The Wolfman

by Nicholas Pekearo

  “Give me the fucking keys,” I said.

  He fished the car keys out of his pocket and handed them to me. Then I slammed the trunk lid shut. He pounded against it with all his might, but his efforts were futile. I got behind the wheel of the car, guided the car out of the parking lot and into the street, and then turned on the radio. “Take It Easy” by the Eagles was playing. I was always a big Eagles fan, so I turned the volume up as loud as it would go. The sound blocked the noise of the man trying to hammer his way out of the trunk.

  The street sloped gently down to the south. With the car in neutral, I pushed it and got it going. After a few steps, the momentum carried it toward the center of town at a slow speed.

  I strolled back into the Cowboy’s Cabin and took a seat at the bar on one of the stools. There was this real pretty college girl behind the counter, not the scumbag bartender from the night before. Her mouth hung open in a perfect O. I bet she’d never seen such work done before in her life. Her hair was short and dyed purple. She had on a really tight-fitting Rolling Stones shirt, which I was able to forgive her for because she had big tits. I loved the Eagles, but hated the Stones.

  “Hey, darling, what’s your name?”

  “Autumn,” she said softly.

  “Autumn, I’d like a drink.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said.

  I laughed. “Please?”

  A hand came down hard on my shoulder from behind, and a voice said, “Don’t worry, sugar, I’ll keep this guy out of trouble.”

  I turned my head, ready to throw down, but it was Anthony Mannuzza, the asshole with the camera.

  He was all duded up in black slacks and a crayon-green button-down shirt. The shirt was made of a shiny material, like silk, and hanging from his neck and one wrist were thin gold chains. He wore a gold watch with a sweeping second hand, and his dark hair was slicked back with sweet-smelling oil. His prettyboy Eurotrash face was perfectly shaved and preened, like a broad’s legs. He even pulled some of his eyebrows out to give them that regal look, and he would’ve been a ladykiller if he wasn’t such a goddamn fag.

  “Well, if it isn’t Jimmy Olsen. Take any nice funerary pictures

  lately?”

  He smiled, said, “Oh, you saw that? I was trying to keep myself on the down low.”

  “That was a man’s burial, prettyboy.”

  “Well, hey, what’s the big deal? There were a hundred fucking guys taking pictures out there. Pearce must’ve been a popular guy.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Believe me, I wasn’t taking pictures for me, man. I swear.”

  “I know. For the book, right?”

  “Right,” he said, smiling. “There you go.”

  “Arright, well, I’m gonna have to hit you anyway

  “ Autumn cut in with, “Aw, c’mon, don’t start now.”

  I said, “Arright, darling. I’ll hold off. For you.”

  She smiled. Anthony started breathing again.

  “Marley, I think you need to relax,” Anthony said. “I know just the thing.”

  I looked at him. He had fire in his eyes.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I said. “You tryin’ to get cute on me?”

  We walked out of the Cowboy’s Cabin, and he led me to his Mach 1. I got in the shotgun seat, he got behind the wheel, and we took off.

  “I saw what you did to that guy in the parking lot,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And you’re fucking psychotic. I like it.”

  I smiled and lit a cigarette. “That was nothing. You should have seen me when I was your age.”

  After about five blocks, we saw the twirling lights of a police cruiser up ahead. As we got closer we saw that the Mercury had plowed through a white picket fence and had come to rest against a parked minivan. The officer was apparently so distracted by the music coming from the stereo—it was “California Dreamin’” by the Mamas and the Papas now—that he didn’t realize a man was locked in the trunk. As we drove by, Anthony lost all composure and laughed so hard that he cried.

  He brought me to this little place on the edge of town I’d never even heard of. We pulled up outside the place and there were maybe only three or four cars parked in front. Nice cars, not the usual Toyotas or Fords that dominated the roads of Evelyn. These cars were the few fancy cars in town, the BMWs, the Jaguars, the lone vintage Ferrari painted cherry red no doubt purchased by some pitiful millionaire going through a midlife crisis.

