by Skye, Mav
“Uh, yes.”
“Me, too!” She sat on his bed, stood up and sat again, as if testing for bounce and softness.
Beads of sweat popped on Sir Sun’s forehead. A chrysanthemum was bouncing on his bed. Her soft buds bobbed against her tight shirt with every spring. He cleared his throat, and asked. “Satisfied?”
Ah Lam stood and faced him. She put her hands on her hips. RAWR was once again pronounced. “Oh yes, Mis’ Sun. You sure no woman here?”
He grasped her hand and led her out of his room. “Listen, Ah Lam. Something strange is going on, and I don’t know what. But you need to go back to your apartment and stay there.”
“You worried about Ah Lam?” She raised her eyebrows. “Ah, no. No worry. I got ninja moves.” She drew her fists and air punched.
She was about as threatening as a puff of squirrel.
“Ah Lam, let me walk you back to your apartment, and then you stay inside tonight. No parties.”
“Okay, Mis’ Sun, but school tomorrow.”
“Yes, you go to school tomorrow. Ah Lam, listen. About what you heard… Mum’s the word.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Mum?”
Sir Sun wiped his forehead again. “Yes, keep it mum. Just until we figure out what’s going on.”
She repeated, slowly. “Muuu...mm?”
He realized she didn’t understand. “Yes, quiet.” He put his fingers to his lips.
She scrunched her eyebrows and lips into a pout. “Me no mum.”
Sir Sun paused, did she think he was calling her a mum? He didn’t understand women. You say one thing, and they always think another.
“Never mind, Ah Lam.”
They walked to the front door, and he opened it, he turned to the shelf where he kept his wallet and keys, but they weren’t there. “Oh, wait here.” He walked to the living room, looked about, and spotted them on the table by his candlestick phone. Odd. Why would someone move them? He put them both in his front pocket. He stared at his candlestick phone, thinking of the threat letter, the police. Thinking of Ah Lam all by herself. The phone stood quiet and contemplative.
“Okay, let’s go.” He walked back through the living room to the hallway. The front door shut just as he reached it. “Ah Lam?” He opened the door and found Ah Lam crouched down in front of it, picking something up from the grungy carpet. Her body quivered as if she had a high fever. She glanced up, giving Sir Sun a deer caught in the headlights look.
Sir Sun was shaken. “What’s wrong?”
She opened her hand, revealing a pearl hairpin. “Dis is my Mudder’s.”
“What? Where did you find it?”
“Right here.” She pointed her shaking finger to the carpet outside his doorway and stamped her foot. “Right fucking here.”
Sir Sun gulped. But how could it… what did this mean?
“Ah Lam,” he went to touch her. She leaped to her feet and backed away from him.
“Do not touch me!” She grasped the pearl pin to her chest, accusation in her eyes. “Where is my Mudder?”
Sir Sun looked at her incredulously. “I… I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. Isn’t she in her apartment?”
She glared at him. “No. I no see her for two days.”
“Honestly, Ah Lam, I don’t know how that got here.”
She turned and bounded down the hallway like a hurt kitten. “Ah Lam! Wait.” He chased after her for two reasons. First, he wanted to explain his innocence. Second, because he was worried, very worried, about her safety.
He chased her to the end of the corridor, and she fished her keys out of her pocket. “Ah Lam, I’m sure she is okay,” but somehow he knew she wasn’t. The woman screaming earlier…
“You stay away from me!” She slammed her door. Sir Sun heard her double bolt it.
He pounded on the wood. “Ah Lam, call her. Can you hear me? Stay put tonight.”
“Get away, Mis’ Sun! I call police!”
At this, Sir Sun backed off. He glanced at his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes until he was to meet Velva.
He raced down the hall, deciding to risk the elevator and skip the cat guts on the stairs.
On the first floor, the doors dinged open, and he rushed toward the front entrance, squaring his shoulders and touching the Felco under his shirt. He peered over his shoulder as he approached the glass doors. He didn’t see anyone. In fact, the mere quietness of Spindler’s Roost was eerie. There was always noise of some sort: a TV, a radio, someone vacuuming.
But not tonight.
