by AJ Elmore
The girls, our gracious establishment owners, remain challengingly defiant toward anyone who would mess with their extended family or their hotel in a way that only middle-aged lesbians can manage. I'm glad they're on our side.
After our meager meals, they all cry together for a while, and Maria escapes to our room. I manage to hang back and to keep the ice that has hardened my emotions from melting. I have taken post in one of their high-backed, lavender upholstered chairs in the lobby, almost dissolving into its surface. I wish I could.
The girls flip on the local news at six on the little television behind the front desk. This just in: reports of suspected arson or meth lab gone wrong in Biloxi. A house exploded in a quiet, residential part of town. There are no suspects at this time. Several people were believed to be inside. It could be as long as twenty-four hours until police can investigate. The fire is still burning. The Mississippi staties are on this one due to the suspicious nature of the blaze.
“That goddamned girl is crazy,” Kris, who never wastes a chance to blaspheme, mutters under her breath.
She is smoking a cigarette and fanning herself with a little paper fan. It has a cherry blossom tree on it, blazing pink next to her short, bottle-black hair. The same three clips of the burning house are playing on every channel of the TV.
“They killed her brother,” Lilian answers, sipping on the blackest coffee I've ever seen, with lips that are nearly as pink as Kris's fan. For most redheads, the combination wouldn't work, but for her it is strangely erotic.
“Joshua,” she adds, turning her eyes on me, startling me from my introspective rambling. “You need to take good care of her.”
She's giving me a hard, scrutinizing look that she reserves for men, especially ones in their mid-twenties. Her long bangs parted on the side make her look younger, aside from the way her forehead is hitched upward and her pink mouth set so straight. If I didn't know better, I'd be scared right now.
“I'm doing my best.”
I'm so tired, I'm quickly riding past exhaustion to delirium. My eyes are dry and red and heavy. My muscles ache but I can't seem to relax them. My foot is twitching. Yeah, I'm tired, but I don't think I can sleep.
Lilian doesn't answer. She doesn't say anything. Her expression turns to something like scrutinizing concern.
“Go on to bed, boy. You look like shit,” Kris chimes in, turning her wide-set, brown eyes on me before she turns her head the other way to blow smoke at a nearby aloe plant.
I think I thank them again as I take my exit as gracefully as possible. I think I said it as I stumble down the hall, but I may have just thought the words. Two tries with the big metal key and I'm tentatively pushing open the door.
I find Maria on the tiny, private balcony, leaning into the sunrise. She has showered, guilt gone into the gutters of a city that loves sin. Still, her skin is damp in the thick air, the color of cities much farther south than this, against a white terrycloth robe that holds her. Her black hair makes large, loose curls coming alive to taste the air.
Red bougainvillea blooms on the wrought iron railing. Her chin tilts slightly, letting morning kiss her closed and swollen eyelids. The glow of her skin stops me, throws me at the feet of beauty itself to declare that I am but her knight. The most perfect light comes early in the morning and late in the afternoon. She makes it holy, puts so many models to shame. They could never wear the scars she does. They could never understand such appeal. I am not worthy.
She turns as if she can feel me. There's no mercy in those eyes, certainly no remorse. Only timeless, seamless, and amber witchcraft. Slowly she breathes in, out, in, like an acid trip perfected. Sleep deprivation and sensory overload render me silent. The robe hugs her, urges long breaths. Fresh, heavy rays bounce off of her hair, anointing her goddess of the grimy street.
“I can go,” I choke, barely able to speak under the gravity of her golden gaze.
The first smells of the restaurant world are wafting around us, warm and rising, morning food. A hangover is stirring somewhere across town. The first sounds of life wake from the one-way street below.
She slowly shakes her head to one side then the other as if maybe words have also failed her. She walks into the room, sent by dawn to mingle among commoners as her empire awaits below.
What will today bring? the city asks us. The closer she gets, the more I'm disabled, bound by all the attention she has denied me, that which I've been craving up until this point. I'm rooted thoroughly in every sense.
