Kiss Me, Judas

by Will Christopher Baer

  Oh, god. I’m so tired of that story.

  What happened?

  Isabel is so close to me that I can feel her body vibrating. She reminds me of an electric carving knife, the blade that hums effortlessly through meat. She seems to occupy more space than I do. Isabel claps her hands together and I jump at the sound. She laughs merrily and abruptly reaches for her metallic dress, then pulls it like a sack over her head. She zips it to the throat. She asks me to find her panties. I glance around and spot a clump of white lace on the floor, barely touching Jude’s hairbrush. I flick them at her and watch as she pulls them slowly up her thighs to disappear beneath her dress.

  She ignores the wig and bustier. I kick them under the bed, feeling suddenly sweaty.

  Are you leaving? I say.

  I’m sorry, she says. I hope you didn’t want to fuck me.

  I see myself, bent and jerking at her unresponding body in fierce rabbit strokes. Isabel is staring at her fingernails, perhaps thinking that what she needs is an expensive manicure. She shrugs and begins to tidy the room. She picks up the fallen telephone.

  Not really, I say. I wanted to reject you.

  Could you?

  Fuck you. What was that, then?

  That was pure theater. I call it amusing Jerome.

  Why?

  He deserves it.

  Because of the heroin?

  I take a step forward and her eyes flicker. Among other things.

  Does he want your brother to die?

  She takes a shallow breath and spits. He wants to be famous.

  What does that mean? He wants to be on television?

  He wants to be my father.

  I step closer. Would your father have tried to double-cross Jude?

  Isabel forces herself to shrug and she looks briefly weak. I step closer and she smiles, muscles flexing in her neck.

  It’s not safe here, she says.

  I tell her to lock the door and she shudders. I step close enough to touch her, to hurt her. She wants me, she’s pulling me in. Her eyes are downcast and she lets her body go limp. I should cut her throat or run away but my hands slip around her waist and my brain drones like television and I don’t even ask myself what I’m doing and then I hear the odd jingle of the telephone as she swings it in a narrow, intimate arc that crashes into the side of my skull.

  I swim through a prolonged black void to find that my arms and legs are gone. I’m sure they will come back to me when it’s too late. My spine is like soup. I seem to be stretched like a corpse on my own vibrating bed. Though it’s mercilessly not vibrating, currently. Isabel circles around me, her body weirdly contorted and legless. My vision must be fucked. A nice blow to the head will do that. I am so stupid, so easily foiled. It’s really almost funny. If I could lift a finger I would gladly kill myself. Isabel rummages through Jude’s things and cheerfully produces a set of handcuffs. She gives them a shake and they ring like new money.

  What the fuck is this?

  You are supposed to be asleep.

  You hit me with a telephone.

  I’m sorry, she says. I still need your kidney.

  Oh, well. I’m afraid it’s gone.

  Funny, she says.

  Do you know what you’re doing? I say.

  Hush, she says.

  Jude told me that you butchered a male prostitute.

  Oh, she says. That’s true, actually.

  She uses my own knife to cut away my fine new shirt. The room yawns around me and I wish I had gone to have a quiet drink with Alexander. Isabel shackles my hands together, gently. My face is at such an angle that I can only see the television. The silent tennis match defies gravity. Isabel washes my chest with rubbing alcohol and uses my own disposable razor to shave the hair from the right side of my torso. I wonder if the two scars will meet, if they will make a circle. I never hear the door open and I don’t hear footsteps. I hear a soft, sleepy noise like air escaping. I’m aware that Isabel is twisting, falling. Then she becomes still and Jude is leaning over me and her lips are soft as shadows.

  You should have run, she says. You should have run when I gave you the chance.

  thirty-one.

  The toe of a boot against my ribs. I wake from the gray landscape of empty dreams.

  Jude, I say.

  Apologies, brother. But I’m not gonna kiss you. Henry’s voice.

  He crouches beside me and strikes a match. His face is dirty, unshaven in the flickering glow. He smells like rain and he doesn’t smile. He offers me his hand and I let him pull me to my feet. I stare blankly at my watch. One in the morning, says Henry.

