Clandestine

Dudley reached behind him and grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. Engels pliably submitted and stared at him impassively, until Dudley's right hand crashed into his solar plexus. He vomited, spraying a gush of pink goo that smelled like gin onto Dudley's shirtfront. Dudley's face contorted and his whole body twitched, but he just stood there, staring down at the woman-killer he hated so much.

There was complete silence in the room. Nobody moved. Engels remained perfectly still on the floor, arms wrapped around his devastated midsection. There was a straight-backed wooden chair directly behind him. Dudley lifted Engels into it. He pulled up another chair for himself and drew it up so that his knees almost touched Eddie's.

"Now, Eddie, we know that you like to hit women, don't we?"

"Y-yes."

"A handsome lad like yourself has no trouble finding young ladies, isn't that true? You said you go to cocktail bars. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And you pick up young ladies there?"

"Uh . . . I . . . yes."

"For what purpose?"

"What? To fuck. To sleep with. I'm no fag!"

"Easy, lad. We know you like boys."

"No! No!"

Dudley slapped him.

"No, no, no, no!" he continued.

Dudley slapped him again, this time harder. Blood was flowing out of his nose, dripping into his mouth. He licked it off his lips and started to cry. Dudley sighed and handed Engels a handkerchief. "Maybe you aren't queer, lad. Maybe you do like tail. Alter all, the inspector said he saw you at that place, what was the name of it? The Silver Star? That place is no homo hangout."

Engels started to shake his head, spraying Dudley with blood and sweat. "I'm no fag. I've had more tail than any cop in L.A."

"Tell me about it, Eddie," Dudley said, lighting him a cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The cocky ladies' man came briefly to life, cutting through all his terror and fatigue. "They love me, they can't leave me alone. I'm a virtuoso. I just snap my fingers. Every bartender in Hollywood knows me—"

Dudley interrupted: "The barman at the Silver Star says you're a sissy. He says you hate women. You hate them, so you fuck them to make them like you, then you hurt them, right, Eddie? Right, Eddie? Right, Eddie, right? Queer, cock-sucking Eddie, right . . .?"

Engels threw himself on Dudley, knocking his chair over and falling on top of him, trying to smother him with his battered body. Breuning and Carlisle watched for stunned seconds, then ran over and grabbed Eddie by his flailing arms and legs and pinned him against the wall. Engels was screaming as Dick Carlisle began to slam him with both fists in the groin and rib cage. Breuning mashed his face into the wall until Engels bit into the palm of his hand. Breuning screamed and backed off, and Carlisle wrapped his hands around Engels's neck and started to choke him. Engels relinquished Breuning's hand and started to make gurgling sounds.

I jumped up and grabbed Carlisle by the shoulders, flinging him backward onto the mattress. Breuning was trying to get at Engels with his good hand, holding his bitten one between his legs to stanch the pain. I flattened myself against Engels, trying to push the two of us through the wall to another reality. Breuning pulled at my shoulders.

Finally Dudley screamed, "Stop it, all of you. Stop it. Stop it now!"

Breuning let go of me. I moved away from Engels, who fell to the floor, unconscious.

"You filthy traitor," Carlisle hissed at me. I advanced toward him, my fists cocked.

Dudley planted himself in front of me. "No, lad."

I flopped down into the chair that had held Engels. I was exhausted and shaking from head to foot. Breuning, Carlisle, Dudley, and I all stared at one another in ugly silence.

Finally Dudley smiled. He drew a hypodermic needle and a little vial out of his pants pocket. He inserted the needle into the vial and drew out some clear liquid, then knelt beside the unconscious Engels, checked his pulse, nodded and stuck the needle into his arm just above the elbow. He pushed the plunger and held it in for a few seconds, then lifted Engels onto the mattress.

"He'll sleep," Dudley said. "He needs it. You men do, too. We all do. So rest, lads. We'll start over in the morning."

We did. Fueled by a night's sleep—mine fitful, Engels's drugged—we began at nine o'clock the following day. Dudley had roused me at seven-thirty, presenting me with a razor and a fresh short-sleeved shirt. The ritual of shaving and bathing restored me somewhat.

I was still shocked by what had happened. Dudley knew it, and assuaged my fears. "No more violence, lad. He can't take much more. I've sent Dick Carlisle home; he might get carried away. We'll play it kid gloves from here on in." All I could do was nod dumbly. I couldn't even try to play protégé to the insane Irishman—he was a loathsome object to me now.