A Mutual Friend

by Layla Wolfe

  I looked at Flannery. “How did you let him get away? There were three of you.”

  “I was in the bathroom,” Twinkletoes immediately offered. “Don’t order the tamales to go here.”

  Lily blurted out, “I was sucking Flannery’s cock, all right? I mean, shit! We’re only human. Chąą’!” Shit!

  Flannery recoiled from her, wrapping his arms protectively around his beer glass. “You were not!”

  Lily glared at him. “I’m not covering for you anymore, Flannery! You begged me to suck your dick and shoved my face into your crotch.”

  “They probably were,” said Twinkletoes cheerfully. “When I got out of the can, I yelled around for anyone. They stumbled out of Flannery’s room all adjusting their clothes. And Lily’s lipstick was all over her face.”

  “Was not!” Lily lied, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin.

  Flannery adroitly changed the subject. “What about you guys? You were supposed to be at the loony bin seeing if they could take Barclay back.”

  Lily pouted. “You’ve got to come out of the closet sometime, Flannery.”

  I said, “I fucking admit, we were at a sex toy shop. We’re all falling down on the job around here. You’re not the only one. But we did make it to Mencken.”

  “It wasn’t just a sex toy shop,” Anton interjected. Boy, it was Confession Central around that table. Had our earlier experience with the good father in Needles rubbed off on everyone? “We took our toys into the bush and played around with a little, ah, BDSM? Is that what they call it?”

  “Shee-it,” said Twinkletoes, wiping his face with his palm. “Sometimes, you know, it’s really really difficult to be a Bent Zealot. I can’t believe I still like girls.”

  “Or S&M, right?” I asked no one in particular. “Sadomasochism.”

  Flannery was finally sitting up straight. “What sort? You got, like, handcuffs or something?”

  “Exactly,” said Anton, warming to the subject. He was really taking this confession thing too far. I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit, especially in this strange mixed company, that I’d enjoyed the shit out of having my nipples clamped and tortured. That it was pleasant to be rendered helpless, cuffed to a small tree. That I loved the shit out of being admired, teased, abused—to the fucking point where my cock shot a load without being touched at all. Joder! as Anton would say. “I cuffed this sweet man and had my way with him.”

  “Oo,” said Lily, squirming in her seat. “A Dom for a father. Did you spank him?”

  “You like that?” enquired Flannery. “I know you’re a tranny and all, but you like being tied up?”

  Lily looked at him, her lower lip stuck out. “I’m a transsexual. A tranny is a man who dresses up in women’s clothing. And yeah. I like being a Dominatrix, not that I’ve had many chances.”

  Twinkletoes said, “I’ve seen her leading a guy around by a chain on a collar.”

  Flannery’s eyes widened. “You mean you’re the one who dishes it out?” He nodded to himself, as though filing it away for future reference.

  “I sure am,” said Lily, pleased with herself. “I especially love bringing giant beefcake guys like yourself to their knees.”

  I could practically feel Flannery blushing. I said, “Anton, tell them what Mencken said.”

  “Right,” said Anton, getting down to business. He sipped his beer, leaving a slight foam moustache on top of his real one. “They said no. They’re not a state-run facility, they’re private. Paying for Mencken practically bankrupted Barclay’s father. The parents want no more responsibility for him. So the next step would be to get a state conservatorship for Barclay, which could take months.”

  “Fucking months,” I agreed.

  Flannery nibbled on a French fry that dangled from his fingers. “Meantime, we’re going to have to have plenty of boots on the ground to keep that guy from doing any more damage.”

  “’Boots on the ground’?” Twinkletoes inquired. “What are you, Special Forces?”

  Flannery froze with surprise. “Marines, Operation Iraqi Freedom, ‘08, ‘09.”

  I could see it now. Lots of former military had become truck drivers, so I was familiar with how they talked, moved, and jumped at the sound of a backfire. Flannery Strandberg was a born Marine, a giant bruiser who still kept his hair buzzed. He must’ve gotten his mock-Aryan ink after his service days.

  “Second Battalion, Third Brigade, MiTT. Military Transition Team,” Flannery continued to explain, each word becoming quieter as he looked at the glaring Lily. “What?” he at last asked, quiet as a library.

