Destroying Angel

by Richard Paul Russo

  “It was expensive,” Rachel said. “But it’s worth it. I’ve got a larger one for the plant water, too.”

  That explained the lush green color, the absence of dead brown streaks on the leaves. Some of the plants were visible in the windows, the deep green and bright reds, yellows, and blues taking some of the harshness out of the heat. Maybe that was why he was enjoying it.

  When they were done eating, Rachel cleared off the table, poured fresh coffee, then took a set of keys from under the upper cabinets and handed it to Tanner. “How long will you be staying?” she asked.

  Staying. Yes, he guessed he was. It seemed all right now. “I don’t know,” he said. “A few days at least. Maybe longer, if that’s all right.”

  “However long, it doesn’t matter.” She paused. “You weren’t too sure about it this morning, were you?”

  “No.” He still wasn’t sure, but he felt better about it now. Again he thought she was going to explain, but again she said nothing. “That stuff taped onto your door,” he said. “The quotes.”

  Rachel smiled, shaking her head. “I’m not a Purist, if that’s what you’re asking. But there are some in this building, the people who run the place. Putting that stuff on the door makes life a lot easier. And safer. They leave me alone.” She shrugged. “And we all need to live somewhere, right?”

  Tanner nodded. They took their coffee out onto the back platform and sat on the bench seat. Although the sun was high, the building gave them a narrow strip of shade so that only their legs and feet were exposed.

  “Why are you here?” Rachel asked. “Alexandra didn’t say.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Someone who’s trying not to be found, I assume?” When Tanner shrugged she said, “Then you may be staying here a long time.” After another pause, she asked, “You know the Tenderloin at all?”

  “When I was a cop, I worked the Tenderloin.”

  Rachel snorted, a half laugh. “Cops don’t work the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin works them.”

  Tanner nodded. “True enough. We did what we could.”

  “That’s reassuring,” she said, grinning. Then, “I’m sorry, I suppose that wasn’t nice.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.”

  “What part of the Tenderloin?”

  “I started working the Asian Quarter.” He could not keep the smile off his face, thinking of Nguyen Pham, his partner at the time. The guy was certifiable, the grandson of some old timer Vietcong hotshot who had been a hero during the war. Pham was big on practical jokes that often nearly got them killed, and the one time Pham did get shot up he laughed all the way to the hospital. But Pham’s sister and her husband were killed in some gang power struggle, and Pham took his two nieces back to Vietnam. Tanner had never heard from him again. Which was how he ended up with Freeman as his partner. Tanner stopped smiling.

  “Then I switched to the Afram and Euro Quarters.”

  “Black partner?” Rachel asked.

  Tanner nodded, then shrugged. “Those days are over. I’m not a cop anymore.” He did not want to talk about anything else, and Rachel seemed to sense that because she did not ask him another question, did not say a word. He shifted positions and leaned his head against the windowsill, a heavy yellow blossom brushing his cheek. Tanner closed his eyes and breathed in deeply the cool, clear scent. He was in no hurry to move from this spot. He was relaxed, and it was probably going to be a long time before he felt this way again.

  O O O O

  The teenage Nazis were still crowded around the building entrance when he left. Once again they opened a path for him, though he thought it was a different group this time. Across the street, strung out on second-floor balconies and wearing their trademark khaki jumpsuits and black headbands, half a dozen Daughters of Zion kept vigil.

  Tanner spent several hours wandering through the Euro Quarter, checking out old haunts, getting the feel of the streets. He did not really feel at home—he had never felt “at home” in the Tenderloin, even after working in it for several years—but he felt comfortable. The streets were that way, which was a funny thing. People who did not know the Tenderloin thought the streets were dangerous, wild and uncontrolled, where you would get mugged or killed or mauled because they were always so crowded, jammed with people, loud, bright with flashing lights and chaos. But the streets were the safest part of the Tenderloin. Inside was the real danger—in the warrenlike mazes of rooms and corridors that wormed through so many of the buildings; in the fortified below-ground basements and tunnels; in the vast, open attics run by the gangs and co-ops. Inside, things could get bad. People disappeared. Killed, certainly. You just didn’t see the bodies most of the time; except for the occasional window fliers, they didn’t show up in the streets or anywhere else. There were organ runners and crematoriums here in the Tenderloin to take care of that. For now, Tanner would stay in the streets, but he knew that eventually, if he was going to find Rattan, he would have to go inside.