He reached for the handle. At first, the door stuck. Sir Sun felt anxiety rising in his chest. He turned, half expecting to find a flashlight-wielding shadow man looming over him, but then the door gave, opening wide as the night was long. Sir Sun breathed in the midnight air.
Few cars whizzed by as he strolled down the valley of the streetlight path. The sidewalk was empty. He inspected the parking lot beside Spindler’s Roost and the overgrown field beyond. He saw a shadow flick behind a dumpster in the small parking lot, he immediately snatched his shears and approached. Someone started singing a sailor’s tune. A drunk sat behind the dumpster, cozy in a sleeping bag. Sir Sun had seen him often enough around town.
When the drunk saw Sir Sun, he raised his hand in a salute.
Sir Sun saluted back, and replaced the shears in their sheath.
A cat meowed.
He strolled along, clenching and unclenching his hands, occasionally feeling for the shears. He wished there was more street traffic. Thursday evenings were always slow in Spindler. He glanced at his watch. It was Friday now. 12:05 a.m. He was late. Velva would be pissed.
8
The Lonely, the Afraid, and the Dark, Dark Velvet
The diner’s windows reflected neon blue. Black booths snuggled up to the large windows, revealing stragglers catching a late night cup of joe. White and black floor tiles glowed under warm lights. Silver stools with red cushions lined the counter. Sir Sun could see all this as he approached the diner, affectionately acknowledging the old fashioned sign hanging on the door. It said, Sit yourself a spell. We are OPEN! Good ol’ Sara’s. It was his favorite diner, whether for food or coffee. The jukebox played music from another decade, one that mixed jazz with swing. When everybody loved everybody and handholding was in style.
Tiny bells jangled as he opened the door. He saw her before she saw him.
She perched on a red cushioned stool, velvet purple dress draping just off the shoulders, cinching at the waist. Her lush hair swept up in a French twist, pearl earrings dangled against her lobes. Her legs slid gently and ladylike over one another, one black heel hooked into the counter chair, the other tapping at the air.
Oh, Velva…
As if she heard his thoughts, she swirled on the counter chair and eyeballed him for a long time. She blew smoke out her glossy red lips and flicked the ash in a tray. One eyebrow arched as if asking a question. The question left unsaid, but conveyed was: Are you going to bark all day, little doggy, or are you gonna bite?
In a romance movie—not that Sir Sun had watched many—this charming taunt would inspire the hero to straighten his shoulders, adjust his tie, and march toward the woman of his dreams, whisk her off her feet and baptize her in the heavenly orgasms she had only ever dreamed of.
By the dancing stars in her eyes, Sir Sun knew this is what Velva was expecting, hoping for. But the truth was this: he was scared as hell. Instead of inspiring confidence, he wanted to throw himself under the counter and beg the beast in the tight velvet dress not to tear out his heart and toss it to the fry cook.
Sir Sun hesitated at the door. He could just turn and walk out. He could keep walking, catch a cab, go to the next town over and find a new apartment, one that didn’t reek of mildew and decay. He could sell his shop, set up business somewhere else.
However, the thought of leaving his apartment, his home, made his stomach sick. He was happy with his life. It was normal. It was slow. Peaceful. It was familiar.
Until Velva had entered into it.
Velva tilted her chin at him. Her body language tossed another question at him: What? What’s wrong with you?
Good question—what was wrong with him? The beautiful rose of his dreams was waiting for him, decked out like a long lost lover.
But the note, the cat, Ah Lam’s mother—Mrs. Chow, the men in dark sunglasses and trench coats…
Sir Sun couldn’t let the diner door go. He stood in the frame frozen, unable to move in or out.
Sara made the decision for him. “For fuck’s sake, Sonny boy. Get in my restaurant or get out of it. Indecision is the devil’s handiwork and I won’t be having him pass by my restaurant tonight.”
At the word devil, Velva spun an entire three-sixty in her chair, a bemused look on her face.
Sara wiped her petite fingers on her apron and grabbed Sir Sun’s waist, giving him a slight squeeze and pat on the chest. The door slammed shut in the breeze. That was that.