  I thought I had seen the last of you.

  Never fear.

  How did you find me?

  I have a keen sense of smell, he says. I can sniff out a fuck-up from miles away.

  I reach for a cigarette and say nothing. I’m still half asleep. The room is dark and I wonder if Jude knocked out the electricity. I can’t see a thing but I’m sure Jude has disappeared. She is reluctant to linger, to leave a trace. Henry lights another match and I see that the bed is neatly made. There are no signs of love or struggle and Jude’s things are gone.

  You must be the stupidest motherfucker I ever saw, he says. Or the luckiest.

  I was born under a dying star, a red dwarf.

  Let’s go, says Henry. I want to show you something.

  He lights another match. Isabel is in the bathtub and the air is ripe with the copper smell of blood. She’s curled in a ball, feline and beautiful in the unstable light.

  The power comes on with a tremble. There is a long smear of black feces on the white floor, marked by a single smallish footprint that can only be Jude’s. Blood seeps from Isabel’s mouth and from her swollen left eye. Her lips are sewn shut. There is a sleek, unhurried cut across her breasts. Her feet bear tiny, bloodless puncture wounds. I lean over the toilet but it’s full of blood. I turn and throw up calmly in the sink.

  Your girlfriend, says Henry. She’s a real daydream.

  Oh, yeah. She’ll make a nice little wife, one day.

  I wipe my mouth on a towel.

  This is a terrible fucking thing, says Henry.

  Did you call the cops?

  He grunts. Do you want to talk to the cops?

  Not really.

  Then shut the fuck up.

  How long was I asleep?

  I don’t have a clue, brother. I missed the little tea party.

  Jude is gone, then. I’ve lost her.

  Henry leans against the door. He produces a cigar and pokes it between his lips.

  Take it easy, little Joe. We just might catch up with her.

  I sit on the edge of the bloody toilet. I notice that he has abandoned the slick, homicidal stockbroker look. He has become the drifter again, the ex-convict. He chews the cigar and grins at me.

  Where is she, I say.

  I have a few ideas, he says.

  Let’s get out of here, I say. Before the earth swallows her.

  One more thing, says Henry. He pokes Isabel, who twitches like a rubber doll.

  My god.

  Interesting, isn’t it? The body can survive a lot.

  Tell me about it.

  Blank blue eyes and a naked yellow sun. Two people in a boat, a man and a woman. The man is drunk or catatonic. Something is wrong with the woman and Isabel doesn’t move or try to speak. There is so much blood in the bathtub that I can’t believe she’s alive.

  She’s dead. She’s dead, Henry.

  The dead don’t move, he says.

  They fucking do, I say. It’s some kind of postmortem electric weirdness. I’ve seen it in the morgue. The dead bodies sit up and roll over and have erections and say hello all the time. It’s like a party in there.

  Henry smiles. I’m telling you she’s alive.

  You’re sick.

  Touch her, says Henry.

  I hesitate, then jab at the body with one finger. I feel like a kid who’s been dared to touch an unidentified object in
the park. A decomposing squirrel, a lump of moldy clothes and garbage. Nothing happens. Isabel doesn’t move. I pull out my little pocketknife and carefully cut the stitches from her lips. Fluid spills from her mouth and it’s a wonder she didn’t vomit and drown herself. She tries to speak but her words are like slush, malformed. The gibberish of a monkey.

  What the hell is wrong with her?

  Look at her left eye, says Henry.

  Yeah. It’s fucked.

  No, he says. The eye isn’t the point.

  What is the point, Henry?

  Jude didn’t mean to blind this girl, he says. The wound is just above the eyeball.

  The frontal lobe, I say.

  Nice piece of work, isn’t it? He chews the cigar and spits violently.

  That fucking dental tool. I close my eyes and I can see Jude carefully, calmly stabbing it in beneath the ridge of bone and guiding the sleek, curved tip up and into her brain.

  Henry shrugs. I thought you might want to kill her. Or shall I do it?