  He had a beer at Stinky’s, but Stinky had died or moved, no one was sure, and Tanner did not know the new owner—a loud, obnoxious man called Rooter who smelled a lot worse than Stinky ever had. No one in the place looked familiar, and he left.

  He stopped by the Turk Street Fascination Parlor and watched the old Russian women roll pale pink rubber balls up into the machines, numbers lighting silently on the vertical displays. But Lyuda was not in, and Tanner returned to the street.

  A couple of bars, hotel lobbies, Tin Tin’s Video Arcade, a transformer shop, two music clubs, and Mistress Wendy’s House of Pain and Shame. Nothing, nobody he knew other than several people he wanted to avoid.

  Just as the early-evening rain began, Tanner caught the last seat at a sheltered snack counter. He had a plate of curried bratwurst and french fries, and a tall glass of warm lemon soda that was too sweet. He sat sideways on the stool, watching the street as he ate, but still saw no one he recognized. When he was finished, he resumed walking the streets.

  He bought a couple of changes of clothes, shaving gear, vitamins, and a few other things, and a small duffel bag to carry everything, then took it back to Rachel’s. He had hoped to talk to her some more, but she was gone, so he went back out into the Quarter.

  Darkness was falling when Tanner passed a window display that caught his eye outside a nightclub called The Open Gate. In large blue letters was:

  RED GIANT AND WHITE DWARF

  BEAT POETS OF THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

  TONIGHT 10:00

  There was no picture of the beat poets. White Dwarf. Max? It seemed probable, if White Dwarf was an accurate physical description. Max was a poet of sorts. And if it was Max, Tanner had lucked out far sooner and closer to Rattan than he had hoped. He entered the club.

  It was nearly full, the stage empty and dark. The floor consisted of table-covered platforms set at various heights. Spider lights hung from the ceiling in sheets, fluttering gently with the air currents. Cocktail jazz played softly from speakers mounted in the corners.

  Tanner found an empty table near the back, on one of the higher platforms, five or six feet above the stage. A waiter dressed in a deep blue floor-length coat and wearing an eye patch over the center of his forehead approached the table.

  “Here for the show?” the waiter asked.

  Tanner nodded.

  “Two-drink minimum before they start, two drinks at the break.”

  “How soon does the show start?”

  The waiter grinned. “Five minutes.”

  Tanner ordered two scotches. Then, as the waiter turned to go, Tanner asked, “What’s with the patch?”

  The waiter swung around, still grinning. “My third eye went blind last week.” He turned back, and left.

  Tanner scanned the club, searching for familiar faces. It was a strange crowd, ranging from people in their twenties to some quite old, dressed in everything from SoCal casual to metallic Asteroid Gear. But he did notice that there were no metal add-ons, n
o fake prosthetics. No Faux Prosthétique here, and probably very little anywhere in the Tenderloin.

  Just behind him, against the wall and only partially hidden by shadows, a woman was on her hands and knees under a table, her face buried in a man’s lap. There was no pleasure on the man’s face, only a grimace of pain.

  The waiter brought Tanner’s drinks and took his money without a word. A minute later all the lights went out, plunging the club into darkness. The jazz cut off; the audience went silent. Spots came up, lighting the stage and revealing Red Giant and White Dwarf. Red Giant was just that, a hulking man around seven feet tall with flaming red hair and beard. Rimless mirrorshades were grafted over his eyes, and he wore a black beret. White Dwarf was indeed Max—an albino dwarf also wearing grafted mirrorshades. He sat on a stool with a set of bongo drums in his lap.

