Something catches the corner of my eye and I discover I am only partly to blame for the uneasiness amongst the Pretender this evening.
It sits on the bottom stoop of an old brownstone, rummaging through its shopping bags, muttering the litany of the out-patient. To the humans it is just a bag lady, another bastard child of the economic crisis. But I can see the seams in the costume and the stage makeup on its face. It is one of the seraphim, come for a brief visit. The aura that surrounds its wrinkled, grime-caked face is blue fire. It looks up from the Macy’s bag and stares at me with golden eyes that have no whites or pupils. It smiles and speaks, but its language is beyond me. I am too base a creature to understand. All I hear are wind chimes. If I try to answer, all the seraph will hear is a cat being skinned alive.
The Other is frightened of it, just as the succubus and the ogre were afraid. Seraphim rarely interfere with Pretenders, but they could easily do so if they wanted to, and that is why they are fearful of them. The Other digs its claws into my brain. If I do not leave it will try to gain control. It knows I cannot afford to let it do that. Not tonight. Not while I still have to find Chaz.
I turn and run from one of the nine billion faces of God.
I stand in the doorway of the bar, sucking in ragged gulps of air. My heart rabbits in my chest and my hands tremble. That was close. Too damn close. I could feel The Other raging just below the surface, it bile burning the back of my throat.
The bar is located in the basement of one of the old buildings fronting the street, its entrance accessible from the street. It doesn’t have a name, but I know it’s one of his haunts. The drinks are cheap, the lights dim, and the clientele sleazy—Chaz’s kind of place.
The front room is large and had a low ceiling. It stinks of stale beer and decades of trapped cigarette smoke. The bar is against the far wall, situated under the only decent lighting in the joint. Clustered against the opposite wall are a handful of old arcade video games, their cases covered with graffiti and cigarette burns. A jukebox strains the Ramones’ through failing speakers.
The tables and booths scattered throughout the room boast three hookers, a ferret-eyed dealer, two glowering skinheads and a couple of hardcore alcoholics. None of them are Chaz. I spot passageway flanked by twin cigarette vending machines at the end of the room. Taped over the lintel is a yellowing sign that says POOL. Who knows? Maybe the little shit is back there, hustling the marks. I walk past the sentries posted by the tobacco company, aware I’m being watched by the patrons at the bar.
At first I think I’ve stumbled into a nest of minor demons. I had expected to find a roomful of young men loitering around the pool tables, but not ones with blue hair. I pause as my vision shifts spectrums, scanning the faces for traces of Pretender energies. Low-level demons are identifiable by the swirls of power marking their features, like the tattoos of Maori tribesmen. But every face I see is clean, at least of Pretender taint.
One of the blue-haired youths leans across the scuffed felt of the pool table. He is wearing a black leather jacket garnished with loops of chrome chain at the shoulders. Emblazoned across its back is the grimacing face of a bright-blue ape. I recognize it as the logo for the Blue Monkeys, one of the city’s more volatile gangs.
The Blue Monkey makes his shot and moves back to watch the break go down. His competition grunts while the spectators make rude noises. I move about the room, searching the audience for Chaz. Unless he’s taken to dyeing his hair, my prey isn’t there. I turn to go. Suddenly a hand grabs my arm, just above the elbow.
“Hey, baby. Looking for someone?”
The Blue Monkey is maybe nineteen, if he pushes it. His indigo hair is short and spiky and his cheeks are that pitted by a buckshot spray of acne. He is wearing a Nickleback T-shirt under his club jacket.
“A friend of mine,” I reply. “But he’s not here.”
The Blue Monkey smiles and gives me what he no doubt imagines is his best James Dean imitation. The gang members gathered around the pool table are watching us now. “You can forget that asshole, baby. Rafe’s here.”
“I don’t think so,” I say with a shake of my head. I slip free of his grip and start for the door.
Sniggering laughter runs through the gang. Rafe flushes red all the way to his deep blue roots. He puts his hand on my arm again, only this time it’s tighter. “Maybe you didn’t hear me so good,” he growls. “I’m your friend now, bitch.”
My patience starts to melt. I can feel The Other strain against its leash. It is tempting to give in and indulge my dislike for these swaggering, no-necked little Hitlers. But once the genie is out of the bottle, it takes blood to get it back in again. Better to leave now and avoid the risk, before things get any worse.
“I don’t think you’re her type, Rafe,” one of the gang members jeers. More snickers. Rate’s face turns the color of a fire hydrant.
“I have to go now,” I say as I disengaged myself a second time.
“What’s the matter, whore? Ain’t I good enough for ya?” Rafe’s eyes are no longer rational. I recognize the berserker rage in them. Rafe is the Blue Monkeys’ pet psychotic, their own personal whirling dervish. He might look like a teenage boy, but he is something far more dangerous, and the gang knows exactly what it takes to set him off and trigger his transformation into the living incarnation of the Tasmanian Devil from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons.
He grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks me off-balance so that I topple into his arms. His breath reeks of tooth decay and Jack Daniels. That’s it. I’m not gonna play patty cake with this jerk any longer.
