One Night Stands; Lost weekends Read online

  3. The title deserves explanation. Most of these stories were written in a single sitting. I would get an idea and sit down at the typewriter and hammer it out. You can hold a short-story idea entirely in the mind, especially the sort of brief and uncomplicated story that most of these are. A weekday evening or a weekend afternoon was generally time enough to see one of these stories through to the end.

  It still often is. I still write stories rapidly, and sometimes complete one in a single setting. The major difference, it seems to me, is that the gestation period has gotten a lot longer. I’ll nowadays let a story idea percolate or ferment or stew for days or weeks or months. Back then I tended to strike as soon as the iron was hot, or, occasionally, before it had really warmed up.

  I’VE HAD THREE COLLECTIONS of short stories published, plus a small-press collection of the Ehrengraf stories and Hit Man, an episodic novel comprising the Keller stories. One Night Stands consists of stories deliberately omitted from these collections (or ones I’d lost track of, but if I’d had them handy I’d still have left them out).

  What have we got here, then? A box labeled “pieces of string too small to save”? If they weren’t worth collecting, why have I collected them?

  I’ve been guided by the same principle (or, some might argue, the same lack thereof) that has led me to republish some early crime novels that I’d be hard put to read without cringing. The fact that I can’t read them with pleasure doesn’t mean someone else couldn’t, or shouldn’t. I’ve decided it’s not my job to judge my early work. Let other people make what they will of it.

  Then, too, I’m not unmindful of the interests of collectors and readers with a special interest in an author—in this instance, myself. I don’t collect books, but I have other collecting interests, and I understand the mind set. Of course a collector would want a writer’s early work, to read or simply to have and to hold, and why should I deprive him of the opportunity? And why shouldn’t some scholar with a thesis to write have access to that early work?

  At the same time, I don’t think these stories are much good, or representative of my mature work. For God’s sake, when I wrote these my typewriter still had training wheels on it. So I’ve decided One Night Stands should have limited distribution, going not to general readers but to collectors and specialists. Thus it’s being published only in a limited collector edition, and not, as is generally the case with Crippen & Landru publications, in trade paperback as well.

  Enough! This introduction has passed the 2500-word mark, which makes it longer than many of the stories it’s introducing. It’s taken most of the morning to write it, too. May you, Dear Reader, like the tomcat who had the affair with the skunk, enjoy these stories as much as you can stand.

  Lawrence Block

  Greenwich Village

  1999

  THE BAD NIGHT

  THE SHORTER OF THE TWO BOYS had wiry black hair and a twisted smile. He also had a knife, and the tip of the blade was pressed against Dan’s faded gabardine jacket. “Why’d you have to get in the way?” he asked, softly. “Every bull from here to Memphis is after us, and Pops here has to…”

  “Shut up.” The older boy was taller, with blond hair that tumbled over his forehead. He, too, had a knife.

  “Why? He ain’t going to tell anybody…”

  “Shut up, Benny.” He turned to Dan, smiling. “We need money, maybe some food. We better make it over to your shack.”

  “No shack,” Dan said. He gestured toward an opening in the wall of rock that edged the valley. “I live in the cave over there.”

  Benny started to laugh, and the blade of his knife pierced Dan’s skin and drew blood. “A cave!” he exploded. “Dig, Zeke—he’s a hermit!”

  Zeke didn’t laugh. “C’mon,” he said. “To the cave.”

  They walked slowly across the field toward the mouth of the cave. Dan felt the sweat forming on his forehead, felt the old familiar sensation that he hadn’t felt since Korea. He was afraid, as afraid as he’d ever been in his life.

  “Faster,” Benny said, and again Dan felt the knife prick skin. It didn’t make sense. He’d lived through a world war and a police action, and now two kids from Memphis were going to kill him. Two kids who called him “Pops.”

  The veins stood out on his temples, and he could feel the sweat running down his face to the stubble of beard on his chin. “Why did he get in the way?” the kid had asked. Hell, he didn’t mean to get in anyone’s way. Just wanted to go off by himself, fool around with a little prospecting, and relax for a while.

