Laughing Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

lie. "That's a little hard to believe, Mrs. Grant. He's a grown man, after all—"
    "I meant that he's never had any lasting relationships, Mr. Smalley. He's had one-night stands, of course. He isn't a choirboy."
    "Of course he isn't. Who is?" said Smalley.
    The phone rang. Sylvia Grant turned her body for a moment in its direction, and Smalley looked at her breasts. She was wearing a blue satin blouse, and her breasts were large, but she was clearly wearing a bra. He was disappointed. She turned back. He looked up quickly from her breasts to her face, and saw her smile go crooked for a moment because she had obviously caught him looking at her and had thought he was merely being lecherous.
    "Excuse me, please," she said, and went to answer the telephone.
    Â 
    E rthmun could not remember the face of the dead woman. He could remember only the smell of the chocolate that filled her mouth. When he tried to remember her face, he saw the face of another woman instead—a face so exquisite it was nearly unreal, as if it were not a human face at all, but one that existed only in his imagination.
    He was sitting on the edge of his bed. The day was nearly done, and he was ready for sleep. But he knew that he wouldn't sleep. He knew that he'd leave the apartment and that he would look for the woman his fantasies had shown him. Because he knew that, unlike him, her time was night.
    Â 
    O ther than the hunter, that which moves at night is the prey of the hunter—the foolish and the unwary, who laugh and make noise to attract the hunter, who douse themselves with scent and powder so they can be easily discovered, who dress in clothes that reflect the light, and shoes that make them sway like worms, who drink themselves giddy, and so become defenseless.
    These foolish and unwary were what the earth had given her. These prey were for her.
    She shivered with excitement. She grew moist, flush, and warm, and she groaned deeply. Her voice was husky and sensual.
    Around her in the cafe, people stared. Some were concerned because they thought she was in pain. Others knew well enough that she was not in pain, and they grinned.
    One man said, "I didn't know there was a floor show," and his friend laughed.
    But she heard no laughter, and saw no one staring, because the judgment of others had no meaning for her.
    Â 
    E rthmun's night vision was unusual. If an object were moving, then he saw it well, but if it were not, then it melted into the background of artificial light or shadow and he saw little except vague shapes in ill-defined shades of gray. Consequently, as he walked, cars moved past—against the backdrop of storefronts and apartment buildings, street signs and garbage cans—as if against the backdrop of a fog. He had never questioned this way of seeing because he so seldom went out at night, and because he had always assumed that everybody saw the way he saw. It was, after all, the best way to experience the world after dark. What was more important at night than that which was moving?
    He walked quickly because he was cold. It was not a particularly cold night—in a city where winter winds often moved with skin-numbing force through the corridors between buildings—but that didn't matter to Erthmun. He was cold because night, simply enough, was a time for sleep. Night was when the body shut down and sent its precious heat to the internal organs so the brain could rest.
    Night was a time only for predators, and their prey.
    He muttered to himself as he walked. He didn't know that he was muttering. He didn't hear himself muttering. Often, during daylight, he had seen others in this city muttering to themselves and he had thought they were pathetic.
    He muttered about his childhood, which was a mystery to him. He had concocted many fantasies about his childhood, not so much to solve the mystery as to push it aside, so he wouldn't have to deal with it.
    He did not mutter loudly, as some in this city did. His