Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  Two of his friends grabbed the Other's shoulders and wrested her from her unwilling dance partner. They stared dumbly at the knife buried to the hilt in her chest. The Other plucked it out as if it was a bothersome thorn.

  "Hey, lover! You forgot something." She flicked her wrist and the blade buried itself in the punk's Adam's apple.

  "Wa-hoooo!"

  The Other leapt atop the pool table, surveying the carnage: two dead, two crippled, one maimed. Not bad for starters.

  One of the boys made for the door. No, no, no. Mustn't have that. Not while the party was still in full swing and she was having such a good time. She snatched up one of the cue balls on the pool table and lobbed it at the fleeing Blue Monkey. The crunch it made upon connecting with his skull was satisfying. The Blue Monkey staggered drunkenly for a step or two, the seepage from his head turning his hair purple.

  Fun was fun, but the thrill was losing its edge. She'd better split before the cops finally decided to show up. Only three loose ends left. She hopped off the pool table and ducked a roundhouse from a Blue Monkey with a sterling-silver skull pinned to one earlobe. She punched his face and felt his jaw restructure itself. She let him fall without a second look.

  The next-to-last Blue Monkey almost had the fire exit open. She let fly with an empty beer bottle. It struck the fleeing gang member in the right knee. The boy fell to the floor, clutching his shattered kneecap.

  The last of the Blue Monkeys was smaller than the rest. Fifteen years old, at best. He was the one who'd mentioned Chaz. Figured. Chaz liked 'em young, rough, and stupid. She held the boy by his club jacket's lapels. The toes of his boots brushed the floorboards.

  "Where is Chaz?"

  "I… I…" The kid was terrified beyond speech. His eyes were as blank as her mirrored glasses.

  She pushed against the wall of hysteria surrounding his mind. Tell me where he is. The boy's will folded like a Chinese fan.

  "Don't know! Truth! Truth!"

  "Now, that can't be true. Surely you know where he likes to hang out? You can tell me."

  "Hell Hole! Look in Hell Hole. Don't hurt me."

  "Hurt you? Now, why would I want to do that?"

  The Other lowered the boy until his feet once more touched the floor but did not relinquish her hold. There was a gnawing pain in her chest from the knife wound, her scalp itched, and she was breathing like a bellows. It would take an hour for the damage to heal on its own, but she could boost the process with some blood. Not much. Just enough.

  The littlest gang member stood trembling in her hands like a trapped rabbit. She had glimpsed his sins during their brief touching of minds. Gang rape. Hit-and-run. Mugging. Liquor-store robbery. Street-fighting. Quite impressive, for a squirt with parrish-blue hair.

  It'd have to be fast. She could hear the sirens in the distance. Her fangs unsheathed, wet and hard. She pulled him to her in a lover's embrace. He had an erection.

  They always did.

  The Other watched the cop cars fishtail to a halt outside the bar with no name. She stood in the shadows of the alley across the street, arms folded. The bartender broke down and called the police when he heard the gang screaming. A wonderful establishment. I'll have to go there more often. She'd slipped out through the fire exit before any of the patrons worked up the nerve to check out the pool room.

  The Other smiled as she walked away from the flashing lights and ambulance sirens. Marvelous workout. Simply marvelous. Just what she'd been needing. She hawked a piece of lung onto the pavement without breaking stride. Just the thing to take the edge off before she got her hands on Chaz's sweet little butt.

  The Hell Hole was proud of being a dive.

  A lot of time and money had gone into selecting the proper decadence for the club. That way its patrons wouldn't notice it was just another bar. It was a natural for Chaz.

  The walls were festooned with rubbish salvaged from the city dump and places even less savory. Babydoll heads were affixed to the walls by nails driven through their eyes. The front end of a '58 Chevy jutted onto the dance floor, a moth-eaten moose head mounted in place of the hood ornament. Instead of glass eyes, golf balls graced the creature's sockets; sawdust dribbled from its nostrils, while a used jockstrap dangled from its antlers. Loops of Christmas-tree lights hung from the ceiling, none of them flashing in sequence.

