Fury on Sunday by Richard Matheson Page B

You could tell by looking at them. Filthy. Something about the way they talk and dress. Like Jane—sure, Jane was one of them, too. He’d like to—
    No. He held himself tensely. That was wrong, it was dirty.
    “What time is it?” he suddenly asked.
    Stan raised his arm nervously and looked at his watch. “Twenty-five to four,” he said.
    “Good,” Vince said, “that’s just what I want.”
    He didn’t know what he meant by that but he liked the sound of the words. It sounded as if he had planned everything to the last detail and it was all working out perfectly. He smiled to himself and brushed back his thick hair with a casual movement of his right hand. As he did, the gun thumped down on the floor.
    Stan started forward, then jerked to a stop as Vince pulled up the gun and pointed it at him.
    “You wanna die?” he asked Stan, eyes glittering. “Do you?”
    Stan’s throat moved and he started to shake his head, then stopped.
    Jane pushed up abruptly and started toward the bedroom. “I’m going to get my robe,” she said.
    Stan’s heart leaped and he felt his body tensing.
    Vince watched her moving and felt heat begin to churn up in his stomach. She couldn’t do that to him! Bitch! He stood up in a quickmovement, feeling his left arm start to throb.
No, no, you have to save the bullets
.
    “You’d better watch out,” he said.
    “Jane, stay away from the—
phone
,” Stan said suddenly. He’d meant to say
gun
but then he decided there might still be a chance for him to get it, and he changed it to
phone
. All he wanted to do was alert Vince anyway so she wouldn’t try anything.
    Jane had stopped and was looking at Stan with hate in her eyes.
    “
You fool
,” she said bitterly.
    Stan stood there helplessly, feeling a terrible heaviness in his stomach.
    Vince pushed Jane aside now, his fingers twitching as he touched the smoothness of the gown over her warm hip. Then he turned on the bedroom light and his eyes moved around.
    “Going to try something funny, haah?” he said.
    “She wasn’t going to try anything,” Stan heard himself saying loudly. “Don’t do anything to her. Vince, I’m begging you.”
    “Oh,
shut
up!” Jane snapped, her nerves frayed. “Haven’t you got a scrap of manhood in you?”
    Stan pressed his lips together stubbornly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said.
    For a long moment they looked at each other while they heard Vince tearing out phone wires.
    “Something
has
happened to me,” Jane said in a low, trembling voice. “I know this is the end. I know I’m married to a—a—”
    She turned away and brushed past Vince.
    Vince stood watching her as she put on her robe. His throat moved as the backward movement of her shoulders made her taut breasts press against the silk. His tongue ran nervously over his upper lip, licking at the tiny sweat drops.
No
, he heard the voice in his mind,
no, that’s dirty
.
    “All right,” he said, forcing the swagger back into his voice. “Now get in the living room or I’ll shoot you.”
    Trembling, she walked past him. She moved to the bar and reached for the whiskey bottle. Bob was coming over. The thought made her stomach fall. It would kill Ruth if anything happened to Bob. Especially now. Her throat tightened. It mustn’t happen. It
mustn’t
.
    “Make me a drink, too,” Vince said slyly.
    At first she tightened and was going to tell him to make his own. Then she remembered the night in the bedroom with Vince. Vince could never have done those things sober. Maybe drink plus her body could get the gun away from him.
    She hid the whiskey bottle from Vince so he wouldn’t see how much of it she poured in and how little soda after it. When she turned, he was sitting on the piano bench. She walked over and held out the glass to him. She made a point of taking a slow, deep breath as she stood before him. Her bosom rose and pressed against the dark silk.
    “There,” she said, trying hard to keep the