  They were almost at the entrance of the cave. Now they would take his money, eat his food, and put a switchblade knife between his ribs. He was finished, unless he managed to get to his gun in time. There was a shiny black .45 waiting on his shelf, if only he could get to it before Benny got to him with the knife.

  “Here it is,” he said. He stepped inside the cave, the two boys right behind him. It was a large cave, wide and roomy and branching out much wider in the rear. On one side was his mattress, on the other his trunk and four orange-crate shelves.

  “Let’s go,” said Zeke. “Bring out the dough and some food. We ain’t got all night.”

  “Yeah,” Benny echoed. “We gotta roll, man. Make it fast or I stick you, dig?” He prodded Dan with a knife for emphasis.

  “Wait a minute.” Dan’s eyes darted desperately to the crates and lighted on the kerosene lantern. “Let me light the lamp over there. It’s getting kind of dark in here.”

  Benny looked at Zeke, who shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “But don’t try anything.” Dan walked across to the side of the cave, and Benny followed with the knife.

  Fumbling in his pocket for a match, Dan glanced down to the middle shelf of the crate where the gun nestled cozily amidst a packet of letters and a pair of socks. If only he could get it, and if only it were loaded. Was it loaded? He couldn’t remember.

  “Hurry it up,” Zeke said. It was now or never, Dan thought. He lifted the pack of matches from his pocket, tensed his body, and fell forward.

  At the same time he lashed out viciously with his foot and heard a dull grunt of pain as he connected solidly with Benny’s belly. His right hand snaked out for the gun and closed around it, his fingers caressing the smooth metal of the butt. All in one motion he took it and whirled around, his finger tight against the trigger. The boys scampered for the rear of the cave. Then, before he could get a shot off, his right ankle buckled and he fell to the floor. For a moment everything went black as the pain shot up and down his leg. He gritted his teeth until the floor stopped spinning.

  Dan glanced around the cave, and the two boys seemed to have disappeared. He tried to stand, but the stab of pain in his ankle told him it was useless. The ankle was broken.

  He could hear Zeke, cursing dully from the back of the cave. They hadn’t left, then. He had them trapped.

  After a time the cursing stopped. “Hey, Pops!” Zeke called. “That was pretty sharp, you know?”

  Dan didn’t answer.

  “Sharp,” the boy repeated. “You faked us good, but what’ll it get you? You can’t move, Pops.”

  Dan started. He scrutinized the rear walls of the cave but could see nothing.

  “Peek-a-boo,” Zeke called. “I can see you real good, Pops. There’s a cool little crack in the rock, you know? I can see you clear as anything. You still got your gun, but you can’t go anywhere.”

  “Neither can you,” Dan answered, in spite of himself. “You can’t come out without getting shot. You two little bastards can stay there until I get some help.”

  The boy’s laugh rang hollowly in the cave. “Help? You expecting company, Pops? Bet there’s a whole mess of people in a real rush to come here. This cave’s a big attraction, huh?”

  Dan ran a hand over his forehead. The boy was right—the world didn’t exactly beat a path to his door. Daley would drop by in the morning with the mail, but he couldn’t figure on anyone showing before then. It was a stalemate; h
e couldn’t get the boys, and they couldn’t get him.

  “I can wait,” he called. “My friend comes up at eleven every morning, and we can just sit it out until then. Have a nice wait, kids. Enjoy yourselves. When the cops get hold of you it won’t be much fun.”

  This time they both laughed—high, shrill laughs that chilled Dan to the bone. The laughter echoed and bounced between the walls, and Dan felt his blood come to a boil. “Laugh!” he yelled, savagely. “Laugh your heads off, you little bastards!”

  “Pops,” called a voice—Benny’s, this time. “The laugh’s on you, Pops. Know what time it is?”

  “It’s nine o’clock, Pops. Nine at night. It’s fourteen hours ’til your friend comes. Think you can stay awake for fourteen hours? That’s a long time, you know.”

  Dan drew in a breath sharply. Suddenly, he felt very tired. Very tired and hopelessly old.