Sara beamed at him. Her frazzled blonde hair was pinned to the top of her head. Loose strands cascaded across her freckled cheekbones. Her dancing blue Irish eyes did a once over on him. “Where you been, Sonny? I made your favorite, butterscotch pie, every day the last two weeks. Figures you come in the one night I didn’t bother.”
Sir Sun smiled genuinely at her. “Did you now? I’m sorry I’ve been distant. But I appreciate the thought, Sara.”
“Oh no, don’t worry about it. You seem a little pale. Feelin’ okay, Sonny?” She placed a clean hand on his forehead.
Sir Sun glanced at Velva. Velva’s lip twitched. Sara eyed the exchange between the two, curiosity lit up her face.
Sir Sun felt himself blush. “I’m fine, just fine, Sara. How about a cup of your infamous coffee?”
She blushed and waved a hand at him. “Oh, you!”
Sir Sun sat next to Velva, they exchanged glances. Again, he felt the need to throw himself under the counter and weep a silent prayer of mercy at Velva’s stiletto heels.
“Is that good?” he nodded at her drink in a tall dark glass.
She nodded. “Uh huh.”
Sara brought him his coffee. She looked at Velva, then back at him. “Black, just like you like it. Can I get you two anything else—perhaps pie?”
“I’d like another one of these,” said Velva, holding up her glass.
“Oh yes, I think there’s some left.” Sara lifted Velva’s glass, winked at Sir Sun, and left.
Sir Sun stared at his coffee, then peeked at Velva. She gazed ahead at the vintage Coca-Cola sign hanging on the wall above the bar. Two fifties looking gals, one brunette the other blonde, held glass Coke bottles and embraced a globe. Beside the brunette were the words: DRINK COCA-COLA. To the side of the Blonde was: HERE’S TO OUR GI JOES!
“Those were the days, huh?” said Velva. “When we supported the good ol’ boys in uniform.”
Her words came out a tad jumbled. Sir Sun wondered how many drinks she’d had while waiting. Sir Sun nodded, wondering where this was going.
“Back when the women gathered together to work in machine and metal factories leaving their babies at home. For the good of the people, to support their men.”
Sir Sun peeked at her again. Had he not looked just then, he’d have missed a single tear rolling down her cheekbone. She smudged it away immediately.
“Yeah.” The woman was a true mystery.
Sara brought a metal canister over. “Here ya go, Missy. Kept it cold.” She poured chocolate milkshake into Velva’s tall glass and left another straw.
Velva said, “Thank you.”
“Uh huh. Just yell at me if you need anything else, folks.” Sara winked at Sir Sun and he felt his face flush.
He turned to Velva who dipped into the milkshake with a spoon.
“Milkshake? Who would have thought?”
“I like chocolate milkshakes. They help me think.”
Sir Sun sipped his coffee. It was hot and fresh—just how he liked it. “What are you thinking about, Velva?”
At her name she stopped and looked at him. Stars twinkled in the midnight of her near violet eyes, her lips rose at the crooks of her mouth. A smile or a smirk? He didn’t know.
She turned back to her shake. “I’m tired. I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“Then why are we here?”
“You were afraid. I was lonely. Don’t you want to be here—with me?” She glanced at Sir Sun sidelong.
“Of course, I do, but I was not afraid.” Sir Sun scoffed at her, sipped his coffee too fast and burned his tongue.
“Oh yeah? Good. Because I wasn’t lonely.” She pouted and pushed away her chocolate milkshake.
“Yes, you are.” Sir Sun felt a sudden rush of confidence. He spoke fast before he fell coward once more. “If you weren’t lonely, you wouldn’t have written me back.”
Velva, still pouting, said, “And what if I wasn’t lonely and bored. And you sounded interesting?”
Sir Sun nodded. “Perhaps, but you wouldn’t have insisted in our meeting so many times.”
Velva turned to him. “And if I recall, I didn’t meet you the first two times. It was only after you insisted that I agreed to meet you for dinner.”
Sir Sun stood, disrupting his coffee. He felt his cheeks flush red with heat. He pointed at her. “Insisted?”
Velva swiveled on her chair towards him.
“What about the pigeon in ink—about Dancing Man? You were there, Velva. Stop denying it.”