  A minute or two of silence followed, then Max tapped out a brief, loud intro on the bongos, followed by more silence. A smooth, woman’s voice came over the speakers.

  “Red Giant and White Dwarf,” the woman’s voice announced. “Stars at the end of their life cycles. Beat poets of the twenty-first century, of the future and the past.”

  More silence. Then Max resumed on the bongos, a slow syncopated rhythm, and Red Giant began to recite. His voice boomed, resonating throughout the club. The first piece was called “White Fountains and the Death of Angels.” Tanner did not understand most of it—something about the arrogance of man’s ventures into space, he thought, with a lot of vague references to relativity, the space-time continuum, and various astronomical objects like black holes and white fountains. When they finished, the applause was loud, but not extreme. Red Giant and White Dwarf followed with “Dancing With a Black Hole,” “The Blue Light,” “You burn Me Up, Baby, I’m a Cigarette,” and several others. Red Giant did all the speaking, and Max kept the beat. After they finished “Party in My Head,” they announced a break, and the lights went out again. When the spider lights came back up, the stage was empty.

  Tanner took out one of his business cards—LOUIS TANNER, IMPORTS AND EXPORTS—and wrote on the back: Max. Let’s talk. Tanner. When the waiter came by, Tanner handed the card to him.

  “Will you give this to Max? I’m a friend of his.”

  “Max? Max who?”

  “White Dwarf.”

  The waiter hesitated, said, “You’re a friend of Max’s?”

  “Sort of.”

  The waiter grinned. “That’s the only kind of friend Max has. So what’ll you have?”

  “Two drinks?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Make it two coffees this time.”

  The waiter shook his head. “No courage.” He pocketed the card and moved on to the table behind Tanner. The woman was no longer on her hands and knees; now she sat next to the man, apparently asleep with her head on the table.

  Tanner searched out the men’s room and joined the line for the urinals. He could hear moaning and grunting from one of the stalls, and the click of vein injectors from another. A graying man all in black leather stood at the mirror carefully applying mascara. Another man, in a powder blue leisure suit, stood in the corner with his huge cock drooping out of an open zipper, but he wasn’t getting any takers.

  Tanner had just stepped up to one of the urinals when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked into Dobler’s broken face. Most of the muscles in Dobler’s face did not work anymore, so Tanner couldn’t be sure, but he thought Dobler was grinning.

  “Dobler,” he said.

  “It’s been too long,” Dobler said.

  Not nearly long enough, Tanner thought.

  “You just finish things here, Tanner. I’ll be waiting for you outside.” He released Tanner’s slioulder and turned to the man in the leisure suit. “You goddamn faggot, you’re lucky I don’t go over there and bite that fucking monster off.”

  The man smiled, and Tanner realized the guy had no idea Dobler was capable of doing just that. Dobler growled, then turned and walked out.

  When Tanner came out of the men’s room, Dobler was waiting in the hall, his face worked into something resembling intense concentration.

  “I heard you ain’t a cop no more,” Dobler said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your partner gets it, and you gets out.”

  Tanner didn’t reply. He considered just walking away, but he knew Dobler wouldn’t let it go like that.

  “I’m sorry Freeman got killed before I had a chance to do his face the way he done mine,” Dobler said. He leaned forward, bringing his face to within an inch or two of Tanner’s. His breath was warm and foul. “If I’d got to that damn nigger, it would’ve looked a lot worse than this.” He pulled back a little. “Maybe I’ll do your face since I can’t do his.” Something close to a smile worked its way onto his lips. “You think about that, Tanner. Think about this face when you go to sleep at night. Think about your face.” The smile twisted, then Dobler marched down the hall and out the rear exit.

  Tanner returned to his table. The waiter was sitting in the second chair, sipping one of the coffees.

  “You on a break or what?” Tanner asked.

  “Max says he’ll meet you after the show. Wait for him at this table.” The waiter finished off the coffee and stood. “You let me know if you need a refill.” He held out his hand, palm up. Tanner paid him, and he left.