  The building was a small log cabin tucked in behind the trees all the way at the end of Liston Street. An electric lantern hung from each side of the wooden door, and that was the only illumination. There was a wood plaque by the door where the mailbox would be. It said “Rose.”

  “What the fuck is this,” I said, “a gay bar?”

  “No, it’s not a gay bar. I’m not gay, man. I don’t know why you keep saying that.”

  “Because you’re a fucking fruit, that’s why.”

  “Whatever. I’m not going to argue with you, mister-fucking-violent.”

  “Well, what’s the story with this place?”

  “You’ll see. But before we go in, tuck that shirt in. They’re kind of picky about appearance.”

  I was wearing a pair of dirty blue jeans, a white T-shirt with a pale denim shirt thrown over it. Work boots. “What, are they gonna try to make me put on a fucking jacket with a crest of arms on it?”

  “No. Don’t worry about it. You’re with me.”

  “Whatever. Lead the way. All I know is, I need a drink.”

  Before we reached the door, it was opened from the inside by a large, well-dressed bouncer in a black suit and shirt. He was shaved bald, but had a peach-fuzz mohawk atop his head. This guy at the fancy bar was just one big muscle in a three-piece suit. He shined a flashlight in our faces. When he got to mine, he grunted.

  “Don’t worry, Hyde,” said Anthony, “he’s cool. He’s a legend.”

  Anthony palmed this guy a twenty, and he let us pass. The inside was a large room lit only by candles placed on every surface. The walls were wood. There was a full bar, and maybe eight or ten small tables with just as many chairs. In the back were two doors. One seemed to lead to a kitchen, or a storeroom, the other, I didn’t know. Probably a bedroom.

  There were four well-dressed men seated individually at tables, drinking. Classical music was playing softly on a stereo. What caught my eye more than anything were the girls. There were five of them, all young, all pretty. One was wearing a black body stocking, one wore nothing more than a red bra and thong. Another was wearing a schoolgirl’s skirt and white shirt, and the other two were wearing negligees—one blue, the other black.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Am I still a fag?” asked Anthony, smiling.

  “I don’t fucking care,” I said.

  “You never knew about this place?”

  “If I did, I’d live here.”

  Anthony led us to an unoccupied table, and we sat down. The girl in the schoolgirl outfit came over.

  Anthony said, “Hi, Samantha. You look nice.”

  “Thanks,” she said robotically. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Marlowe Higgins.”

  She and I shook hands. My hand had its own, separate orgasm—a tingling upon touching her, like when you carry heavy groceries for too long.

  “You look a little rough,” she said to me.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her body. I couldn’t respond.

  “Wait, I think I know who you are,” she said. “You work at Long John’s, right?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said.

  “Great food,” she said.

  “Thank you. I don’t recall ever seeing you.”

  “I don’t dress like this every day,” she said, as if I were an idiot for not realizing that. “What would you guys like?”

  “You,” I said.

  “Actually,” said Anthony, “this is my fri
end’s first time here, so I think we should start off with a couple of wet kisses.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. “Who would you like?” Anthony whispered in my ear, “She’s the hostess. Let me do the talking, okay?”

  “Sure,” I whispered back.

  “Can you get me Sharon, and, uh, for my friend here, uh, let me see … Marley, who looks good to you?”

  “Jesus,” I murmured.

  “Samantha, if you could get Patty over here for my buddy, that would be great.”

  “Sure,” she said, and padded off.

  “Anthony, what did we just order, and how the hell am I going to pay for it?”

  “Don’t worry. I got you covered.”

  “You trying to butter me up for your fucking book or something?”

  “No, man. You just don’t get to meet a lot of cool people when you’re constantly traveling.”

  “Sure,” I said. I didn’t care, one way or the other.