  The boat drifts under the staring sun. I tell Lucy to be careful she doesn’t burn. She doesn’t answer and I think she’s asleep. Time becomes elastic and the bottle is empty. I take off my shirt and use it to cover her. She’s turning red now and I check the pockets of my shorts. I have a knife and nothing else. No identification. I slip over the side of the boat.

  I don’t want to kill her. I can’t.

  Someone needs to kill her.

  Shut up.

  Isabel sighs wetly. She’s like a kid born with brain damage. She will need someone to feed her, to bathe her. I look into her mutilated eye. Do you want a doctor, I say. An ambulance?

  That’s enough, says Henry.

  I’m going to call 911, I say.

  No, says Henry.

  I turn around as he pulls a gun from inside his jean jacket. Unpolished chrome 9 mm, with a black rubber grip. The barrel has been fitted with a silencer. He offers it to me like a gift and my lips are cracked, white with salt. I move in widening circles, away from the lake. I can still hear the water. She floats. Her face is gone. When the sun rises again I press the knife into my arm to make the ninth cut.

  I don’t want the gun.

  Henry pushes me gently to one side. He bends to kiss Isabel on the cheek, then steps back. He rips the shower curtain down and wraps it around himself. Isabel screams, nodding her head madly and drumming the tub with her heels until Henry puts two quick bullets in her brain.

  Henry and I sit next to each other on the bed. Henry holds his cigar and shivers, staring at the television. His face is glossy with tears. A black and white cowboy movie flickers on the screen. Isabel is a bundle of bloody rags, a dummy. She will soon be placed in a drawer in a huge, windowless room. She’s not Lucy and she never was and I’m anxious to get away from her. If I turn my head slightly to the left, I can see a string of her blood stretching across the floor.

  Henry sits against the wall, silent and furious. I smash the television to pieces and the room fills with smoke. I crush a cheap wooden chair with my fists and I love the rage. I wish it were mine. But it will soon disappear, like everything else. Henry rips the sheets from the bed and staggers into the bathroom to cover the body.

  A half hour passes and I feel a little better. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I’m naked to the waist. Isabel cut off my shirt, I remember. I glance at my new pants and their thousand pockets. I find the leather bag that Alexander gave me and try on one of the priceless T-shirts. I slip into my new leather coat and I’m born again. Henry tells me a bad cowboy joke, about two cowboys and a hatful of water. They are taking turns guarding the hat while the other one sleeps. Soon the water seeps through the hat, and the cowboys are at each other’s throat. Henry forgets the punch line, and the joke falls apart.

  thirty-two.

  I follow him out to his car, a long red monster with whitewall tires.

  Very inconspicuous, I say.

  I swear by American cars, he says. The first car I ever loved a woman in was a Cutlass Supreme. You can’t maneuver properly in a little Nissan.

  That’s the trouble with this country, I say. Too much room for fucking.

  Henry laughs and climbs in. The engine roars like a wounded elephant. I shrug and get in, happy to sit down. I want to sleep for two days. I toss my bag on the backseat and we glide out of the parking lot and onto the dark highway. The sky is still black, nearly purple. There’s no moon yet, or it’s in hiding.

  I close my eyes and try to float.

  Something is wrong with you, he says.

  I can’t even count the ways.

  Did you ever see a crippled animal on the highway? Its back legs shattered so it has to drag itself off the road and it makes you sick to look at it.

  Maybe, I say. So what?

  Didn’t you have the decency to stop and kill the fucking thing or did you keep driving.

  Fuck you. I know what’s decent.

  Mercy, he says. What about mercy?

  It’s easy to kill someone and call it mercy.

  I stare at the black, rippling road. If one is confronted with a creature that is dying, that is weak, it’s easier to look away than to kill. And what did I tell the Blister in Las Vegas? That it’s more interesting to torture a frog than to save it. But there is another choice that is harder than any of these.

  There is silence for a mile or two. Henry offers me a cigar.

  No, thanks. I think I would throw up.

  You’re just kicking, he says. I’ve seen it a thousand times.

  I’m kicking. And what do you know about it?

  I know Jude was shooting you up regular. Some kind of magic shit, too. You were hallucinating and paranoid and pitiful and generally falling out of your skin.

