Free Night Show by Richard Laymon Page B

popcorn. As he munched it, he watched her. She was bent over slightly, head down, eating out of her cupped hand.
    Her blouse gaped like a slanted mouth in the space between two buttons. It showed a shadowy slope of skin, a lacey white corner of bra. Steve stared, suddenly dry-mouthed, his heart kicking, a hot surge swelling his penis.
    Then the lights dimmed.
    He looked away, relieved but disappointed, certain that nothing on the movie screen could match what he’d spied through the peephole of Heather’s blouse.
    She reached into the popcorn tub. The slight pressure was almost too much. Steve crossed his legs to ease the tightness. Pepsi washed the dryness from his mouth. He licked his lips, but the flavor of her lipstick was gone.
    A preview for Death Grin came on.
    ‘Oooh,’ Heather whispered. ‘That looks neat.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Maybe he would bring her back when it played here . A man dropped into the seat in front of Heather. The jerk. With all these empty seats . . .
    ‘Can you see all right?’ Steve asked.
    ‘It’s okay.’
    ‘Want to trade places?’
    ‘Well . . . Let’s just move over one.’
    They did.
    The jerk scooted down and propped his knees against the back of the chair in front of him. A dark stocking cap covered his head. Steve saw no fringe of hair, and wondered if the guy was bald; he looked too young to be bald. Maybe shaves his head. Only a real jerk would shave his head.
    Steve looked back at the screen as the film started.
    A woman was taking a shower, humming as she soaped herself. Her back and rump were slick with streaming water. She turned round. Steve gazed at her small, glossy breasts, her nipples, the wedge of dark hair at her groin. He felt a warm stir, but it didn’t compare with the jolt of desire at his stolen glimpse of Heather.
    The woman turned away. She shut off the faucets. She slid open the shower curtain. Heather jumped as a shriek of music blasted through the theater and hands in leather gloves thrust a fireplace poker into the woman’s belly. The point broke her skin, went in deep, hook and all. As the music screamed, she was rammed backwards against the shower wall. The gloved hands twisted the poker. Blood spilled from her mouth. Then the poker was pulled out slowly, the point of its hook stretching her flesh below the original wound, popping through, ripping open a flap of skin and dragging out slippery coils of guts.
    Heather turned her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She opened one and looked at Steve. ‘Is it over yet?’
    ‘Just about.’
    ‘Geez!’
    ‘Okay, it’s over.’
    She turned her head, slumped low in her seat and sighed.
    The man in the next row looked around, grinning. His face was pale and bony, his eyes hardly visible in the shadows of their sockets. ‘Great effects, huh?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Steve muttered.
    Heather nodded. She sat up straight and leaned away from the stranger.
    ‘Know who did it? Danielle Larson.’
    ‘A woman?’ Steve asked.
    ‘The queen of horror makeup. I work with her, you know.’
    ‘You do?’
    ‘Wonderful lady. Beautiful, too.’
    ‘That’s very interesting.’
    ‘You think this is good, you should see our next film. It’ll scare the shit out of you.’
    Steve nodded. He took a deep breath when the young man turned away. The stiffness went out of Heather. She looked up at Steve, rolled her eyes, then settled her head against his shoulder. She kept it there while she sipped her Pepsi, ate popcorn, watched the movie. Sometimes, her hair tickled Steve’s cheek.
    On the screen, five young women were gathered for the funeral of their friend.
    ‘They’re all gonna get it,’ Heather said.
    ‘All but one.’ The talking eased his nerves.
    ‘Yeah. I bet it’s the blonde with the freckles.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said, wiping his oily hand on a napkin. His stomach fluttered. ‘Okay if . . .?’ he mumbled, and curled his arm around her shoulders. Her head returned as if nothing had happened. He squeezed her shoulder