  At the least, I was getting free drinks, and at the most … I couldn’t even imagine. Before long, the girl in the body stocking and the girl in the red thong came over to our table. The Red Thong carried a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. Body Stocking took a seat on Anthony’s lap. The red thong came up to me and straddled me in my seat.

  “Hello,” she said.

  She nestled into me while Anthony and Sharon talked, and she poured out a shot of whiskey into the shot glass. Then she passed the bottle to her friend, and she did the same. Anthony was running his hands up and down that girl’s body, and no one was doing anything, no one came over to throw him out of the joint for getting fresh, so I put my hands on Patty’s hips and rubbed her legs.

  She knocked the shot back, then came forward and put her mouth to mine. She spit the shot into my mouth. I drank it out of her, then sucked at her sweet lips for what was left. At my right, Anthony was doing the same.

  It had been years since I had a drink, and after that long, that one shot hurt me like fire. It burned my throat, my chest, and burned a fire behind my eyes, like a preview of what hell would be like. I could immediately feel the stuff swishing around my brain, making me a little stupider than I usually am, but I didn’t care, because my friend was dead and my life had gone completely down the toilet. I’d lost my job, the girl I loved didn’t want anything to do with me, and unless the Rose Killer popped up somewhere and said, “Here I am,” the wolf that lived in the place where my soul used to be was going to kill some innocent person in five days. I think I was entitled to a drink.

  In the back of my mind I saw one of Pearce’s memories. In it, I was a little bit younger, a little more angry, and he was pointing at me, saying, “God gave you a choice, man. You don’t have to drink.” He truly believed it.

  We had seconds on the wet kisses, and then the girls left the table, leaving the bottle of whiskey behind. I started laughing, caught up in a rush of hormones like a teenage boy.

  “You like?”

  “I love,” I responded.

  “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Women,” he said. “For hundreds of years these creatures have struggled with the ‘male establishment’ to have their equal rights and their equal wages, and to not be seen as women in a man’s world. They’ve tried to do whatever they could do to erase the supposed myth of chicks being sex symbols. Burning bras and all that. But one look at any magazine blows all that women’s-lib shit right out the window, and then you walk into someplace like this and you see that absolutely nothing has ever changed and it never will. Women are always going to be looked at in biblical terms, as seducers, as temptresses, as creatures who can’t be trusted, and it’s all their own fault. It’s amazing. They’re all crazy. Every single one of them.”

  “That’s a pretty dank view, man. Especially after having a drink fed to you by a girl that looks like that.”

  “It’s true. I mean, I’ve worked in big cities, man. New York, L.A., all over the place. And lately, I’ve been going all over the goddamn country for this photo book, and truly, there are some unique places in this world, but it really is the same everywhere. It really is. It’s sad.”

  “I know,” I said. “It is the same everywhere. There ain’t a good place left anywhere in this goddamn country.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Anthony. “Lord have mercy.”

  “Never has, never will.”

  We knocked back our shots.

  “What’s it cost to screw in this place?”

  “More than you and I have,” said Anthony. “But that’s the point. Keeps the low-bloods away, and the few yuppies in this town coming back. The yuppies know that they’re the only ones that dip their wicks in these broads. I guess it makes them feel like these broads are some more things that they own. That pair of wet kisses was twenty bucks, times two, plus tip.”

  “Damn. And you don’t want anything in return? You’re a better man than me.”

  “Probably not,” he said.

  “How did you find this place? You’re not even from around here.”

  “I keep my ear to the rails. I listen. And I look. I like being nosy, I like exploring. That’s the whole point of the book, is the finding of places that no one’s ever seen or heard of. Kind of like an unknown America kind of thing. The obscure. The little things that people don’t see, I see. And I take pictures.”

  “Like that tree.”

  “Yeah, like the tree. My cover shot.”

  “Have you taken pictures in here?”

  “Why? You want copies?”

  We laughed.