Any word from the Queen? To the street I would answer: I will wait forever for just one word.
But she doesn't grant even one.
She stops inches away and I realize that the language she's giving me doesn't require that kind of communication. Everything in my vision shimmers around the edges, rippling like a spun-out hallucination. Her body is a galaxy, pressing against the thick atmosphere, so close.
Again, I'm sweating. I'm so tense I can no longer feel my limbs. All I know is her sanctified stare. And with slow hands that seem to make her decision for her, she bridges the gap. Hot fingers press gently, tracing my cheeks. Her eyes slip away from mine to follow her hands as they touch me.
I can't be breathing. The universe has frozen. These light points of contact could be my death and I would take it willingly. Can she see that I am terrified? The world has changed. In the light of slow-rising shock, in the aftermath, we see each other differently than any time before. I want to speak, to tell her – what? Something, anything. I'll be anything she wants me to be. But I can't break the voodoo, my will has evaporated in the heady daylight.
Her hands close in, fingers pulling at me. One hand seizes a fistful of hair with a surety that makes me think she's wanted to do it for some time, her other hand, my face. She grasps our worlds, one in each cosmic grip, and slams them together with the fast, firm press of her lips.
My stillness is broken, something much stronger than my mind overtakes my body. Need between us attracts and breaks us down. My arms wrap around her like Ayida-Weddo, the rainbow, and my fingers bury themselves in her luscious hair like I've wanted to do since the night I met her. She is everything that's left in my fragmented life, pushing against me. She kisses me like it will save the world. And maybe it will, if only for a moment.
Chapter 3 Pulling Red
Isaiah. Ten hours earlier.
A summer evening in Louisiana is like the fires of hell cooking a Thanksgiving dinner. Everything is hot. Everything is sticky. And everything smells stronger. The long sun is waning outside, and I'm standing in the kitchen with my head in the freezer, staring blindly at all the wrapped up packages nearby. My big ticket. Even through the chill and plastic, they smell green.
Dill is sprouting in the window box, its potent tang assaulting me from behind. It conspires with the catnip nearby, whose scent is somewhere between culinary herb and insanity. They blend together and the moisture in the air extends their assault, reminding me that Mother Nature is doing the love dance.
I've never been much of a dancer.
The sweat on my skin bites as it chills in the freezer air. My sinuses contract, rebel. Still, I like this quiet, smelly, sticky moment: no money, no drama, no heat. Everyone will be back soon, then it'll be a logistics and finance meeting over dinner.
A loud, nearby crash brings me out of my mental scheduling and out of the freezer. My hand is reaching for the gun fastened in its holster at my hip, more habitually than I care to consider, and I'm cursing all things right in the world.
Green glass shattering on the floor is the first thing that catches my eye. Then the source. Charlie. He's stumbling forward, using anything he can for support, knocking things off the antique buffet in the process. He's leaving a blazing red trail.
“Shit!”
He's bleeding, all over his gray t-shirt, his hands, too much. The stuff is smeared on his face like war paint. My panic button flips involuntarily. Cognizance fails.
&n
bsp; “Fuck. Charlie!”
“Izzy,” he whispers to me as I launch forward to try to grab him, just to steady him a little.
He's so pale. He pushes me away, stubborn bastard, slipping in his own blood on the tile floor. His fingers leave red trails on my arm as he falls clumsily to his knees.
“Stop! Don't move!”
How did the blood spread so fast? It's everywhere. Help? I grab his shoulders, hold him still. His hands slide on my arms. His body's shaking, trembling uncontrollably. His grip on me is fading too rapidly.
No, this can't be real. It can't be this bad. But it is this bad. There's a hole in his abdomen, real low, real big. There can't be much left in him. There isn't enough. The scenery warps. My stomach threatens to turn. He's dying. We both know he's dying. What do you say?
“Why?” is all that comes as a watery whisper. Friend, partner, why you?
