He walked me through the neighborhood to Second Avenue. From there we took a taxi to Broadway and 50th St. My parents were killed not far from here. I felt queasy.
When we emerged from the taxi, I clung to johnny’s arm, fearing my red day. What did he know that I did not? Why had he brought me to this sordid area? What horror lurked around the corner?
We walked along a row of movie theaters. I was surprised to see the latest version of The Three Musketeers playing amidst other X-rated films. I’d always liked that story, every production, especially the first one. All for one and one for all. I loved the unity. And there was such elegance in fighting with honor for justice. Oh, fighting with honor for justice—I wanted to be good at that!
johnny smiled at me. “The Three Musketeers are your heroes.”
I glanced up at him, having forgotten he usually listened to my thoughts.
“They are honorable,” he said, “defending the virtuous.”
I nodded, blushing, humiliated that he had discovered and exposed my fantasy.
“We can live that fairy tale, Jen.”
I felt like a child, asked by an adult, if I wanted to play a game. I didn’t want a game. I wanted the real thing. “You are the realist, johnny. Why do you speak of fairy tales?”
“If I could make the fairy tale real,” he said, “I would.”
I glanced at him with hope. Maybe I’d turn him yet.
We passed a few bars featuring exotic dancers. The neon signs weren’t lit this time of morning, but the doors were still open. I walked along with a frozen wince on my face, eager to pass this horrible section of town. But to my dread, johnny turned us into one of the ill-reputed hellholes, hellholes to me anyway. One glance at the black decor and shiny onyx stage lined with button lights, and I was pulling johnny’s arm back toward the entrance.
“No!” I said, “I don’t go in places like this.”
“It’s tame this hour of the day.” He swept his hand in an arc. “Look, no dancers. Nothing’s happening.”
“I don’t care,” I whispered, “I’m not staying here.”
He went further inside, and since I was attached to his arm, I went along reluctantly, starch stiff, feeling dreadfully alone, even though johnny was right there.
I glanced about and saw eight biker types, mostly men, drinking at tables, with a scantily clad waitress serving them. I was mortified to look at her, breasts spilling out from her black bikini top, fringe hanging over her midriff.
johnny led us to a small black round table, shiny enough to reflect our faces. We sat across from each other. The waitress came over. I focused on my hands, not wanting to see johnny view her. So much of the entertainment industry worshiped raw sex and devalued heart. This hurt me. Would johnny want the sexy waitress instead of modest me? And I admonished myself again for wanting johnny—man of the streets, creature of the night.
The waitress sounded haggard and unhappy.
johnny ordered me tomato juice and himself a bottle of scotch. A whole bottle! The waitress walked away. I studied johnny. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at me. He was looking in me. What’s that they say about a look holding a thousand words, or was that a picture? Anyway, his picture perfect face, did. It said, Beauty to me is light. Beauty to me is you. I smiled faintly.
The waitress returned almost as quickly as she had left and placed our order on the table. johnny kept his focus on me as she walked away, as if he knew I was still intimidated by her. Of course, he did know.
My skin felt transparent, revealing my cowardly insides. I felt vulnerable—so vulnerable, and not much more at ease at the prospect of johnny getting drunk. I stared at the scotch bottle, already opened.
“It won’t get me drunk.” He ignored the liquor glass and took a swig from the bottle. “It never does.”
“Then why do you drink it?”
“I like the sensation.” He took another swig. “It warms me, and I am not easily warmed.”
I frowned at the wicked stuff that belonged in a place like this, and maybe with a creature like johnny, but oh, not a creature like me. I gathered my hair into a ponytail, as if keeping my hair at bay would keep my emotions at bay. I held my hair in that position as I scanned the room again.
The bikers were arguing. I absorbed their coarse reality. My heart went wild with pain. I let loose my hair, and my emotions. My chin fell to my chest. My lids fell over my eyes. And my breath fell from me like pounding ocean waves.
“Relax Jen.”
“I’m uncomfortable here,” I whispered, eyes yet closed, flinging my desperation his way.
“I want you to meet someone.”