  “This is weird,” said Lily. “My respect for you suddenly grew by ten.”

  Flannery looked fit to bust, and I figured this was a good time to knock him down to size. “Flannery. Where were you keeping Barclay’s .22?”

  “Not to mention your own piece,” added Anton. “We all need better places to keep our own pieces.”

  Flannery said, “That’s the weird thing. We have a lockbox where we keep drugs, guns, shit we don’t want anyone to see—”

  “Like Meatmen and Loverboy magazines,” inserted Lily.

  “—and that thing was fucking locked, man. Not to mention, Lily and I were practically sitting on top of it. But it was gone, man. Gone out of a locked box.”

  “The issue is,” said Lily, “even if we put his .22 in the Bent Zealots lockbox, with his powers he could still get ahold of it.”

  “Or just take one of ours,” Anton pointed out.

  “Speaking of drugs,” I said, panicked and relieved at the same time to finally be able to bring it up, “Flannery, I know your Death Squadders held me up around Needles. You stepped into the middle of the road like common fucking bandits, some of you with those fucking scarves around your faces. All you took was the kilo of heroin I was transporting to the Bent Zealots.”

  As expected, Flannery put on a shocked face. “What the fuck? There’s no way.”

  “Yes way,” I said. From my inner jean jacket pocket, I removed the Ziploc bag that had held the paper-wrapped kilo. The interior of the plastic was coated with product, leaving no doubt what it was. I even held it out for him to smear with his finger. “Try it. I found it in Thalhammer’s room after he left for the sporting goods place.”

  Flannery cringed away from the bag. “How do you know that’s your missing heroin? Could be anyone’s.”

  “The guys that jacked me had Death Squad ink. I want to know where this fucking heroin went.”

  Flannery held up his palms to us. “Don’t ask me, man. That’s the first I even knew Thalhammer had any heroin. If he was holding out on us, we’ve been hard up for cash for weeks now. I’ll get in his face, but not in the way you hope for.”

  “Flannery Strandberg,” said Lily. “Come clean. Does Thalhammer owe King a kilo of heroin?”

  “The Bent Zealots,” I reminded her.

  “The Bent Zealots. If you’re lying to me, Flannery, you can kiss all my world-famous blowjobs goodbye.”

  Flannery laughed nervously. “What blowjobs? What are you talking about? Hey, isn’t that Barclay Samples?”

  We’d positioned our table so we could view the front lobby entrance of the Nichols Building. There were other ways out of the building, stairways with doors that locked behind you, but no other way in. We didn’t have keys to the lobby door. No one did aside from the realtor. Other bums came and went. I was itching to live in a more adult, serene home, maybe even with Anton—yes, that fucking idea had occurred to me. But for now, we were stuck in a 1980s office building keeping an eye on a cabrón—a dumbass.

  Indeed, the bald Barclay Samples was heading toward the double doors of the lobby. Flannery, Lily, Twinkletoes and I leaped to our feet while Anton read a text.

  “Wait for me,” said Anton, not taking his eyes off the cellphone. “I’ve got something for Barclay.”

  I didn’t know what he meant, but someone had to pay the bill. We all threw twenties at Anton—actually, mine was a ten, that’s
how decrepit I’d become—and we tore off to the Nichols Building.

  “I’m not going to stop accusing you of jacking my truck,” I shouted to Flannery as we jogged.

  “I didn’t take a fucking thing from you.”

  “Not you personally. Your idiotic Death Squadders.”

  “Hey. I’m not all in with them anymore, in case you didn’t notice.” He finally admitted, “That tracks that Thalhammer and Finn got the Black Tar from a jacking. One day they had none, the next day it was there.”

  “Well, if you could figure out where it is now, I can confront them—hey, Barclay!”

  What the fuck were we going to say to Barclay? “I know you killed that guy taking groceries from his car?” If he were genuinely psychotic, he’d probably admit it. Anton told me that honestly psychotic people, not realizing they were doing anything against the law, never tried to hide their crimes. Barclay had not tried to hide any of the blood and gore he’d splashed all over our kitchen. He hadn’t lied about killing any animals or eating them—or munching on Crusty’s innards. But a human murder, that might be different. Surely Barclay Samples himself would realize that was wrong? And he wasn’t able to eat Ambrose Smart. So why the killing?