“Reaps,” he wheezes.
Several tears have slid from the corners of his eyes, running into the war-red on his cheeks. Friend. I take his weight. Poker partner. He's sinking, no longer able to hold himself up. Hustler, who always lies about stealing my cigarettes. But who always buys me more. Partner. Venture capitalist to my distribution network. Boss.
His breaths are barely scratching the surface. Already his lungs are failing him. A guttural cry wells from him, his face broken by pain and he collapses onto me.
“No,” I argue against the legions of death, against inevitability, as if I can fight them back from this kitchen floor.
Not now, not this one, please! But it's too late. Turns out, he didn't even have enough blood for another word. He couldn't say goodbye. He warned us, instead.
Now I'm shaking as I lay him onto the floor, the fury of futility raging through me. A car door slams outside. It barely echoes into my brain. I don't care just now. I can't seem to move. I can't stop staring at Charlie, empty, lifeless on the floor. Everything happened so fast, ripped into my world. The blood is thick on my hands, sticky. Everything is sticky. Fuck.
On his way in, Charlie must have left a hell of a scene in his path, bloody smudges all the way down the hall, on the floor and the walls. It leads her here, to the kitchen, to this scene. I can hear the footsteps quicken.
She stops just short of entering the kitchen, hands releasing the paper bag full of produce. Her eyes rove the situation, trying to make sense of what she's seeing. Onions and apples and peppers, the ingredients for our plans to grill, roll about. Huge brown eyes find mine, beg for understanding. Another car door slams outside. I can't speak. What words can I give her? None that will help.
“Isaiah, what happened?” Maria says, voice low, demonic.
Her feet slide forward slowly, mechanically, pulling red. She kicks a crimson onion away, falling beside him as if her body has lost the strength to support her. Tears are welling quickly along the bottom rims of her eyes.
Footsteps pound down the hall, owner no doubt alarmed by the gut-wrenching trail. It's Josh, Mr.-Jeans-and-a-T-shirt, Charlie's protege. He's a damn good drug dealer and god-damned punk.
“What the fuck?” he mutters, stunned to the spot, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
Maria is all intense, blazing brown eyes on me, demanding I speak. The tears break, lighting trails on her cheeks. Her hands have curled around Charlie's shirt, squeezing into white fists. The room feels like a thousand pounds around me.
“All he said was Reaps,” I admit finally, eyes shying away from hers.
I've broken, too, cheeks wet and salty. It's all I can do to force the voice from my chest. I got nothing for you, boss.
She stares for a long time before her eyes fall to him. Tears stream to her chin, then drip to her little maroon t-shirt. She ignores them. She looks like maybe if she stares at him hard enough, he will wake. He will be her big brother and laugh. He'll still be here to beat up her boyfriends and know what to do when there's trouble.
I want to go to her, but my hands – his blood is all over me. Then she stands, swaying unsteadily. Joshua moves to help her, but she pushes him away with nothing but a look. Her world is full right now. And she storms through the house, leaving crashes and breaking sounds in her wake.
He looks to me. I only shake my head. Stupid boy, such an idealist little prick. Before either of us can follow or find any words for each other, she's back, Charlie's gun in one hand and a black case in the other. She takes another long look at her dead brother.
She says, “He always wanted a jazz funeral.” Her voice is shaking and distant, fighting the storm.
Then she looks at me. It seems she has something to say, but she only stares. She's fucking crazy.
So I say, “You're fucking crazy. What are you gonna do?”
She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. She's taking charge of the situation. She wants me to deal with the one here. A few wayward tears escape despite her efforts.
“Maria, don't do this,” I say from the floor. There's no heart in my words. She's never taken orders from me. I know it won't work, but I have to say it. Charlie would say it. Charlie would stop her.
She only cocks an eyebrow at me, tucking the gun into her pants. I should know better. Yeah, I do. She grabs a massive car key from the counter, its large metal, dollar sign keychain scraping across the surface like the coattails of death. Without another word or even a glance, she walks away from her world down the rudely redecorated hall.
