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"Come on, Nitz," he bellowed, his cheek against the wood. There was no answer.
"He's dead," Mary A
"Christ," Tweany muttered, glancing around him. He made his way to the kitchen and returned with a key. The lock responded and the door fell open.
Stretched out on the bathroom floor lay Paul Nitz, but he was not dead. He had passed out and hit his head on the side of the toilet. There he lay, his eyes closed, arms outstretched, a puddle of vomit around him. He had been sitting on the rim of the bathtub, being sick into the toilet; the white porcelain was still streaked where he had clung to it.
Bending down, Tweany lifted the man and inspected the welt on his forehead. A drizzle of saliva and stomach juices leaked down Nitz's chin; he stirred and groaned.
"Go in the living room," Tweany instructed, "and phone a doctor."
"Yes," Mary A
In the rapture of the dance, Beth had given herself completely. She had pulled off her clothes, flung them in a heap on the floor, and gone on to greater heights without them. Naked, perspiring, she was lunging about the room, large and pale and gleaming, her breasts wiggling mightily, her bulging hips palpitating with delight. Lemming sat curled up on the carpet, his guitar in his lap, eyes glued happily on the instrument, strumming a weird cacophony that slithered and shimmered in time to the woman's orgy.
Coombs, still giggling, crept after the fluttering body of his wife, photographing her again and again, dead flashbulbs flying from his camera. None of the three noticed Mary A
"Christ," Tweany said. He stood behind the girl, moved by what he saw, gazing until Coombs became aware of him and stopped his wary pursuit of his wife's hams.
An ugly discoloration fled up into Coombs's cheeks. He squinted, struggled to his feet, advanced a few uneven steps toward Tweany, and said in a thick, hoarse voice: "You nigger, what are you doing? You nigger-get out of here!"
Tweany said nothing.
The sound of Lemming's guitar dimmed into stillness. Shaking his head, Lemming turned, pulled his horn-rimmed glasses from his pocket, put them on, and peered around him. Beth, unwinding like a tardy mechanical device, came slowly to rest, mouth open, body shaking with fatigue and cold.
"Nigger!" Coombs squealed, trying to scuttle between Tweany and the sweating nakedness of his wife. "Get out! Get out or I'll kill you!" All of the man's hatreds rose to the surface; he tottered toward Tweany, peering blindly, circling in a crippled, jerky step that first took him closer and then farther away from the Negro.
"This is my house," Tweany murmured. His confidence began to seep back into him; pulling himself up he said almost sternly: "Don't talk to me like that in my house. I do what I want in my house."
From the stairs outside came a dull drumming; at the same time the whirr of sirens lapsed into a blur in the street below. Before any of them could move, there was a loud banging on the door of the apartment.
Mary A
Without hesitation, she plunged out into the darkness of the porch and down the stairs. Gripping the invisible railing, she descended to the ground and, half-falling, half-rolling, shoved her way into the moist wall of shrubs that grew along the path.
Upstairs, in the darkness, sounded the rattle of voices. More police appeared, flashing lights and muttering commands. In a few minutes-astonishingly few-the first group plodded drearily down the flight of steps: Tweany and Beth Coombs. After them came Da
"That's them?" one of the policemen was asking. From his patrol car came the enlarged mutter of his radio; he stalked over to it, slid in behind the wheel, and addressed the police operator at the station.
They were leaving. One by one the police assembled, spoke a few words to each other, and climbed back into their cars. In a doorway on the bottom floor of the building stood a dignified Negro man; he watched with righteous solemnity as the police departed. One of them halted long enough to speak to him; the Negro nodded in satisfaction and closed his door.
After a long wait Mary A
The living room was a shambles. The lights, still on, blazed impotently. From the open door a chill gust of wind billowed in; Mary A
Automatically, Mary A
Paul Nitz was sitting up, leaning his head against the side of the tub. Partly conscious, he was feebly exploring the injured bump where his head had struck the toilet. Noticing her, he blinked, gri
"Don't," Mary A
"They missed me," Nitz murmured. "Thanks, Mary. I'm okay-I got sick and passed out."
Holding onto him, she got him from the bathroom into the chaotic living room. There she dropped down on the couch, pulled him down beside her, and dragged his damaged head into her lap. For a while he passed into semiconsciousness; she sat clinging to his limp shoulders, rocking back and forth, gazing vacantly ahead of her. Finally he stirred and pulled himself up.
"Thanks," he repeated weakly. "You're good."
She said nothing.
"They missed me," Nitz declared with pride. "I got the door shut and I didn't make any sound. They didn't know I was there."
Hugging him futilely, Mary A
"Nobody else but us," Nitz murmured defiantly. "They took them all. All gone. Only the two of us left, now."
Outside, in the darkness, a bird made a few dismal noises. In an hour or so it would be dawn.