  Falling out of my skin, I say. I like the sound of that.

  Let me tell you right now, he says. I don’t care for junkies. They got the mentality of a cockroach and they’re twice as pathetic. A cockroach at least has pride. I know you didn’t get hooked on purpose or anything like that. However. When I see an addict, I personally want to kick his sorry ass. Especially if he’s crying like a baby, laying around in his own piss and puke. I’d be happy to put a bullet in his belly.

  That’s beautiful, I say. It’s heartwarming, really.

  The reason I mention it, he says. If you’re gonna get like that, you need to warn me. Otherwise, I will stop this car and push your ass out. I will leave you in the desert to die.

  Don’t worry, I say. I’m right as rain. I haven’t puked in an hour, at least.

  I’m serious, he says. You get sick in my car and we’re gonna have some words. Just kick the shit quietly, like a cowboy. Then I’ll be your best friend.

  My only fucking friend, more like it.

  You could do worse.

  Who the fuck are you?

  Henry Love, he says. He turns slightly, and offers me his hand. I grasp it, weirdly grateful.

  And what is your real name?

  That’s it. On my mother’s soul and god rest her.

  Henry, I say. I think it’s high time we had a little chat.

  Indeed.

  Who do you work for?

  I’m an independent contractor.

  Whatever you say. But how are you involved in this game?

  You and I have a mutual friend. Funny-looking bastard called Detective Moon. I spoke to him yesterday, matter of fact. And he said to say hello for him.

  Moon sent you? I don’t believe it.

  Eucalyptus, says Henry.

  What?

  It’s a code, goddammit.

  Eucalyptus, I say.

  Something about velvet panties. Moon said you would know what it means.

  The cigar glows orange in his mouth.

  I suppose it means I should trust you.

  Moon was worried about you, brother. He said you were on the stinky end of something bad, and you were all fucked up. He said a five-year-old could hand your ass to you.

  That
’s nice of him.

  He wasn’t half wrong, says Henry.

  And so you came down out of the sky to save me. Are you Batman or is Moon throwing you some money?

  Henry laughs. Moon doesn’t have any money. He bets on everything but the weather.

  Then you do know him, I say.

  Maybe he made an outstanding warrant or two go away, says Henry. As a favor. And I looked into your situation, as a favor.

  Warrants for what?

  Just shut up and I’ll tell you my life story, he says. If you’re so interested.

  Please, I say. I love a good story.

  He drives with one hand. The other dangles out his window. I used to be a fed, he says. A long time ago, five years ago at least. I can’t really believe it myself. And it wasn’t much fun. A lot of pencil pushing, mostly. Like I was an insurance agent. It wasn’t what I signed up for, believe me. I wanted to hunt down a serial killer or two and have a few epic gunfights with the mob, you know what I mean.

  I sigh. The man from U.N.C.L.E.

  Exactly, he says. That’s the shit.

  Television, I say. The stuff of dreams.

  Henry shrugs. Whatever. It was a fucking bore. Then one fine day, I got a little too creative and maybe a little violent. I broke another agent’s neck during a simulation and I was bounced out of there like a bad salesman. I drifted around for a while and figured I’d use my skills to make a little cash. I ran drugs for a while, but like I said, I developed a serious dislike for junkies. I took up bounty hunting, over in Arizona mostly. It’s not half bad, it’s like hunting rabbits.

  I don’t know. Rabbits are pretty clever.

  No shit. And fast little fuckers. Humans are easier to catch. Anyway, that’s how I came to encounter your pal Moon. I retrieved a boy that had jumped bail on a carjacking charge in Colorado, and Moon came to collect him. The kid was still unconscious in the back of my truck when Moon got there. And Moon didn’t want to move him, see. I was a good host and broke out a bottle. Moon and me, we got drunk and stayed up half the night.

  I’m curious. Why was the kid unconscious, exactly?

  Henry laughs. Oh, well. I used tranquilizer darts on him. The kind the animal control uses when a mad dog gets loose in somebody’s tomato garden.

  That is creative. And very funny.