Velva said, “Don’t blame me for your violent behavior, Timothy. You were the one who slit that poor cat’s throat. You just don’t remember it.”
Sir Sun brought his fists to his pant legs. “Don’t go there. Just don’t. We both know it was the man in the trench coat.”
Velva arched a brow. “Who?”
“When I was in the foyer trying to open the damn door, and that man knocked me upside the head with a—”
“Actually, I made that up. No one hit you over the head, Timothy. You passed out.”
“What? I saw his reflection, Velva. Damn it!”
Velva shook her head. “I was protecting you. From what you’ve done.”
Sir Sun stopped. Thought. Had he passed out or was he knocked out? He had seen the reflection; he was sure of it. He’d never passed out before. Or had he? Perhaps he had, and he couldn’t remember like in those creepy black and white films. Did he do things he didn’t remember?
He thought of Ah Lam’s mother’s pearl pin on the floor outside his apartment. A chill crept down his spine. “Did you call the police?”
Velva shook her head. “No, no I’d never do that. I’ll keep your little secret. You can trust me, Timothy.”
He wasn’t a murderer! He knew that for sure, because— “The note!”
Sara interrupted. “What note? A love letter?”
“Gah!” Sir Sun threw bills on the counter, spun on his heel, and marched toward the door.
“Timothy! Timothy, wait!” He could hear her heels clicking on the tile behind him. He walked out into the cool autumn air, hoping to retrieve his thoughts. He needed to think. He’d never hurt anyone. Not like he’d hurt the flowers. Or Miss O’ Hara, but she didn’t count, that was an accident. A mistake.
“Sir Sun!” Velva caught up to him as he passed the bench outside Sara’s Diner. The city bus slowed down as he passed the bus stop, then rumbled on by when he didn’t stop and wave. It was chilly out. He wished he’d brought his sports coat.
Velva grabbed his shirtsleeve and raced around ahead of him so that they bumped together. The jasmine smell of her perfume scented the air.
“What?” He spat the words out.
And that was when she did it. She grabbed him by his shirt collar, rose up on tiptoe, and brought her lips to his mouth.
He was shocked and numb from surprise, but with the ebb and flow of her mouth on his, her tongue opening his lips like a bee nudging a flower bud to blossom, he found himself clutching at her shoulder blades, feel
ing the soft velvet of her dress press against his hands, her cleavage rise and fall against his chest. When they parted, he felt an emptiness fill him, a loss.
Velva’s face glowed in the streetlight. “Sir Sun, don’t you see? I am your violent violet. And you are mine.”
9
Daisy and the Spiders
After glancing at her iPhone, Velva excused herself. She strolled across the street to an impressive 1953 Cadillac Eldorado convertible, the color of snow. It was even more impressive with Velva in it. She didn’t bother to glance his way as she pulled onto Main Street, punching the gas and squealing the tires.
Sir Sun watched on the sidewalk until the finned taillights vanished.
He turned the opposite way and walked home in the early morning darkness, hands in pockets, feeling the breeze rustle his hair.
He was glad she’d left. It gave him time to think.
There were disappearing people, people he didn’t necessarily care about, but he knew them, they were familiar. Mr. Fiddler’s disappearance made a little bit of sense. He was the Super, perhaps someone couldn’t pay the rent and went all psycho on him, leaving his bits in…the freezer? Okay, maybe that didn’t make sense. And Mrs. Chow? Did she have something to do with Mr. Fiddler’s untimely demise? Had she been the one screaming when he had first gone to look for Velva and had locked himself out of the apartment?
And the cat and the note—someone was definitely sending him a message. Was it his evil side as Velva would have him believe? He shook his head and breathed in the sweet wind.
That was dumb.
The men in dark sunglasses and trench coats, the ones Mr. Fiddler had told him about, they were real. He’d even seen one of them himself get in a car and speed off. Whatever the case, one thing was for sure. There was someone dangerous in the building, whether it be himself or the men in dark trench coats. And that scared the living bejeezus out of him.
And then there was Velva, the velvet creature of the night. She wanted him, genuinely, and in some way he couldn’t define, she completed him. But there was something off, not right. How did she get into his apartment? What about when she had said Game on. Did she mean their relationship?
