Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [39]
Finally, he lay on his back, rubbing his arms, his chest. His breathing had grown audibly labored, though his cock was still working fine.
“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.
“What time …” He was having trouble breathing. He turned over and squinted at the clock, his vision must not have been working so well. It was only 12:45.
“Feeling cold?”
His back arching, jerking. I rubbed his back, his arms. I could feel the rigidity, the tremor, the poison spreading. I hadn’t seen the rat die, I didn’t know quite what to expect. It was very instructive.
After a while, he pushed me away. “That’s … not … helping.” He lay on his back, his jaws clenching, his eyes luminous and big with fear. “Holly …”
“Can I get you something? Water? Aspirin?”
He nodded.
I fucked around in the kitchen, killing time, running the water, filling the glass a couple of times. As I held his water with one hand, I stretched out the other before me. Perfectly steady. I raised a palm up, inspected. The hand of someone I hadn’t known until tonight. We really could have had something, Richard and I. We were perfect for each other, like Bonnie and Clyde. But he didn’t see it. He just threw me away like a gumball prize.
When I came back with the water, he was rigid, his hand up by his throat, he could barely breathe. I held the water for him, let him drink. He choked a little, I backed off. He croaked, “Hosp … 911.”
“Should I call 911?” I said.
His face was pale with a greenish cast. Reptilian, yes, definitely. His eyes pleaded. Oh yeah. Now you notice me.
I called 611 and waited. Let it ring. I braced the receiver to my breast. “It’s busy, they say to hold. Oh God, Richard, what should I do?”
“Christ—” he gasped.
“Wait …” I said, as if someone was coming onto the phone. His back arched like he was in some yoga pose. “Oh fuck, it’s still busy, oh shit, Richard, what should I do?!” Crying a little. Was I overplaying it? Maybe just a bit. “Are you going to die?? Richard, don’t die!”
He tried to sit up on one elbow. “Help—”
“And … end of scene.” I announced. I hung up the phone, dropped the panicked-girlfriend routine. Now his eyes were bugging out of his head.
“You know, Anthony,” I said, pulling on my underwear, “I never did use that shit on Mariah.”
I was sure he would have taken a deep breath if he could, but he wasn’t breathing much at all. And yet, even like that, from somewhere, he found the strength to lunge at me. But he was rigid and in pain and all that happened was that he fell off the bed with a thud onto the Cost Plus rug.
“You know, I was crazy about you. I would have done anything for you. But you didn’t care what happened to me. All you cared about was getting back at her. For dumping you. You stupid fuck. She called you a psycho, you know? And I could be in jail right now, making my one call. Now, should it be to a lawyer? Or my darling boyfriend.”
His eyes looking up at me from the carpet, upside down, his back was so contorted, the whites were red and the irises full of horror and surprise. White frothy shit coming out of his nose, his mouth. I didn’t know how it would go down, how I would feel watching the man I adored die. It was like watching a part of myself die. The part that was good and decent. Well, good riddance.
“You know, I might have even offed her for you, if you’d sold it right. Then you could have had it all. Revenge, the swag, the whole deal. But you got sloppy. I won’t make that mistake.”
As he wheezed and convulsed, I busied myself cleaning up, wiping down the bottle and the water glass. I washed my wineglass but left his.
“Nobody’s going to think twice about this, Richard. Only Mariah. I’ll show her the headline, would you like that? Actor Dies in Los Feliz Apartment. Despondent over stalled career, bit player Anthony Karras …” I looked to