  Chaz sat at his table in the corner, staring at the centerpiece: a Barbie doll shoved headfirst into a Suzy Homemaker oven. Christ, the place was dead tonight. London had the States beat when it came to the clubs. Sometimes he wished he'd never left England. But things had been different then. His meal ticket was in danger of being nicked, and America seemed as good a place as any to escape to…

  Chaz frowned and took another swallow of gin. Wouldn't do to think about Sonja. He'd learned long ago to put people out of his mind. He erased them from his memory so well it was like they'd never existed. That was the best way. The only way. Attach yourself to 'em, become "indispensable," use 'em up then throw 'em away. He'd done it hundreds of times in the twenty years since he first hit the streets. You have to learn fast if you're on your own by age twelve and want to stay alive.

  Then there was Sonja. Their relationship had lasted the longest. What had Sonja called it? Symbiotic, that was the word. Yeah. She needed him to lure her prey into the open. It'd been dangerous, but she paid him well. And the sweet rush of adrenaline and fright involved in the hunt got him higher than any street drug. He could have lived without her, sure. But it was so easy to keep hanging around. Hell of a lot easier than peeping into the heads of dope peddlers so he could be at the right place at the right time when a deal went down. Yeah, it was much easier being Sonja's Judas goat. Safer, too, providing he stayed out of her way during her "spells."

  But, in the end, he'd committed a major sin, as listed in the Gospels According to Chaz. He'd become dependent on her. Now that was scary.

  Bloody hell, where was everybody? He glanced at his Rolex. He'd agreed to meet that little shit and his blue-haired friends here, so where were they? If they didn't show up soon, he'd be forced to go looking for a party. Chaz hated that Muhammad-and-the-mountain jazz. He enjoyed being the focal point. Make 'em dependent on me, that's the way it should be.

  Still, the little Yank had his points. Maybe he'd take him along to Rio. On second thought, Rio was full of beautiful boys with skin the color of cafe au lait. He could buy any number of dark-eyed Cariocas, so why bother importing a petulant, blue-haired punk? No, Rio would definitely be wasted on his pet Blue Monkey.

  God, he hated this depressingly young country and its populace of bourgeois mall-crawlers. He just had to be patient. Come carnival he'd be spending his days drinking espresso and eyeing the samba dancers as they paraded down the streets.

  He'd dreamed of Brazil for years, ever since he saw the poster in the window of a West End travel agency. He was seventeen at the time and already well-versed in the language of exploitation. He was posing as houseboy for a withered old pouf while wringing him for whatever he could get. It wasn't a demanding job, really—the odd suck and fuck—mostly the old queen simply wanted a handsome boy following him around. They went to the theater a lot. That's how he happened to be walking past the travel agency.

  The poster's layout consisted of two figures, male and female, photographed against an aerial view of Rio de Janeiro at night. Fireworks filled the sky like chrysanthemums made of colored fire. Both the man and the woman were the color of milk chocolate, with the dark eyes and exotic features of true Cariocas. The man wore skin-tight white satin pants that flared at the knee, the vents lined with red silk. His white satin shirt boasted the billowing, layered sleeves of the samba dancer and stopped just below his breastbone. Chaz admired the muscles that rippled across the dancer's exposed stomach. He wore a simple domino mask and the sunniest smile Chaz had ever seen. The samba dancer held a pair of brightly painted maracas in his slender hands.

  The woman was also outfitted in white satin, her d
usky skin in sharp contrast with her clothes. One beautifully naked leg was extended from the voluminous ruffles of her skirt. Her midriff was also bare, but far more subtle in its muscularity than the male's. A white halter concealed breasts the shape and color of chocolate kisses. Her head was covered by a carefully wound turban the color of snow, and she wore a mask identical to her partner's. But where the male samba dancer held maracas, she balanced a magnificently plumed parrot on her wrist.

  Chaz stood and stared at the samba couple until his patron, having lost his temper, stormed off. There was a row later that night and within two weeks Chaz was back on the streets. The fact that the relationship was over didn't bother him, except that it meant he couldn't "visit" his beautiful dancers as often as he would have liked. After a time, the samba couple was replaced by a poster advertising package tours to Sorrento, but the smiling Cariocas were never far from his mind.