I was frozen in the harsh atmosphere, trapped, a frightened deer, frightened, frightened, frightened. I had to move deep inside myself to escape.
“Jen,” johnny’s voice dripped into my hiding place, coating me with warm security, “trust me.”
My eyes opened and met his. I locked myself in his gaze, nodding, all right.
“There.” He gazed over my head.
I twisted my neck over my shoulder, and beheld the profile of a hulking Asian man with shiny black hair that fit over his head like a cap. I thought Asian men were generally small in stature. Geez, not this one. He sat on a stool at the bar near the stage. His black tank top showed off his over developed muscles. His snug blue jeans molded him shamefully. He looked inhuman and cold-blooded, through and through. His automaton wax-like face gulped down a shot of brown liquor.
I faced johnny and swallowed hard. “Is he a Black Tazmark?”
“No. That’s Dan Khan. He’s a Zandron, low level evil, but in a way, more evil than I.”
“Is that possible, johnny?”
He lowered one brow. “I have some feelings, Jen. He has none. The Zandron kills just to kill, just because he can. Aside from—”
“Wait,” I blurted, “are you saying he has killed people?”
“Yes, aside from his lack of premeditation and moderate magical ability, your psychiatrists would call him a psychopath.”
“No offense, johnny. But that’s what they’d call you.”
“We’ll, they’d be wrong.”
I interjected, “Because you don’t kill people, right? You answer the call for pain or chaos or whatever, by maybe scaring people, or maybe you might bite them like a vampire making them weak for a while before they recover. Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe you punch them like you did Red Hair, or beat them up like my enemy at the park. Or maybe you play pranks on them so they can learn a lesson. Or maybe you take people’s energy so they feel tired and lost and they have to work hard to feel okay again. Right? But that is not as bad as,” I gulped, “killing.”
I eyed him for affirmation. But he just shook his head gently.
I thought of the bar killings, but dismissed the thought. I had to. I could love a beast maybe, but a killer? Fearing he’d read my thoughts, I changed the subject. “What do you mean, the Zandron is low level evil?”
“A Zandron cannot see into the next day, bereft of analytical reasoning and conscience. His appetites are never restrained, and any who should cross his path are prey. He is as a creature of the sea swimming along with open mouth, ever devouring anything that will float inside. And that makes him always dangerous.”
“And you are not?”
“No. Only at night, mostly.”
I heard the Zandron’s deep voice behind me. “Bourbon.”
I turned my head cautiously back to glimpse the Zandron once more. I gulped. I was in the same room with a killer. I faced johnny. “Are you more powerful than him?”
johnny had a lit cigarette between his fingers. “I am,” he said, and then took a drag.
“If you are more powerful, why is he more evil?”
“Because my acts are driven by conscious understanding of my purpose. His are not. And I choose which call to answer. And by that answer, I give the world what it needs.”
“So, your purpose, johnny, maybe it is divin
e. Maybe you are like a kind of avenging Angel.”
He shook his head. “No.” He eyed my tall thin glass of tomato juice. “Drink your juice, elixir of the Shens,” he said bemused, taking another drag off his cigarette.
I scowled. “The juice is red.”
“Yes,” he said, exhaling smoke, “it’s red.”
“If I drink it, will I fall into my red painting?”
“You have already fallen into your red painting. I’ll steer you through.”
With trembling breath, I drank the tomato juice. johnny drank his scotch, keeping an eye on the Zandron. I didn’t want to know if the Zandron was keeping an eye on johnny. And I especially didn’t want to know if the Zandron was keeping an eye on me.
johnny blurted, “Shine your light, Jen. Shine it as you did yesterday at the Rape Center. Cover the Zandron with it.”
“Do you think it will give him a conscience?”
“Do it. See what happens.”
“I don’t know if I can make it happen.”
“You can. Try.”
I closed my eyes and concentrated.
“Remember,” he said, “don’t get it on me.”
He had said that yesterday too. What about Divine Light upset him? Maybe johnny had lied about his mother’s warning. Maybe I could give him more than a headache.