I lever myself backward, ignoring the tearing at my scalp. I’ve endured far worse pain in the course of my existence. Rafe is still staring, open-mouthed, at the hank of hair he is holding in his hand when I hit him, sending him sprawling into the arms of his tribe. At least I still have enough self-control to deliver the blow with the back of my hand. Blood leaks from one nostril and his lower lip is split. His eyes roll like an enraged mule’s.
The Blue Monkeys clot around me, blocking the exit. There are nine of them.
“You bitch,” Rafe mumbles through rapidly swelling lips.
One of the gang members chuckles. “Looks like we got us some gash that knows jew-jitsu!” He reaches out to try and snatch my sunglasses. “Bet you can’t see so good with them shades on, bitch.”
My hand flashes up fast as a cobra, and my fingers close around his wrist before he can touch me. There’s a sound like balsa wood crunching and the Blue Monkey screams like his namesake. One of the gang suddenly starts to move away, but the others refuse to let him back down.
“Oh, fuck. It’s her. The chick Chaz was talkin’ about: the Blue woman,” he groans.
Rafe spits a wad of blood and phlegm on the floor in disgust. “Shut up, you goddamn fag,” he says, giving the frightened Blue Monkey a withering glare. “Chaz was trying to punk us with that shit! Now clear off the table; we’re gonna have ourselves a gangbang! I’m gonna fuck this bitch till she bleeds!”
The gang took up its war cry, hooting like the monkey house at feeding time. Rafe lurches forward, grabbing me by the waist as he tries to pick me up and slam me onto the pool table. My knee pistons up, smashing into his denim-clad crotch and rupturing his testicles Rafe manages one high, thin scream before collapsing. The agony from his ruined cojones is so great he doesn’t even realize I’ve also fractured his pelvis. The Blue Monkeys watch as Rafe spasms on the floor, clutching his groin, their war cry abruptly silenced.
This is when The Other makes its move. Suddenly I hear myself saying: “You fuckers think you’re tough, huh? You think you’re bad? You shitheads can’t even handle a girl!” I realize that things are bad enough without them being provoked. I can still walk out of here without it turning into a blood bath. But my adrenaline is running high, weakening the wall that separates me from The Other.
One f the Blue Monkeys grabs me, pinning my arms back. The Other laughs and stamps on his instep, brea
king it in two places. The gang member yowls and lets go. Another Blue Monkey tries to take his place, but The Other grabs him by the throat and crotch, lifting him off the floor. I try to stop her, but my control is rapidly melting away. The Other tightens her grip on the boy’s crotch. He made a bleating sound as she castrates him.
The Other laughs as she lifts the struggling gang member over her head and hurls him against the wall. She finds the sound his spine makes as it snaps delightful.
Someone swings a pool cue. The Other absorbs the blow across her back, although it costs her a couple of ribs. No big deal. Her laughter grows louder. The Other hadn’t enjoyed herself like this in months.
A burly youth with a royal-blue mohawk grapples with her. She catches a glimpse of the knife seconds before it punctures her left lung. She wraps her arms around him, pressing the Blue Monkey close, like a high-school couple slow-dancing at the prom. He stares at her, expecting her to die. Instead the The Other grins and vomits blood into his face. The punk with the Mohawk begins to panic. He backpedals, desperate to break free of her embrace, but she refuses to let go. His face is a blood-slick mask, his eyes bulging like a vaudeville minstrel’s. They grow wider as The Other unsheathes her fangs. Every synapse in the punk’s brain overloads and goes ka-blooey.
“Get her offa meeeee!” he screams.
Two of his friends grab The Other, wresting her free of her unwilling dance partner, only to stare dumbly at the knife buried to the hilt in her chest. The Other plucks it out as if it were a bothersome thorn.
“You forgot something!” The Other says with a flick of her wrist, burying the blade in his Adam’s apple. She leaps atop the pool table, surveying the carnage: two dead, two crippled, one maimed. Not bad for starters. One of the Blue Monkeys makes for the door. No, no, no. Mustn’t have that. Not while the party is still in full swing and she’s having such a good time.
The Other snatches up the cue ball from the pool table and lobs it at the fleeing gang member. The crunch it makes as it connects with his skull is deeply satisfying. The Blue Monkey staggers drunkenly for a step or two, the seepage from his head turning his hair from light blue to deep purple.
Fun is fun, but the thrill is beginning to lose its edge. The Other knows she has to split before the cops finally decide to show up. That leaves only three loose ends. The Other hops off the pool table, ducking a roundhouse blow from a Blue Monkey with a sterling-silver skull pinned to one earlobe. As she punches him in the face, she feels this jaw restructure itself. She lets him fall without a second look.
The next-to-last Blue Monkey is almost to the fire exit. The Other lets fly with a half-empty beer bottle. It strikes the fleeing gang member in the right leg. The boy falls to the floor, clutching his broken shin.