  Sometimes he woke with the rhythm of steel drums echoing in his head and the smell of the Amazon rain forest clinging to his pillow. Now he was going to Rio. All he was doing was waiting for the right time to leave. For some reason, it hadn't felt right yet, and for Chaz that was important. He still had enough money to live—and do it well—in his precious Rio. A man with his savvy and unique abilities could do Well for himself down there. Maybe he'd buy into a cocaine plantation. Or perhaps he'd found his own escort service, specializing in handsome, smooth-skinned Cariocas of both sexes. And, if his luck failed him, there were always the touristas…

  He cast his thoughts outward and touched the minds of those in the bar. His talent was slight but he'd become its master years ago. He was proud of his skill. Better to be a dead-on shot with a .22 than a blind man armed with an assault rifle. Like that painted, holier-than-thou bitch. He groaned. Thinking about Sonja was bad enough, but he refused to let that whore preoccupy his thoughts. He returned his attention to his probes. At least it'd keep him from being bored.

  Hmmmm… the manager, Rocky, was lounging near the door. Rocky didn't like him. Didn't like the crowd that Chaz attracted. Thought he was a dealer. Didn't want him hanging around, but business was real shitty.

  Chaz was not upset by the manager's low opinion of him. You didn't remain sensitive if you were a telepath, otherwise you went psychotic or ended up with your head in the gas cooker. Like poor ole Mum; she couldn't handle knowing what the neighbors really thought. Silly cunt never learned how to screen herself.

  Lise the bar maid's mind, however, was more to his liking. Where Rocky's thoughts were chunky, Lise's internal monologue was mental champagne. She was bored. Bit lonely. She knew he had money. Knew he had access to drugs. She was debating whether she should let him pick her up. She thought he was a bit creepy, but the prospect of free drugs sparked a vague heat between her legs.

  Chaz smiled into his drink.

  "Hello, Chaz. Long time no see."

  The hand on his shoulder pinned him to his seat.

  Chaz's skin grayed and sweat jumped from his brow. "Sonja."

  She smiled without revealing her teeth. "Sure is. Mind if I join you?"

  "No. Of course not. Have a seat."

  As she slid into the chair opposite him, the bar maid left her station to take the new customer's order.

  "Get your friend anything, Chaz? Cocktail? Beer?" There was a trace of jealousy in her voice.

  Sonja did not bother to look up at the barmaid. "We are not here, is that understood?"

  The girl wobbled and blinked a few times, then left the table, rubbing her forehead with the heel of her palm and looking slightly confused.

  "What did you do?" he hissed.

  "Nothing serious. I just don't want our little discussion interrupted. After all, we haven't seen each other in such a long time. I take it your employers didn't see fit to tell you I'd escaped?"

  "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."

  "Cut the bullshit, Chaz. You can't lie to me. Not that I don't know it, anyway. They must have paid you well; I can't see you slitting your throat for tuppence." She studied him for a second. "Jesus, you look like shit."

  It was true. Nearly every dollar he'd earned had gone up his nose or in his arm. Back in London, during his peak, he'd been handsome. Some even called him beautiful. But his dissolution had brought out the rodent in his features. She marveled at the transformation; not even her own fall from grace had been so thorough.

  Chaz lit one of his foul French cigarettes, his eyes searching the bar for some hope of escape.

  "Where is it, Chaz?"

  "What?"

  Her voice was as sharp and cold as a surgeon's scalpel. "I don't have time for games, Chaz. I know you have it. You filched it from me when you kissed me. I thought, at first, that was why you shot me."

  "Sonja—"

  "I want what belongs to me, Chaz." She extended one hand and waited. It was an elegantly menacing gesture.

  Chaz reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a folded switchblade. The handle was six inches long and made of lacquered teak. A golden dragon winked its ruby eye in the dim light of the club. Chaz held it in his palm, admiring the gold leaf one last time, then handed it to its rightful owner.

  She turned the weapon over with trembling hands, caressing it like a lover. She pressed the dragon's eye, and the blade leapt from its hiding place within the hilt. She turned it so the braided silver surface caught the light. In the erratic flashing from the Christmas lights the knife resembled a frozen flame.

  "I'm surprised, Chaz. I thought you would have pawned it by now."

