"You're just being kind."

"No, I'm not. I'm being honest."

Betty blushes, but somehow or other she continues to hold my gaze. She nudges the money back toward me. "You don't have to say that."

"But I do. You'd be worth every cent. Honestly, Betty, I'm being honest." I push the money back toward her.

"Please don't say any more, Douglas."

"Why not?"

"I just . . . please, just don't."

I can feel the magic aura we have been experiencing crumbling away. Fast. I find myself picking up the money and slipping it back into my wallet. I realize to my shame that what I thought was $350 amounts to only $38.

Betty gives a vague, empty smile and then lowers her eyes. She looks suddenly vulnerable, and I notice flecks of gray coming through her roots. I make a mental note to send her an anonymous bottle of hair dye.

"I can't get involved with anyone, Douglas." She is still looking down when she says this. I try to stop looking at her roots but can't. "I'm a spider."

This throws me a little, finally breaking my obsession with her hair. "I'm sorry, but did you just say you're a spider?"

Betty gives an almost imperceptible nod. "A black widow."

I lower my head, lean forward, try to get a better look at Betty's face. My chin almost touches the tablecloth in my efforts. "That's no way to talk about yourself." I offer a playful smile.

"Black widow spiders kill their partners after mating with them." Her eyes meet mine, and my playful smile sticks fast, turning into a thin grimace.

I know all about Betty and the six or so men she has killed, but I never once imagined it was because she believed herself to be a rather large arachnid. I thought she burned off genitalia by way of a warped mother fixation.

"I can't seem to help myself . . . I have to kill them, I just have to." Betty looks suddenly vulnerable; her face creases, and her eyes seem much more sunken and tired looking than before. Her words are slow and painful. "As I told the Club, I have s.e.x-mostly with men who aren't successful with women, you know, ugly men, outcasts, social misfits, men that constantly leave the wrong impression wherever they go." I know exactly the type of guy she means, and I hate them as much as Betty does. "And then, as I lie there, watching them drift off to sleep, all I can think is, Why did I let this happen? Why did I let this ugly man, this leather-faced monstrosity, do this to me? Why couldn't it have been a film star or a rock singer, or even just someone remotely desirable?" As I listen, I catch sight of my reflection in the window behind Betty's head and thank the good Lord He didn't turn me into one of these horrors. "All I ever attract is the bottom of the barrel, the dregs, the waste of s.p.a.ces."

I try to get a few of what I think are key things established here.

"I don't know if this means anything to you, Betty, but I think you're better than that. A lot better. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that we would make a particularly handsome couple." I ease back into my chair and let Betty see my best pouting, brooding James Dean look. "I know I shouldn't say this, but we're a heckuva match."

Betty gives a painfully slow shake of the head. "Try telling my mother that. Jesus . . . you should have heard her. All my life she goes on and on about how I'm nothing, less than nothing. That I'd better not get any fancy ideas about myself. That I'd better just accept that I didn't inherit any of her good looks, or her charisma . . . that I was just no good, no good whatsoever. A piece of plain white trash. That's what she used to call me. Or white bread . . . that's the one I hated the most. White bread. I still don't know what she meant, but it hurt all the same. She used to call me that every single day of my life. Until Tony kicked her to death."

Betty finally looks up, and I have to raise my head abruptly, barely remembering that I had practically been resting my chin on the table. My neck aches a little, and I rotate it, hoping to make it click back into place.

"So please . . . don't, uh . . . don't try and turn this into something, Douglas."

"But Betty . . ." I only just manage to stop myself from saying, "Can't you see how lucky you just got?"

"I'd better go. I'll think some more about your blackmailer."

"But-"

Betty gets up, smiles at me-a thin smile, but one that tries to a.s.sume a warmness. I catch a scent of her undeniably strong doggy smell and decide to send her some perfume along with the hair dye.

"I'll see you, Douglas."

Betty leaves. I don't watch her go but do see her again when she pa.s.ses the cafe window, head bowed. She glances at me, but only out of politeness. As I watch her, the waitress collects our coffee cups. I look up and see that she is spellbindingly attractive-right up there with Hanna.