The last Blue Monkey standing looks younger than the rest. He’s also the one who mentioned Chaz. Figures. Chaz likes ‘em young, dumb and full of cum. She grabs the boy by his gang jacket lapels, lifting him off the ground so that toes of his boots brush the floorboards.
“Where is Chaz?”
The kid is terrified beyond speech. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His eyes are as blank as The Other’s mirrored glasses. As she pushes against the wall of shock surrounding his mind, the boy’s will folds like a Chinese fan.
“He’s waiting for me at the Hell Hole,” he sobbed.
The Other lowers the boy until his feet once more touch the floor, but does not relinquish her hold on him. There is a gnawing pain in her chest from the knife wound, and she is breathing like a bellows. It will take a couple of hours for the damage to repair itself, but fresh blood with speed up the healing the process. She doesn’t need to take all of it, just enough to get things done.
The littlest gang member stands trembling in her grasp, like a rabbit trapped between the paws of a wolf. She has glimpsed his sins during their brief touching of minds: gang rape, mugging, and armed robbery. Impressive, for a squirt with blue hair.
The Other hears the sirens in the distance. It will have to be fast. She pulls him to her in a rough parody of a lover’s embrace.
“Please don’t kill me,” he begs.
“Kill you?” The Other replies with a wry smile. “Why would I want to do that?” Her fangs unsheathe, wet and hard. He has an erection.
They always do.
The Other stood in the shadows of the alley across the street and watched the cops storm into the bar with no name. Luckily, she had slipped out through the fire exit before the bartender worked up enough nerve to check out the pool room. The Other smiled and walked away from the flashing lights and ambulance sirens. Marvelous workout, simply marvelous; just what The Other needed after being cooped up for so long. 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, sweet ass.
Chapter Seven
The Hell Hole prided itself on 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. The walls were festooned with rubbish salvaged from the city dump. Baby doll heads were affixed to the walls by nails driven through their eyes. The front end of a ‘58 Chevy jutted out onto the dance floor, a moth-eaten moose head mounted in place of its missing hood ornament. Instead of glass eyes, someone had shoved golf balls into the g creature’s empty sockets, while sawdust dribbled from its nostrils like taxidermied cocaine. An old jockstrap dangled from one of the 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. It wouldn’t do to think about her. 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, and then throw ‘em away. He’d done it hundreds of times in the years since he first hit the streets. You have to learn fast if you’re on your own at age twelve.
But that was before she showed up. Their relationship had lasted longer than any since his mum snuffed it. What did she call it? Symbiotic, that was the word. Yeah. She needed him to lure her prey into the open as much as he needed her to protect him from them. Working with her had been dangerous from the start, but she made it worth his while. And the sweet rush of adrenaline he got from the hunt was almost as good as the street drugs. He could have left at any time, but it was a hell of a lot easier than peeping into the heads of dope fiends and perverts in order to know what they wanted when they wanted it. Yeah, it was much easier being a Judas goat. Safer, too, provided he stayed out of her way during her “spells.” But, in the end, there was no denying that he had committed a major sin, as listed in the Gospels According to Chaz: he had 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 center of attention. Make ‘em dependent him, that’s the way it should be. Still, the boy wasn’t bad to look at, and a had a damn sweet cock on him. Maybe he’d take him along with him to Rio? Then again, Brazil was full of beautiful boys with skin the color of cafe au lait. He could buy any number of dark-eyed Carioca down there, so why bother importing some petulant, blue-haired rough trade? No, the Rio de Janiero would definitely be wasted on his pet Blue Monkey.
Chaz shook out another clove cigarette and
fired it up with his lighter. 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 downing umbrella drinks and eyeing the samba dancers as they paraded down the streets.
He had 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 to hold his coat. They went to the theater a lot. They were leaving the London staging of Phantom when Chaz happened to see the poster. It depicted 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 had the bronzed skin and dark eyes of a true Carioca. The man wore skin-tight white satin pants that flared at the knee, the vents lined with red silk. His white shirt boasted the billowing, layered sleeves of the samba dancer, and exposed his bare midriff. Chaz admired the muscles that rippled across the dancer’s washboard stomach. The samba dancer wore a simple domino mask over his face and the sunniest smile Chaz had ever seen, while shaking a pair of brightly painted maracas.
The female samba dancer was also dressed in white satin, which contrasted with her dusky skin. 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. A white halter concealed breasts shaped like caramel kisses. Her head was covered by a carefully wound, snow white turban, and she wore a mask identical to her partner’s. But where the male samba dancer held maracas, she balanced a vibrantly plumed scarlet macaw on her forearm.
Chaz stood and stared at the samba couple until his patron lost his temper and 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. Now he could ‘visit’ his beautiful dancers as often as he wanted. About a month later, the poster advertising carnival in Rio was replaced by a poster advertising package tours to Sorrento, but the smiling Carioca were never far from Chaz’s thoughts. Sometimes he awoke to the sound of steel drums echoing in his head and the smell of the Amazon rain forest clinging to his pillow. Now, decades later, he was finally going to go there.
Sunglasses After Dark (Sonja Blue) Page 6