  "I kept meaning to…" He stared at the silver blade, his eyes focused on something far away. "I dunno. Maybe I wanted a keepsake…"

  "Something to remember me by. How sweet." She grinned and Chaz shuddered. "How much did you get for setting me up?"

  "I don't know what the fuck you're going on about!"

  "You were checking out Catherine Wheele for me, man. You told me to meet you at the playground at midnight. I went there, Chaz, but you weren't alone. You had Wheele and her goons with you. Your new friends. You didn't even tell me she was Real! You somehow forgot to mention that, mate. I woke up in an insane asylum. I hope you got your thirty pieces, Chaz."

  "Look, Sonja, it's not what you think… I'm your mate, ain't I? I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'm glad you escaped. But I didn't have a choice. Honest! That Wheele slut, she sussed me out. She would have turned me brains inside out! She's powerful, Sonja! Too powerful for the likes of me. She was gonna burn me brain. What could I do, eh? What could I do? You believe me, don'tcha?" He reached across the table and took her hands in his. "C'mon now, luv. We're friends. We've been more'n friends. It could still be like that. Like the old days. You got away from that loony, right? We could go somewheres safe. Mexico. Brazil, maybe. What d'ya say, pet? Rio sounds nice, don't it?"

  He looked into her face, searching for signs of her weakening. He'd played the game before. He'd gotten rather good at it, over the years, despite the lack of eye contact. He'd have to fuck her, but that was the easy part. He'd long since learned how to get it up and keep it up, regardless of his partner. It was sidestepping her wild, sadistic rages that was tricky.

  "I'm sorry, Chaz." The Other smiled. "But Sonja isn't in right now. It's a good thing, too. She'd probably do something really stupid. Like forgive you."

  Chaz tried to pull away, but it was too late, she'd already reversed the grip on his hands. "Let me go! Sonja, let go!"

  Her voice was politely detached, like that of an airline stewardess. "How about if I broke one of your bones for every day I spent locked up in that stinking loony bin? That sound fair to you, Chaz? I was in there for six months. That averages out to one hundred and eighty days. Did you know there are two hundred and six bones in the human body, Chaz? That'll leave you with twenty-six unbroken bones. That's not too bad, is it, now?"

  She tightened her grip. Chaz screamed as the bones in his left hand snapped like a bundle of dry twigs. "That's twenty-
seven…" His right hand crunched and became a mess of right angles. He yelled for someone—anyone—to help him. No one seemed to hear. "… and that's fifty-four. Only one hundred and twenty-six more to go. Oh, and don't bother yelling for help, Chaz. I told the manager we weren't to be disturbed. He was very obliging." She smiled, her fangs unsheathing like the claws of a cat.

  Chaz's brain wrapped itself in shock, refusing to allow the pain in his ruined hands to escape past his wrists. He noted with detached fascination how the jagged ends of the fingerbones pierced his flesh. His thinking was astonishingly clear now that his pain receptors were on hold. He was going to die, but it was up to him as to how horrible it would be.

  "I'll tell you… who paid me."

  "You don't need to. Wheele paid you. Really, Chaz, I thought you could do better—"

  "Not Wheele, that bitch! She thought leaving me alive and whole was payment… enough. No, he paid me the ten thousand to shut up. Told me to leave the country. They think I'm in Brazil."

  He had her hooked. She leaned across the table, her face inches from his own. He could see himself reflected in her shades. He didn't look good.

  "Why didn't you leave, Chaz? Surely you must have known I'd come looking for you."

  Chaz blinked. That was a genuine puzzler. One he'd asked himself every night for six months. He should have jumped the first flight to Rio de Janeiro the minute he'd received that nice flight bag full of twenty-dollar bills. But he'd gone against his nature. He knew, better than anyone, that nothing short of death—and maybe not even that—would keep her from tracking him down.

  "Dunno. Maybe I had some unfinished business." The numb throbbing was starting to creep up his forearms. He had to hurry. His hands would be waking up soon. "He paid me the ten thousand… almost gone now. Should have gone to Rio. The coke's cheaper there. Could have sailed up the Amazon… learned how to chew the cocoa leaves, just like the Indians do." He smiled at the idea. Flocks of brilliantly colored macaws fluttered at the corners of his eyes.