“Concentrate Jen,” he said.
I shifted my focus to the Zandron and called forth the light. In only a moment, I felt cool white rays bursting out of my heart, spreading over the whole room, except for johnny whom I envisioned in a black bubble.
johnny said, “The bikers are talking friendly to each other. The waitress is sitting to join them.”
Oh good, I thought, until I heard groaning at the bar.
“Keep doing it, Jen,” johnny said.
I wasn’t sure if I should, but I did.
Then I heard screaming.
I gasped. A pale shock spread across my face. I stopped shining the light, opened my eyes, and turned in my chair toward the bar. The Zandron was on the floor, motionless. His skin was lobster red, as if I’d burned him. I snapped my head to johnny. A hunk of hair fell in my eyes. My mouth gaped open in horror.
johnny was smiling. Smiling!
I gasped, “You made me kill him. My light killed him. And that amuses you?”
I vaulted from my chair, running to the exit, devastated by johnny’s trickery. My eyes dripped tears. He had used me to commit an evil deed. He had used me! I raced outside into the warm heat of the gray morning, so disturbed I didn’t care if I was mugged, murdered, and hung out to dry. I deserved it.
I rushed down the sidewalk, visually scraping the streets for a taxi. My heart was breaking. My love for johnny—breaking. I ran hard, glancing back to make sure he wasn’t following, wondering why he was letting me get away.
I saw him standing by the bar entrance. He just stared at me with a blank face. Of course, his face always looked blank, even when he was mad. Suddenly, my ribcage was encircled by a muscled Caucasian arm that lifted my feet off the sidewalk. I shrieked, kicking my legs in the air, staring at johnny, wondering if he was going to save me.
The Zandron appeared behind johnny. He hooked johnny’s neck with his elbow and pulled him back into the bar. I hadn’t killed the Zandron, but would the Zandron kill johnny? johnny had said he was more powerful. Forget johnny. What about me!
I writhed in the arms that imprisoned me.
Off to my left, a man said, “We got ourselves a live one.”
I looked to the voice. Sweat beaded on the face of another Caucasian well-muscled man. Though bald, his mustache was prominent. His red tee shirt looked soiled and he smelled. With his skimpy black shorts, he rubbed his hip against mine. Pig! I thought, and hence labeled him Pig.
Pig’s eyes twinkled. “I told you it was her, the feminist from television who thinks men need to be taught a lesson.” He was either a bouncer or a male stripper. It didn’t matter which. Both professions upset me.
I writhed in the arms of he whom I labeled My Captor, looking down the long stretch of vacant sidewalk. “Help!” I cried out, hoping someone, somewhere might hear me.
“Bring her inside,” a voice said from a doorway.
I looked to view the beholder of that horrid suggestion. Long blonde hair trailed down the pale-skinned bare chest of a man wearing only white pants. His provocative posture infuriated me.
I proclaimed, “I’m not going in there.”
He grinned, showing white teeth. “Oh, I think you are.” His ice blue eyes seemed empty. Ice Man, I labeled him.
Ice Man said, “Let’s teach her a lesson.”
“Let’s give her a show,” said Pig.
My Captor said, “No. Let’s make her the show.” He lifted my feet off the ground.
“He—lp!” I cried out again to the empty sidewalk as he carried me toward the door. The color red covered my mind. The red of fear, dread, and impending doom. I twisted my head to the streets searching one last time for aid before it was too late.
The back of a beefy good-sized man was walking away from where I was. He appeared strong. “Help! Help! Help!” He seemed to be ignoring me. “Wait, wait,” I cried.
“Wait, wait,” My Captor said, mocking my high-pitched voice. Then he said, “You think that guy is going to help you? Let’s see.”
I screamed, “Sir, please help me!”
Ice Man said, ‘Tick tock, tick tock.”
The man finally stopped and started to turn around.
Reverting to my old ways, I prayed, Oh Saint Jude, please let it be someone who can help me.
He faced me at last, and grinned, gold tooth blaring. Pot Belly! Pot Belly with the snake tattoo. He laughed and mumbled something in Spanish. He gave a salute, turned around, and walked away. Does the Devil plan these little coups, or what?
