Taste of Tenderloin by Gene O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page A

it’s more like something brushing lightly
against a cardboard box, a furtive sound, animal-like. You pause,
cock your head, and listen carefully, straining to hear the sound
again, searching for another movement from whatever lurks
ahead.
    Nothing.
    Except for the cloying odor
of death.
    You shiver again but plod
ahead, forcing yourself to take each careful step, compelled by
some deep inner need. You move out away from the right wall,
cautiously treading the center of the narrow alley.
    The sound comes again, and
it raises the short hairs on your neck.
    You have no idea what type
of creature would make such a sound, but you have the sense it is
something very dangerous. Overwhelming panic saps the strength from
your legs and loosens your bowels.
    You are
terrified.
    Straining, you try to
penetrate the darkness ahead, to locate the source. It is too
dark.
    Then, as if in response to
your need, the clouds part slightly and the moon illuminates the
remaining length of alley, its angle shadowing only the last three
feet or so.
    It is a dead end, and you
strain to penetrate the darkness at the very back.
    Nothing. There is nothing
there.
    The alley is
empty.
    A paper bag, pushed free by
a sporadic breeze, separates from a pile of cardboard in the
shadows and tumbles along past you, making the strange sound. You
breathe a sigh of relief.
    But then you realize that
you are alone at the dead end…trapped if something enters the alley
now.
    The gap in the clouds
closes, shrouding the moon. A wave of panic overwhelms you in the
sudden darkness.
    Gasping for breath, you
struggle to regain control of your senses, calm your thumping
heart. Your pulse rate slowly drops down. Then, at the moment you
seem back in control of yourself, you feel that creepy intuitive
sense of being spied upon.
    Someone is watching
you.
    You must get out. You turn
and stumble back toward the dim light at the mouth of the alley,
looking about frantically for a window, a doorway, trying to locate
the person watching. There is nothing. The mouth of the alley seems
so far away, so far. You try to run; your legs are still rubbery
but finally respond to your will. In the back of your mind you are
pleading silently: where is it, that sound that will draw me
back?
    Run, run, run,
faster.
    You stop, spotting the
silhouette in the mouth of the alley. A man, a huge man, just
standing and watching.
    Then: running! The faint
sound punches through the darkness.
    And you are being pulled
back, back, back.
     
    Rinnnng!
    Lisha’s timer was ringing,
a jarring, grating sound, but so welcome and wonderful.
    Richie sat up as the
ringing ceased, the sheet over him soaked with sweat. Jesus, that was so real ,
he thought. Where was that place—a place where the blackness of
night settled and smothered all sound?
     
    The next morning, Richie
returned from Chinatown early and fixed
again.
    The nightmare in the alley
recurred, but this time the feeling of being watched was so strong
that almost from the moment he entered the alley, he felt like
someone was stalking him.
    Who? And why? He didn’t
know for sure, but he continually glanced back at the mouth of the
alley, expecting to see the giant silhouette again. No one was ever
there.
    Finally, the timer pulled
him back to safety.
     
    Later, Richie rinsed away
the dried sweat of fear. He stepped out of
the shower physically clean, but his mind remained unsettled by the
nightmare.
    Wrapped in a towel, he made
his way into the kitchen and stopped at the table. There were two
chocolate doughnuts sitting on a folded piece of paper. He took a
bite of one of the doughnuts and opened the note:
     
    Richie,
    Ice cream in the
freezer.
    Miss you, but you got to
get clean. I talked to your mom and told her about the farm. She’ll
get most of the money. Aunt Elva will help with the rest. You can
do it, like me. It’s going good, a day at a time.
     
    Love you.
    Lisha
     
    A month or so ago before
he’d hocked most of their furniture,