy him like this, then it might turn out to be a really interesting evening. Really interesting.
He was already heading toward the stairs when he heard Lois’s tentative knock on the door. In a hesitant, quavering voice she called, “Vic? Vic, honey?”
“What?” he growled, mounting the stairs two at a time.
“Phone call for you, honey.”
He jerked the door open. “So I heard. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but did I not hear the phone ring, what, five times?”
Lois stood there, her blue cotton bathrobe pulled tight around her body, the belt cinched and knotted around her slim waist. Her brown hair was tousled from sleep and her eyes were red and rheumy from vodka. Fear reeled drunkenly in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, honey. I was asleep. I didn’t hear…I mean…I got it as fast as I…”
He held up a warning finger and she shut up. “You go into the living room and wait for me. Don’t you dare sit down, either, Lois. When I’m done with my call, we’ll go over the phone rules again. Okay? Go on now.”
Lois shrank back, her mouth opening to form words of protest, to voice some kind of plea, but she did not dare make a sound. It would always be much worse if she tried to plead for tolerance, and horribly worse if she begged. She clutched the folds of her robe to her throat and cowered out of the room.
Vic waited until she was out of the kitchen until he let the smile form on his lips. He liked that color blue on her. He reached for the phone.
“This is Vic.”
“Mr. Wingate? This is Terry Wolfe.”
Vic tensed, instantly on the defensive. Why the hell would the mayor be calling him? “Yeah?” he asked cautiously.
“Mr. Wingate, I’m calling on behalf of your stepson, Mike?”
“Christ, what’s the little shit done now?”
“Oh, nothing like that. No, he was involved in an accident, Mr. Wingate.”
Equal amounts of hope and fear surged up in Vic’s heart. “Yeah? What kind of accident?”
“He was riding his bike on A-32 when someone, a trucker, ran him off the road near where Old Mill Road cuts over to the hayride. Now, he’s not badly hurt, but he is banged up a bit. A passing motorist took him to the