"Isn't it great being beautiful? We're privileged. We truly are."

The waitress says nothing. She just collects the coffee cups and walks away. I turn to watch her go, call after her.

"Listen, being mute isn't a problem. I've got a friend who's been to signing cla.s.ses."

HEADLESS CHICKEN.

I T HAS BEEN T HAS BEEN five days since I saw Betty, and I had hoped she might call me after the headway we made in the cafe. I have been moping around the house, sometimes taking in a war movie with Agent Wade, sometimes just sitting in my room and watching the damp creeping higher and higher up the lilac walls. I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I really want to see her. For me she sums up the word five days since I saw Betty, and I had hoped she might call me after the headway we made in the cafe. I have been moping around the house, sometimes taking in a war movie with Agent Wade, sometimes just sitting in my room and watching the damp creeping higher and higher up the lilac walls. I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I really want to see her. For me she sums up the word woman. woman. The phone rings, and I rush through and grab it. The phone rings, and I rush through and grab it.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, it's me."

My heart leaps. "Betty. I knew you'd call."

"Tony called me." She sounds scared.

"And?"

"He said he's going to make the Club great again."

"Well, that's just amazing."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"But what does he mean by that?"

"I dunno. But if Tony says he's going to do something, then he's sure going to do it."

My mind races. This has got to be a sign that my quite brilliant plan is working. I glance at the mirror superglued to the wall and smile. Burt is a dead man.

"Can I borrow your car?"

Agent Wade stops typing, looks up at me like I'm crazy. "My car?"

"I want to go out."

"Why?"

"I just do. Is that a problem?"

"And you want my car?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Maybe I need it tonight."

"Well, you could give me a ride. Where are you going, anyway?"

"That's my business," he snaps at me.

"I was only asking."

"Don't." Agent Wade flashes a threatening look at me, and for the life of me I can't see what the big deal is.

"I'll call a cab. . . ."

"The h.e.l.l with it-just take the car."

"Not if it's going to put you out."

"Take it, Dougie, okay? I'll make other arrangements. Just make sure you fill her up when you're done."

"I thought you were going to stick close to me?"

"Not tonight. If you want to go out, then you go out. I'm not your jailer." Not yet, I think to myself.

For the first time ever, Agent Wade looks evasive. "Anyway, I've, uh . . . got stuff to do tonight . . . FBI stuff. h.e.l.l, I work harder than the president." He adds a little laugh to this, and I can't help but feel he isn't quite telling me the truth. He hands me his car keys.

"Don't scratch it."

As I open the front door a wind crashes in, blowing the pages of his thick report everywhere.

"d.a.m.n!"

He quickly shoves me outside and slams the door in my face.

I stand there for a long moment, then step to one side and take a peek inside the living room window. I can see Agent Wade on his hands and knees, grabbing up pages of his precious report and then putting them back in an orderly pile. I then see him stand, scratch his groin, and walk over to my hi-fi. He picks through my small collection of records and CDs and finally finds a CD single that appeals to him. He opens the CD deck and slots the disc in. He pumps up the volume, and even with the howling wind raging around me, I can make out the first few familiar beats of a Murder Rap tune that has just charted at number eight.

Why you do Why you do Why you do Why you do that thang, Kentucky? Why you do that thang, Kentucky? Is you just Is you just Is you just Is you just Is you just a touch unlucky? Is you just a touch unlucky? Chicken leg Chicken leg Make them beg Make them beg French fry French fry Make them sigh Make them sigh Man is gonna come for you Man is gonna come for you Man is gonna lemon-scent you Man is gonna lemon-scent you Man is gonna box your head Man is gonna box your head Man is gonna make you dead Man is gonna make you dead Why you do Why you do Why you do Why you do Why you do that thang, Kentucky? Why you do that thang, Kentucky? Is you just Is you just Is you just Is you just Is you just a sick f.u.c.ky? Is you just a sick f.u.c.ky?

Agent Wade pops open a bottle of Bud, lets it spurt all over before covering the rim with his mouth, and then cranks the hi-fi up as far as it will go. I can feel the windowpane shudder with the volume, and as I watch him start gyrating to the beat, I can see him mouthing the words off by heart.