  “I asked, but they don’t allow cameras in here, but,” he said leaning in close, “that doesn’t mean shit to me. I got all kinds of equipment in my car. I got a camera the size of a typewriter, and I got a spy camera the size of a pen. If I want a picture, I get it. I’ve been doing this a long time. I don’t fuck around. Before this, I always did fashion photography for magazines, and I tell you the God’s truth, the kind of women in that business are all whores, every single one of them. You look at any model in a magazine, and you can pretty much take it to the bank that she fucked her way into that picture, onto that cover. It’s amazing. So you take your pictures, and you get your perfect shot. You take some pictures for fun while she’s naked, you know, because it’s basically a given that you did your thing with her, and you know the pictures are going to look great, and then when she sees them, she doesn’t want you to have them. Meanwhile, she’s fucked half the building, but a couple of pictures drive her up the wall because she’s worried about her reputation. What the hell is that?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Women,” he said. “You see the girls in here? You give any girl the chance, any girl, even a fucking nun, and she’ll end up like this. Selling it. They’re all the same, and it’s like this everywhere.”

  “Whatever.” His rant was starting to get to me. “Maybe you’re just bitter.”

  “Bitter? What could I be bitter about?”

  “Who gives a shit? You could be bitter about coming off like a queen, or not getting laid, or who knows? You sound like a fucking pig.”

  “Oh yeah? As I recall, you more than welcomed that wet kiss from the chick in the thong, Marlowe. You’re right here with me, so don’t play high-and-mighty with me. We’re in this shit together. We’re kindred spirits. It’s just that I’m the one that’s keeping this real. I’m not bitter. I’m a realist. You seem to have some romantic fucking view of sex relations, but you don’t practice what you preach, so don’t give me that shit about bitter. If anything, I prefer the word ‘sardonic.’ It’s much more sophisticated.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’re bitter,” he fired childishly.

  I laughed. Of course I was bitter.

  “There you go. Actually,” he said, “you know what? There’s only been one town in this whole country that I’ve been to that didn’t have one loose woman in it, one brothel, or one strip joint
, or even a girl painted up like a fucking whore. Marshall Falls.”

  “Huh?”

  “Marshall Falls, New Mexico. If there’s one place where women haven’t degraded themselves, it’s there, and believe me, I looked.”

  “I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “Of course. That’s why I went there. The population is maybe a thousand, or less, even. Right in the middle of nowhere. You want to know how the town got that name?”

  “No.”

  He laughed. “I’ll tell you anyway. It’s a good story.”

  “Don’t.”

  “A hundred fucking years ago, this Robin Hood–type bandit named Marshall—they don’t even know his full name—bit the bullet there. He had a band of thieves together that robbed the trains that rolled across the vast lands, and with the goods, well, he basically took care of this little, starving community of religious types. Not Mormons, but something crazy like that. It wasn’t even a town, it was a fucking wasteland. He got shot, and he died, and some other bandits buried him there and put a marker over him. Decades later, a legitimate town started up near the grave, and when they found that grave, the weather had eaten half of it away, and the only words left on the marker that anyone could fucking read were ‘Marshall Falls.’ And that’s what they named the town. Some historian pieced that shit together. Ain’t that great?”

  “Yeah, kid, it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Every town has a story. Even a shitty little flyspeck like Marshall Falls. This place seems to have a few. That’s why I’ve stuck around so long.”

  “Well, ain’t we the lucky ones.”

  “Damn right,” he said.

  When the girls started blowing out the candles, we left. Anthony and I were both extremely drunk, but my supernatural metabolism had me in a little better shape than him. I took the keys to his Mach 1 and drove us back to where my truck was parked. When we got there I was ready to get myself home, but he stopped me.

  “Let me show you something,” he said, and he led me around to the trunk of his car. There were about a half a dozen cameras back there in the trunk, rolls and rolls of film, and a bunch of wires, batteries, and boxes, all kinds of crap. All kinds of crap were stacked up in the backseat of his car too, but I couldn’t see what any of it was because of the poor lighting. I figured it had to be his clothes.