  “He’s right,” Zeke said. “There’s two of us, Pops, and we still got our blades. You might get real sleepy tonight. Just have to sit there all night with your eyes wide open, while one of us sleeps and the other one watches you. After a while your eyes’ll close up and that’ll be the end. You’ll be too sleepy to feel the knife.”

  The boy went on, but Dan didn’t listen to the rest. He let out his breath slowly and stared at the gun in his hand, wondering idly whether or not it was loaded.

  He knew what happened when a man had to force himself to stay awake. He’d seen a sentry who fell asleep at his post six miles north of Inchon. He’d looked like a man asleep, until Dan had noticed the slit that ran across his throat from ear to ear. He probably never knew what was happening, never felt the knife slice his life away.

  Could he stay awake? He didn’t know. He glanced at his watch, noting that the boy had been right—it was just a few minutes past nine. He’d been on his feet all day since 8:30 in the morning, and it had been a rough day, with plenty of walking and climbing. He felt tired already, and he had fourteen more hours to go. His ankle throbbed dully but steadily, a slow and persistent ache. He knew it was draining him of the energy he would need to remain awake through the night.

  “You may not have to wait until you fall asleep,” Zeke called. “It’s getting real dark, man. You won’t be able to see too good. We can sneak up, like.”

  Dan looked around for the lantern and was relieved to find it at his side, where it had fallen in the scuffle. He set it upright and made ready to light it, then realized how little kerosene he had in it. Probably not enough to last the night. He’d save it until he couldn’t see without it.

  “Okay,” said Zeke. “So you got the lamp. You’ll still fall asleep.”

  The minutes crawled by and the shadows grew longer. Dan sat very still on the floor of the cave. The boys talked among themselves, and occasionally he caught snatches of their conversation. They’d started in Memphis, headed west, pulled a series of small holdups, and one of them—Benny, he guessed—had knifed the proprietor of a delicatessen. The man had died.

  Killers. A couple of punk kids, but they had killed already and they would kill again. Zeke, he thought, would kill if he had to, but Benny was a different sort. Benny would kill whenever he got the chance.

  Dan had met that kind before. There was a guy in his platoon, a tall, lean boy from the hills. And one day the platoon had taken seven young Chinese as prisoners. And the tall, lean boy from the hills had stepped up to each of the POWs in turn, and placed his pistol to the back of each head, quickly and methodically blowing out the brains of each of them. The Americans were too dumbfounded to stop him. Dan had been violently sick, and the memory still churned inside him.

  He shook himself suddenly and took several deep breaths in rapid succession. He had almost fallen asleep that time. His eyes remained open, but his arms and legs were completely relaxed. He had heard about that—falling asleep bit by bit, until your mind wandered into dream-channels that seemed vividly real. He moved his arms around to speed the circulation and touched his injured ankle gingerly. It was sore to the touch and swelling rapidly.

  There was a laugh from the rear of the cave. “Almost,” said Zeke. “You’re an old man, Pops. Pretty soon you’ll be dropping the gun. Why don’t you just give it up?”

  Damn you, thought Dan. He looked at his watch—10:20. It was dark now inside the cave, too dark for him to make out the outline of the rear wall. He’d have to chance running out of kerosene.

  He struck a match and lit the lantern, warming his hands over it. It felt good. He hefted the gun in his hand. Was there a bullet left? The gun was full three days ago, but he had shot at some squirrels since then. How many times had he fired it? Five? Six? He couldn’t remember.

  Nor was it possible to tell by the weight. He could judge between a full gun and an empty one, but one bullet either way didn’t make that much of a difference.

  He noticed himself blinking more and more frequently, as his eyes struggled to shut against his will. He forced himself to look first at the lantern, then off into the darkened area of the cave. Just so it isn’t steady, he thought. Vary it, mix it up, just so you don’t get accustomed to one position. He moved his arms from time to time, shifted his weight, and changed the position of his legs as much as the broken ankle would permit.

  The boys spoke less, then stopped talking altogether. It was almost midnight when he heard Zeke’s voice, soft but clear in the near-silence of the night.

  “Pops,” the boy said, “Benny’s sleeping. Isn’t that nice?”