  We reached him in the lobby, as he was taking the stairs—the elevator didn’t work.

  “Barclay!” I said in a palsy manner, practically clapping him on the shoulder with camaraderie. It wouldn’t do to alienate him.

  Twinkletoes, though, had no such compunctions. “Barc! Hey, can you tell us something? And I sincerely hope your answer calms our nerves. There was a guy murdered over on Saguaro Drive in front of his house. Someone drove by with a .22 and smacked him in the chest while his wife and son watched.”

  Barclay looked even more haunted, emaciated, drained of blood. “Oh yeah, that was me,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I wanted to make sure the gun worked. My mom called and said Dad won’t pay for Mencken anymore. The whole syndicate is making money by having her poison me.”

  “Barclay,” I said, reasonably, like a father. “You can’t be doing this. That’s called murder by today’s laws. They’re going to lock you up for a long time. You won’t be able to run around harvesting cats for their blood. There’s no one in jail who will let you drink their blood.” Actually, there probably is.

  Again, he was looking right through me. “I’m dying,” he admitted. I wondered if he really had an organic illness, something that could be diagnosed, aside from psychopathy. “I just take the blood I need to live. Soap dish poisoning is killing me.”

  “Well, use a different soap dish,” said Lily irritably. “Look, how’d you get a car to do the drive-by?”

  “Oh, that was Vera.” Vera was the harbormaster who, for some bizarre reason, liked Barclay. “She shares it with Chuck and Dave.” They were guys who did handyman work around the harbor.

  “You just can’t keep doing this,” I said. “That man’s name was Ambrose Smart. Now he has a widow and a fatherless son.”

  Of course this attempt at gleaning some sympathetic logic from Barclay didn’t work. “I was born Jewish. I’ve been persecuted all my life by Nazis.”

  “Like him?” Lily jerked her thumb at Flannery.

  “No. I like him. You don’t mind that I have a Star of David on my forehead, do you?” He didn’t.

  “Not at all,” said Flannery, weary.

  Barclay said, “The Nazis are connected to UFOs always hovering over this planet. I killed that guy in self-defense! Voices have been telling me to take a life.”

  Flannery took Barclay’s arm. “Well, you’re not going anywhere anymore. Come on.”

  As Flannery marched the persona loca up the stairs, the kid kept protesting. “I had some macaroni and cheese upstairs. It was poisoned. I have to flush it down the toilet.”

  “We’ll do that,” agreed Flannery, “and then you’re going to stay in your room.”

  “But I need blood!”

  Lily said, “We’ll go out and get you blood.”

  Twinkletoes whispered to me, “He won’t know the difference between blood and raspberry Jell-O.”

  In the kitchen, Flannery stuffed the mac-n-cheese down the food disposal while Anton appeared. He whispered to me,

  “Turk texted. Their mole said other homes in the area have shot-out windows.”

  “He’s really practicing for something,” I said. “What’s this thing you have for Barclay?”

  Anton patted his leather jacket. “Holy water. Got it from the priest.”

  I can’t believe I thought this was an incredibly good idea. We’d never been a particularly churchgoing family, though Scots-Irish to the bone. I found, though, that being around Anton—in fucking love with Anton?—had given me a newfound respect for the art, or hobby, or belief if you will. There was strength in it, and I knew the power could overcome whatever dark power currently inhabited Barclay. The reality of spirits wasn’t a question of believing in them, but a question of evidence. And we had a pile of it.

  In the hallway, Flannery tried to strong-arm Barclay into his room. “What’re you gonna do?” Barclay was yelling. “Keep me hidden in there, like a jar with a head in it?”

  We all looked quizzically at each other.

  “No,” said Anton, pulling something from his back jeans pocket. My cuffs! “We’re going to try something new. I’ve read that people with your affliction, the soap dish poisoning, can gain a new control over their bodies if they allow themselves to be tied up. The inner struggle, the inability to get up and eat, for example, brings all the good amino acids and proteins rushing into your blood supply.”

  It sounded completely made up, but surprisingly, Barclay seemed enthusiastic. “I think I read that too. Your magnesium surges through your pulmonary artery because you’re struggling to break free!”