I turn away and make for his car; I have to bow my head and hold my oilskins tight around my body as the wind tugs at me, trying hard to blow me off my feet, whipping my hood from my head no matter how many times I pull it back on. I unlock the door and climb in, and as soon as I close the door I feel safe. The wind can blow all it wants, but it won't get me while I'm in Agent Wade's car.

I start the engine, see that the fuel gauge is pointing dangerously close to the empty sign, and realize that yet again I'll have to spend more of my hard-earned money if I want to get over to Burt's boat tonight. It then strikes me that Agent Wade hasn't paid for a thing since I first met him, and I make a mental note to bring that up later. It's not like I'm a rich man.

The car glides away as I drive into the night. I have to pull the seat forward, pump it higher, and adjust the rearview, but eventually I feel comfortable enough to sit back and enjoy the ride. It's nothing out of the ordinary as cars go, but I like pretending that it's mine, and I take a few corners far too fast, tossing the car around like a pro, straightening her up, hitting fourth, and spearing through the rain like one of Agent Wade's boyhood arrows. By the time I have stopped to fill up the car, then driven clean across town and arrived at the small harbor where Burt's boat home is moored, I can just about live with the strong lemon scent that fills the car. Though it was never this strong before and has developed into a very powerful aroma. So much so that when I check out the car, I find about a dozen unopened lemon-scented hand wipes sitting in the glove compartment. All of them from KFC.

The harbor is badly lit, and the white-haired guy who keeps watch from his wooden cabin has fallen asleep with his hands behind his head and his feet up on a small electric heater that probably gives off about one single therm of heat if he's lucky. As I get out of the car, I can hear water lapping-in fact, crashing-against the harbor walls, and I can tell it is not a night to go fishing. I make sure I remember Agent Wade's camera, check that it is loaded, and then set off on foot to find Burt's boat. It isn't easy making out the names of the houseboats moored there, and once or twice I nearly get spotted by an owner as I creep up as close as I can. Burt told me once that a lot of the owners have acquired high-powered rifles as a deterrent for burglars, and the last thing I want is to get my head blown off by some panicky would-be sailor. I use up a good half an hour looking for the Teacher Teacher-Burt's houseboat-until at last I think I've found it.

Initially I'm drawn to the sound of sawing, which is incongruous, to say the least. I stop, go low, and then inch forward, hoping to get a glimpse of Burt. I suck in deeply as I make out Tony already on board Burt's little boat. The light in the cabin is very low, but I'd know that belching bag of wind's profile anywhere.

The Teacher Teacher seems to be rocking more severely than the other boats, and that makes it doubly difficult for me to climb aboard. The sawing seems to be getting louder as I manage to get a footing, haul myself onto the gangway, and tiptoe across the rain-lashed and slippery wooden boards. The sawing gets louder still, and Tony adds a ma.s.sive fart for good measure as I finally sneak level with the cabin and then raise my head very slowly until I can see inside. seems to be rocking more severely than the other boats, and that makes it doubly difficult for me to climb aboard. The sawing seems to be getting louder as I manage to get a footing, haul myself onto the gangway, and tiptoe across the rain-lashed and slippery wooden boards. The sawing gets louder still, and Tony adds a ma.s.sive fart for good measure as I finally sneak level with the cabin and then raise my head very slowly until I can see inside.

It isn't a pretty sight.

Burt may or may not be dead, and Tony has him in a strong grip as he saws through his neck. I can't be sure if Burt is dead from where I'm standing because Tony has probably injected him with a special chemical that causes complete paralysis. According to Tony, your b.a.l.l.s don't even swing with this stuff. Tony does this to all his victims, claiming that he has a hole in the heart and can't chase after people like he used to.

Burt has beheaded many people in his killing career, and a lot of it has to do with his failure to make it as a decent human being. Burt used to whine constantly about his upbringing and the pressure brought to bear on him when, after his father had run off with another woman, he was urged by all his relatives to a.s.sume the mantle of man of the house. He was only eight at the time and naturally became a little confused. So much so that he started believing he was married to his mother, and in a fit of insane jealousy, he killed his mother's new boyfriend. Because of his tender age, he was incarcerated for five years in a correctional facility. Not nearly long enough, as far as I am concerned. Burt then spent the whole of his twenties proving to the world that he was sane and safe to walk the streets. The ritual beheading of families followed a week after he was given a clean bill of health. Burt's reasoning was put forward in that gratingly unfunny way of his: "If I couldn't be the head of the family, then I decided no one could." Oh, how we laughed at that one.