  He didn’t answer. There was no point in wasting energy; he needed every drop of it just to keep awake.

  “I said he’s asleep,” the boy repeated. “Just closed his eyes and floated right off. Sleeping like a baby.”

  Stop it, Dan thought fiercely. Don’t talk about it, you bastard. Don’t even mention the word.

  But Zeke knew what he was doing. “Sleeping. Wouldn’t you like to take a little nap right now, Pops? Be real easy, you know? Just close your eyes, lean back…”

  No. His hand tightened on the butt of the gun, squeezing hard. He started to sweat again, and then a cold chill came over him.

  “Relax,” the voice cooed. “You’re real tired. You want to catch a little sleep. Close your eyes. Go ahead—close them.”

  Dan’s eyelids dropped by themselves at the command, and he had to struggle to lift them again. He was being hypnotized, crudely but efficiently.

  “Damn you!” he roared. “God damn you!” The boy chuckled. Zeke’s chuckle grew into a laugh, and Dan could feel his pulse racing. He shouldn’t have blown up. He had to relax, had to take things slowly and easily.

  Zeke began again, slowly and methodically urging him to sleep, but Dan forced his mind to ignore the suggestions. It wasn’t easy.

  His body was beginning to rebel as he alternately sweated and shivered. His ankle ached with a vengeance until he wanted to put a bullet through it. But for all he knew the gun was empty. He didn’t dare break it open to check. Zeke was watching him constantly, commenting on every move he made. If the gun was empty…

  He began glancing at his watch with increasing frequency. It seemed as though time was standing still for him, as though he and the two devils were suspended in a stalemate for eternity. But the weight of his eyelids and the nagging aches of his body assured him that this was not the case. He grew weaker and more tired with each passing second.

  A few minutes past one, his grip relaxed and the gun nearly dropped from his hand. He swore and the boy laughed.

  Is it loaded? Dammit, is it loaded? And then, suddenly, what the hell difference does it make?

  He realized that it made no difference at all. Whether the gun was empty or full, they thought it was full. And because they thought he held a loaded gun, they were waiting for him to fall asleep. As long as…

  “Pops,” the voice interrupted him, “Zeke’s gonna have a little nap. Ain’t he lucky?”

  Shut up.

  “You’ll be sleeping soon, Pops. Then I’ll have a
chance to cut you good. Dig?” Benny had none of the hypnotic effect of Zeke, but his words dug at Dan’s brain and broke his train of thought.

  Dan clenched his hands into fists and bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood in his mouth. If they thought he was awake, and that the gun was loaded, they wouldn’t approach him. The real thing didn’t matter. It was what they thought.

  “I don’t think I’ll give it to you quick, Pops. I’ll just take that gun away and do a nice slow job. Think you’ll like that? I’m good with a blade. Real good.”

  Now how could he sleep, yet make them think he was awake? They could watch him clearly, watch the eyes shut and the gun fall. His fingers would relax, so slowly that he wouldn’t ever feel it, and the gun would slip, gently to the floor. How could he fake it?

  “Think you’re tough, Pops? You won’t be so tough. I’ll cut you up so slow. You’ll bawl, you know? A big guy like you, you’ll bawl like a baby.”

  Of course, he could put out the lantern. Then they couldn’t see whether or not he slept. He reached for the lantern, then hesitated. It wouldn’t work.

  Without the lantern, he wouldn’t be able to see them either. They could sneak up, just as Zeke had suggested. And he knew that he would never be able to stay awake in the darkness. He’d fall asleep within minutes.

  “Go to sleep, Pops. Go to sleep, you rotten bastard.”

  Dan blinked rapidly and sucked in a large mouthful of air. Time was passing, and it was on their side. But…and suddenly he had it! As soon as he fell asleep, they would know it. And he would fall asleep before help came. But if they thought he was asleep. Just like the gun, the truth of the picture didn’t matter.

  For the next five minutes he sat very still, scarcely moving at all. Then, slowly and carefully, he let his eyelids drop shut. He breathed deeply and rhythmically. He relaxed.