  “Exactly,” said Anton, gesturing in the direction of Barclay’s room. “Shall we try it?”

  “Anything’s worth a try,” said Barclay, willingly entering his room.

  No one else was so willing. Flannery sort of shoved Barclay, but looked back at us with his nose wrinkled in disdain. From where I stood, the stench of the room assailed my nostrils. The odor practically had visible tendrils like in the cartoons where it wafts into some spy dog’s nose. Only, this stink didn’t make any lightbulbs appear over my head. It didn’t lead me down a path of clues. It just reeked to high hell, and it was because of the demon, I knew. I took a bandana Anton had loaned me for keeping bugs out of my teeth when we rode. I tied it around my neck and lower face, like the Aryans had while jacking me.

  The dark room was a walk-in freezer. Since Barclay himself had given us the idea of the severed head in a jar, I opened the sliding closet door. The light coming from one desk lamp wasn’t enough to illuminate the closet, but it did look like there could’ve been some big mason jars back there.

  “See, this is how you do it,” explained Anton, sitting Barclay on his butt next to the desk. Anton pulled both of Barclay’s wrists together behind his back and buckled them to a desk leg. He put a pillow between Barclay and the desk before getting down to business.

  “Do you know what this is?” Anton asked, revealing the plastic bottle of water.

  Barclay shrugged. “Is this part of the ritual for getting my pulmonary back?”

  “Exactly. This holy water will replenish your red blood cells, the cells that are being depleted by this demon hovering around you.” Anton stood and walked to my corner of the room. “Sorry about all our toys being ruined.”

  Barclay was saying blithely, “I think Beelzebub is responsible for these voices I hear. I mean, I think it’s him telling me to kill more people.”

  We all shot each other grave looks. Anton unscrewed the plastic lid of the holy water bottle and dribbled a bit in our corner. “That could be, Barclay. In the name of Jesus Christ, I command all diabolical spirits to leave this dwelling and never return.”

  It was like we were waiting for a response. Nothing. Barclay just sta
red at the wall, his jaw slack, looking incredibly stupid. It was almost as though with the dissipation of his pulmonary and Vitamin C, his IQ was also going up the spout. The demon was sucking his brain cells.

  Anton walked to another corner and repeated the process. “In the name of Jesus Christ . . . ” He added to no one in particular, “This is ‘binding.’ Beelzebub must either show himself or move on.”

  Just as he repeated the ceremony in the fourth corner of the room, we all jumped a foot in the air. Barclay suddenly lunged against his bonds, spewing wild animal noises and spit. And you know, his voice really did change. It really wasn’t Barclay Samples’ voice emanating from his mouth. It did sound growly, of a lower register, and we all sort of cringed back and clung to the walls.

  “Flannery Strandberg!” the demon croaked.

  Lily looked up in terror at her hulking blond lover. I admit it was manly when he confessed, “Yes, that’s me all right.”

  “You took home that tranny you picked up at Blood, Sweat and Beers!”

  “Uh, yeah,” Flannery admitted, his voice shaky. “That’s in Bakersfield. Where I’m from,” he explained to Lily.

  “Don’t let him get to you!” Anton shouted, holding aloft the plastic bottle.

  “Ah, it’s all right,” said Flannery. “It’s only the fucking truth.”

  The demon kept on. “You butt-fucked him in the missionary position, like a woman, pretending he was one, the whole time knowing he was a man! You even liked rubbing his hard member between your bodies!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Flannery, palms facing the ground. “We don’t need to go into details. Is there a point to all of this?”

  “You must be honest, or the black matter will absorb you and take control of your soul!” crowed Barclay/Beelzebub. “Antonio has become honest by confessing to a priest. King did even better by confessing homosexuality to a priest.”

  We didn’t fucking tell Barclay that shit. What else did he know? He wasn’t attacking Anton and me, so maybe Anton had been right about confession being good for your soul. He was attacking Flannery, who was closeted.

  Flannery held up his hands as though surrendering. “Okay, okay! I knew that guy wasn’t a girl! I could see his big dick through his skirt. I got off on the idea that a guy was sucking me, yet I could pretend it was a girl. All right? Are you satisfied?”