I steady myself as best I can as the bearlike Tony saws with rough and ready strokes-shaking the whole boat back and forth, such is the strength of the man. I catch him in the camera's viewfinder, and after ensuring that there is no doubt this is most definitely Tony Curtis cutting off Burt Lancaster's head, I start taking photos-only to have Tony immediately stop for a breather. He wipes his forehead and then kicks Burt's lifeless body. "Thick-necked b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

I hold my breath. Wait for a moment. Tony wipes more sweat from his brow, tests his armpits, smells his fingers straight after, grimaces, and then wipes his hands on his trousers. He picks up his saw and is ready to resume decapitating Burt when he hears something and immediately looks my way. I quickly duck down. I hear his lumbering footsteps coming toward the window, and I'm already debating taking my chances in the churning waters when he flings open the window right above my head.

"Neck as thick as a f.u.c.kin' tree trunk!" Tony clears his throat and then spits into the night. The wind instantly catches the spit and hurls it straight back into my eyes. Because I dare not move an inch, I have to sit there letting the spit drip down and run into my nose. I want so badly to retch that I hold a hand over my mouth, hoping to G.o.d he doesn't hear me forcing the bile back down.

Tony remains there, looking out. "f.u.c.king gonna lose weight doing this." He coughs hard and clears his throat again, but thankfully this time he swallows rather than spitting. "Aerobic neck sawing!" He slams the window shut again, and in a frenzy I claw and tear his saliva from my face.

The sawing starts again, and I am determined to get a shot of this. I peer into the cabin and see Tony kick Burt again-his saw now stuck fast in Burt's neck. Tony kicks hard at him in his rage, puts his foot up against the side of Burt's face, and tugs on the stuck saw with all his might.

I manage to get off a few shots, the click of the camera easily drowned out by the ferociously swirling waters below. I don't take too many, though, because the rocking of the boat is making me feel ill, and besides, I have to turn away when Burt's head snaps clean off under the force of Tony's boot. Even he is momentarily surprised, and he can only stand there looking down at Burt's head rolling back and forth across the cabin floor.

Then I hear him start laughing and know that it's time to get the h.e.l.l out. I am about to move off when the window is opened again and I am forced to press myself flat as Burt's head comes flying out the window above me-and dammit if it doesn't hit a loose shutter and get batted back into the hood of my oilskins.

"Here, fishy wishies . . ." Tony whistles like he was calling a dog.

I can't hold it in any longer-Burt's nose is pressed into my neck-and I scream at the top of my voice. It is out before I know what I'm doing.

"What the . . . ? Who the f.u.c.k's out there?!"

Christ.

I scramble along the side of the boat, leap onto the slippery gangway, lose my footing, and go sprawling headfirst along it.

"Who the f.u.c.k's there?" Tony roars above the wind, and I can already hear him charging out of the cabin after me.

I get to my feet and jump the last two yards to dry land. I nearly slip again, but I manage to regain my balance and am ready to sprint off when I catch a glimpse of the camera, which must have spilled from my pocket.

"Police! This is the police! I'm armed!" Tony yells, his bellow louder than the crashing ocean. The slow-moving Tony clambers along the prow of the boat, getting closer and closer.

I grab the camera and tear along the jetty, thanking G.o.d for the foulest and darkest night He ever created.

"I said it's the f.u.c.king police!" A gunshot rings out as Tony's bulk lands hard on the jetty.

I run faster than a cheetah, pumping my arms and legs, knowing the darkness is my one savior.

And that's when the lights come on.

Fog lights from the houseboats, warning lights, searchlights-you name it, they've got it. People appear from everywhere, and I'm suddenly running a gauntlet of angry faces and voices-all of them desperately swinging their lights around, trying to catch me in their beams.