Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [31]
It seemed so cozy. He went upstairs. The living room was empty. Several of the glass animals from the mantelpiece had fallen or been dropped on the hearth, and were broken. The nice lady in the white dress with the blue sash looked out into the empty room with a nice, pleasant, warm smile, not noticing what had happened to her ornaments. Her beautiful Persian rug, too, had been damaged by cigarette burns and some spilled liquor, but she did not see it; she was looking off into the distance. Jack saluted her with his bottle and went into the kitchen. Denny, Billy Lancing, and three other boys were sitting around the kitchen table, talking. The room was full of smoke. Somebody had been cooking something on the stove, and it had boiled over and burned. There were long yellowish-black streaks down the side of the stove, and the gas was still on under a blackened pot. Jack went over and looked in, but he could not tell what had been cooking. The boys at the table seemed to be talking about another party, not this one, one that had happened in the past. Jack could not quite make out what they were saying. Either they were drunk, or he was. Perhaps they were all drunk. Jack’s ears buzzed, and his legs felt long and rubbery. One of the boys at the table finished his bottle and tossed it across the kitchen. It tinkled. Jack grinned. That was a funny thing to do. He looked at his bottle. Too full.
“I want a cigar,” he said. No one answered him. He wandered out of the kitchen. Where were the cigars? Oh, yes, in the “Library.” Jack knew this room he was looking for was called the “Library” because he had seen movies in which people had such rooms. It was a room full of books, a small room, but still, full of books. And there was a desk. He and Denny had searched through the desk the night before, looking for money. The son of a bitch that owned the desk did not keep money in it. The fool. Jack wandered around until he found the room. The light was off, and he flicked the mercury switch (which did not click) and caught a boy and a girl on the leather couch. Jack saw a flash of white thigh as the girl turned quickly toward him, smoothing down her skirt. Her face was smeared and puffed, her lips parted over two prominent rabbit’s teeth. The boy sat up, his long Hollywood haircut all messed and down over his forehead. He had pimples and the beginnings of a tiny mustache.
“Beat it,” Jack told them.
“Well I really,” the girl said.
“What the hell,” the boy said.
But they left, and Jack started looking for the cigars. There was a cupboard under a glassed-in section of books. They were in here, he thought, squatting down. He got out a cigar, licked it down, bit an inch off the end, and lit it. The cigar tasted raw and burned his throat as he inhaled. The rich life; rich folks smoke these fuckin ropes; I’m gonna smoke em if it kills me. He looked around the room. Books. Money hidden behind the books. Of course. Where else? Got to be money in this house, must be behind the books. He began sweeping books off the shelves, and looking behind them. After a moment he sneezed; it was very dusty behind the books, and the dust had a particularly acrid smell. He swept the books off the open shelves carelessly, and they tumbled to the rug, spines cracking, dust flying. Jack did not find any money. The glassed-in shelf of books was locked. That would be where the money was. Jack picked up a copy of Wake of the Red Witch and used it to smash the glass on both sides. He dropped the book and reached in. Have to be careful, now, and not get cut. And open every book; maybe twenty dollar bills will be between the pages of the books. He pulled out a thick little book called The Perfumed Garden and riffled the pages. No money in it. He threw it across the room. He pulled out more books, most of them dealing with the Civil War, riffled