Josh stands for a split second, watching her. He looks to me, heartbreak all over his sleeve, then curses as he follows her. The door slams seconds later and I am suddenly left alone again, covered in my cohort's blood as I sit on the kitchen floor. And he's there, growing cold, eyes scrunched in his last expression: pain.
My hands are shaking so badly it's hard for me to pull my phone from my pocket. It's even harder to navigate to Contacts and find Freddy. Finally I make the call, leaving bloody fingerprints the whole way. The emotional well runs dry momentarily as the ringing re-connects me to reality.
The voice on the other end says, “Yeah?”
So I answer, “Frederick, get to the house. Now.”
Then I let the phone drop to the linoleum for the sake of digging my cigarettes from my pocket, Camel Wides. The phone skids into a pool of already darkening scarlet. I leave the same colored fingerprints on the pack, then the smoke itself. Warning: these things could kill you.
With effort, I light it, take a long and rough drag. Or you could get shot in the gut at close range and die in agony on your kitchen floor. My legs are going numb beneath me, but still I can't move.
“Looks like you'll have to settle for a street funeral, Charlie,” I tell him, blowing smoke at the ceiling. My eyes follow it as it wafts toward the light.
My tears are drying. I'm numb. It's only an overload. I know I'll break down eventually. Yeah, I'll crash much harder into my grief than any other landing I've ever had. She'll break down eventually, too. We all will.
A new world has been born of the old one. It's a world without a good friend and a place with dire consequences. I'm supposed to be the one who doesn't freak out. I don't make rash decisions or fall apart easily, but I can feel the cracks forming. I inhale tar and nicotine as if it'll bring me salvation. But then I remember that salvation isn't real. Nothing can save me, just like nothing saved him.
Chapter 4 Hate to Love
Isaiah
The sounds on Rue Magazine are different from French Quarter sounds, definitely different from the nature sounds of the country home we left behind in the middle of the night. It's calmer here, more local.
Everything smells of Cajun seasoning and grease in this stuffy apartment. Downstairs is a small restaurant that boasts a solid clientele base of regular college students from Tulane and local rock-and-rollers. The place's menu is eclectic and spectacular, every single item absolutely delicious.
The bar is a chill place to drink, a coolly lit environment that always seems to draw out the poison
of a bad day. Too bad it's quiet now. Its owners are asleep just down the hall from me, each in their respective beds, each catching just a few hours of sleep before their establishment opens. They're brothers, old friends of ours, and veterans of the New Orleans restaurant network. They're well-known, legitimate proprietors, but they're also an established hook-up for the college/musician drug scene.
I'm flipping over playing cards, three at a time, in an introspective game of solitaire like I can tell the future with them. The ace of spades depicts a skeleton on a unicycle. It's the only ace I have.
Double doors across the room stand open to the still air of mid-summer humidity and a balcony for two. A ceiling fan pushes the air around with all its lazy gumption, giving the vague impression of a breeze. Even in the middle of the city, the intoxication of flower blossoms takes a heady toll on my senses.
The room is shaded in the cool blue of a large aquarium, which gives the light a rippling effect as several large angel fish flip their way around. Occasionally they get pissy and attack each other, a sentiment I can appreciate just now.
Freddy, the twenty-four-year-old weapons encyclopedia, sleeps fitfully in an over-sized recliner against the wall to my left. I can't sleep until I can forget the feel of someone else's blood on my skin.
I take a shot of Patrón. It was Charlie's drink. A shot of tequila, no lime, no salt, just unbridled agave madness. It burns as it farther invades my empty stomach, and it tastes bitter in the fading night. The liquor blazes in my cheeks. Soon it'll sneak up on me and lay me to waste. I hope for that moment sooner than later.
Quite suddenly, tears take me instead, a side effect of the alcohol, I'm sure. These are sloppy tears, drunk tears that rise up from the darkest depths. They're hottest when they come from that deep.