  Tanner sat and looked at the remaining coffee, thinking about Dobler. Just what he needed, something else to worry about. Dobler probably wouldn’t do anything, but you never knew with that lunatic. Tanner drank from the coffee, grimacing as it hit his stomach. He didn’t need the coffee, either. The lights went out, the spots came up, and the second set began.

  SEVENTEEN

  MIXER WASN’T HOME. Sookie climbed into his place through the bathroom window, almost falling headfirst into the toilet. Her arm went in to the elbow, and she bumped her head on the rim of the bowl. After drying off, she wandered around the rooms for a while, checking for signs of new girlfriends, but she didn’t see any. Looked like Mixer was alone again.

  She left, out the way she came in, and caught a ride with a transplant man. She unhooked around the corner from The Open Gate, the nightclub Mixer ran. But he wasn’t at the club, either.

  Sookie sat in Mixer’s office, face pressed against the oneway glass. She shivered, seeing the stage below her. Max and Uwe were performing. She didn’t like either one of them, Max especially. She’d seen them do some things. Torch a pair of mating dogs. Torch each other. Do four-way foamers for a private audience of mondo pervs. And she’d heard a lot worse.

  She looked around at the audience. Faces were hard to see except the ones close to the stage. Winnie and Rice were here, but it looked like they were mad at each other again—Rice was wearing ear cones focused on the stage so he could hear the show while blocking out Winnie’s voice; and Winnie was wearing polarized blinders. So what’s new, Sookie thought, smiling to herself.

  Near the back, alone at a table—something familiar about that guy. Sookie shifted her position, cutting out some of the reflective glare. It looked like the man on the balcony that day, when the bodies were dragged out of the water. He’d been watching her. She’d waved goof signals at him. Was it the same guy? She couldn’t be sure.

  Sookie slid open the one-way glass and carefully crawled out onto the strings of dark spider lights. The webbed strings sagged under her weight, and she froze a moment. If she got any bigger she wasn’t going to be able to do this.

  The swaying stopped, she started forward. The sag and sway resumed immediately, but there was nothing she could do about it. Hope. Move slow and careful. She smiled, imagining the strings breaking, herself swinging down and crashing into the tables and people below. It wasn’t that far, she wouldn’t get hurt. Or not much. Scare the noodles out of some people. Get Max and Uwe mad at her. Oh, maybe not such a good idea.

  It was slow going, but Sookie was having fun. The spider light strings w
ere like a circus safety net, but with bigger holes. She could slip through if she wasn’t careful. That was part of the fun.

  She was two-thirds of the way across the club when she spotted Froggle directly beneath her. Sookie almost burst out laughing at the crazy head mask he was wearing. Then, looking more closely, she realized it wasn’t a mask. A square patch of his hair and skull was gone, replaced by a metal panel with knobs and sockets, glowing lights. Over the sounds of Max and Uwe she could just hear an electronic buzz coming from the panel; Froggle’s head twitched, tiny vibrations going through him. Feeling queasy, Sookie looked away and moved on.

  A few minutes later she was almost directly above the man, in front enough to see his face. It was the man on the balcony. She wondered if he remembered her.

  Sookie felt among the strings until she found the links, then unhooked several so a section of the lights swung down, dangling like a rope ladder. Halfway to the table. She clambered down. Legs dangling free, down a few more strings to the end of the section, hanging by her hands. Shoes only two or three feet above the table. Looking down between her arms, she could see the man looking up at her. Sookie let go the lights, and dropped.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE GIRL CRASHED to the table from above and the coffee cups went flying. Tanner put out his hands to keep her from sprawling to the floor. Red Giant and White Dwarf continued without pause. The girl smiled at him, and scrambled off the table. She picked up the two coffee cups, both amazingly unbroken, set them on the table, then sat in the other chair and stared at Tanner.

  It was the girl from the junkyard across the slough. A pang went through him, that sense of painful familiarity again. This time it did not fade. Instead, the pain grew, and he felt close to recognizing the source, but it still eluded him. He felt flush, and a sweat broke out under his arms. What was this?