Funland - By Richard Laymon Page 0,79

he would drop by Gloria’s house and try to warn her off. He hadn’t seemed eager about it, but they’d both known it was something that needed to be done.

She’d been jilted and gone off the deep end.

It was their fault.

It would be their fault if her stupid “undercover work” got her pounded or raped or worse.

Somebody had to talk some sense into her, and Dave was it.

Joan gazed at the phone, wondering if she should try calling again. Maybe Dave had been in the shower.

Maybe I’ll take a shower, and try him when I’m done.

She wished she’d gone along with him. But Dave hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t offered. The less Gloria saw of her, the better.

That was obvious.

She lifted the telephone onto the nightstand, stood up, and went down the hallway to the bathroom. She shut the door and locked it.

Big tough cop locking the door, she thought.

She always locked it before taking a shower or bath. Always, when she was alone in the house.

Something creepy about it. Something to do with being cut off from the rest of the house and water running so you couldn’t hear what might be going on out there. Something to do with a movie called Psycho.

The air felt humid from Debbie’s bath. And the aroma of her cologne was almost overpowering. What had she done, spilled the stuff?

Joan slid the window open a few inches. She pulled off her shoes and socks, hung her sweatsuit on the knob, and stepped to the tub. The bathmat still showed Debbie’s footprints. It felt soggy where the girl had stood.

Leaning over the edge of the tub, Joan reached for the hot-water faucet and flinched when the doorbell rang. Gooseflesh swarmed up her body.

The bell rang again, a faint chiming sound.

She grimaced and straightened up.

Great timing, she thought. Here I am, bare-assed.

She rushed to the bathroom door, leapt into her sweatpants (which were just as moist and clammy as she’d feared), hooked her sweatshirt off the knob, and pulled it down over her head as she hurried to the front door.

She peered through the peephole.

Harold.

Shit!

She opened the door and twisted her face into a smile.

He glanced at her face for an instant before lowering his eyes in typical Harold fashion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No. Huh-uh. I’d just finished my workout. Come on in.” She stepped aside.

He entered and shut the door. “I suppose I should’ve phoned first, but…” He shrugged.

“That’s okay. Could I get you a drink or something?”

“Some white wine would be nice, if you have any.”

“Sure. Come on.” She headed for the kitchen, Harold following. Her heart was beating fast. She felt a little tight and sick inside.

He wasn’t supposed to show up.

Didn’t he understand? Hadn’t she made it clear enough the other night?

Obviously not.

She’d been about as clear as possible without coming right out and saying she didn’t want to go out with him anymore.

Squatting down, she took a bottle of chablis from the cupboard. “I’m afraid it isn’t chilled,” she said. “You want ice cubes?”

“Just one. Don’t want to water it down too much,” he added, and gave out a tiny coughlike chuckle that sounded miserably nervous.

Oh, he got the message, all right.

But he’s here anyway.

Joan gave the bottle to him. He went to the drawer where she kept the corkscrew. He’d been here for dinner three times, so he knew right where to find it.

Good old Debbie. Sharp kid. After the first dinner, she’d said, “Harold’s a dingus. Why are you wasting your time with him? Dump him and find a guy. You’re a cop, you must know guys.”

Joan set a pair of wineglasses onto the counter. She dropped an ice cube into one, and left the other empty. Harold was having trouble with the cork. Bending over, he clamped the bottle between his legs, gripped its neck, and tugged the handle of the corkscrew.

As Joan watched, she remembered popping open the champagne at Dave’s house yesterday.

If only I were there right now, she thought.

He isn’t there.

He’s dealing with Gloria, and I’ve got to deal with Harold. We each have our own messes keeping us apart.

Harold popped the cork. He filled the glasses and handed the one without ice to Joan.

“I hope you don’t mind me dropping by like this,” he said as they walked into the living room.

“No, that’s fine. I’m kind of a mess, is all.”

“You look terrific. As always.”

“Thanks,” she muttered.

Harold sat on the sofa. Joan sat down beside

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