“Time’s up,” said Ice Man.
I glanced one last time in johnny’s direction, hoping desperately that he’d emerge from the bar. Evil or not, I needed his help. Or maybe he needed mine. Maybe I should have killed the Zandron. Oh, what was I saying!
I was carried inside the bar lit with—red. Ice Man closed and locked the door. I concentrated on shining my light. It came out of my heart again, kind of funny, like in jerky waves. Even so, I drenched them all. But nothing happened. Nothing! I spiraled into my old ways as if I’d never left them. Oh Saint Solange, protect me. I had to call to Saint Solange, for johnny was detained with the Zandron, and my new ways were not working. The old ways comforted me, and I honestly wasn’t sure if I could ever let them go.
I was carried to a strip of smooth black stage. I forced my light to shine from my heart once more, hoping it would eventually pacify the men. But it seemed to excite them more, or maybe it just wasn’t working.
Pig hopped up on the dance strip, his red tank top glittering in the crimson light. My Captor thrust me upward onto the stage, landing my head by Pig’s feet. The hem of my dress had hiked up on my thighs, almost exposing my underwear, and I couldn’t pull it down. Pig’s loutish hands forced my shoulders flat, aggravating the bruise I had received from johnny.
I stared at his upside down face. My bent knees were about welded together and turned partially toward the bar. I longed to crawl in a hole and die, humiliated by their cruel amusement.
“Let me go!” I wailed. Oh Saint Jude, give me strength!
I twisted my lower body harder trying to squirm free, until Ice Man pinned my ankles. A strobe light flickered through the red light creating a stop start movement that dizzied me. Jazz music abruptly blasted through a loudspeaker near my ear.
My Captor hopped on stage in my view. He gyrated to the jazz, parading his neon blue tank top and skimpy blue satin shorts. Red light tinted his curly blonde hair, and his smile of cruel pleasure sickened me. He flung off his neon blue socks and matching ankle boots to the music.
Oh Saint Agatha, I cried inside myself, hear me!
He stripped off his blue tank top in
one smooth movement and then slipped off his blue shorts with the same finesse, leaving only a blue g-string, which showed more of him than I cared to see.
I squirmed, my chest heaving.
I tried to free my ankles under Ice Man’s grip. He said, “Relax, we are just having fun.”
My Captor, in his blue g-string, straddled me as a part of his dance. He cupped the sides of my breasts and brushed his hands down over my hips to my thighs.
My gasping heaves gave life to my voice in raspy whimpers.
Then he brushed his hands back up underneath my dress and ran his fingers along the lines of my underwear.
“No. No. No.” I said from deep inside myself, to myself, racked with pain, and spiraling down into something horrible. “No. No. No. No.” My head writhed as vile scenes played in my mind. In the first scene, I was paraded through a medieval town naked on a leash. The second scene showed me chained in a dungeon where a man and his friends had their way with me. In the third scene, I was forced into prostitution. I couldn’t tell the difference between what was happening and what had happened. It was all the same to me. No time. No space. It was just as johnny had said, Time is relative. Darkness is darkness. Go to it and the layout’s all the same.
My head thrashed. “No. No. No.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” someone said. I knew not who, nor did I care. All I knew, and all my care, was focused on being touched where I shouldn’t be, and seeing parts of men I shouldn’t be seeing. I was the wrong person with the wrong history to be sexually aroused by their ‘show.’ Their sarcastic laughter splashed into the hidden pool of my tears that I’d locked away so long ago when my parents died, filling ever higher each time my body was invaded. My body was not my own, and it never would be. I was insignificant. I was a thing, a thing, just a thing.
A hand slid beneath my underwear, grazing all underneath.
I was a thing, only a thing, just a thing. I cried silently for johnny to rescue me, but I knew he was fighting the Zandron and couldn’t help me. I gasped his name aloud, “johnny,” wishing urgently he could save me . . . somehow. Wishing. Wishing.
The Mark of Chaos Page 14
