Toros & Torsos (The Hector Lassiter Series)

by Craig McDonald

  He was above her, propping himself up off her body so he could see her better, his weight on his hands as he plunged into her, over and over.

  Rachel’s face was obscured in shadow and more shadows gathered in the valley between her rib cage and parted thighs. The scant light through the window fell squarely on her generous, heaving breasts.

  In the throes of their rutting, his mind warped by the absinthe, Hector was suddenly seized by a terrible vision — seized by the notion that he was fucking Man Ray’s masterpiece.

  Rachel’s slender, sweat-slicked torso had become the Minotaure. Her strong, well-defined arms, reaching above her hidden head, were now the horns of the bull. Her splendid, hard-nippled breasts were the bull’s accusing eyes, and the dark hollow between her rib cage and vagina was the muzzle of the bull — its mouth devouring his cock.

  The demented image edged Hector over and Rachel must have sensed it and have been taken along with him.

  They screamed together, their bodies racked by tremors.

  After a time, settling half atop her, he said, “I’m sorry, I meant to pull out before...”

  Rachel’s trembling hand stroked the small of his damp back. She said, smiling, “Frankly, I’m more concerned what the neighbors might think.”

  ***

  They never truly slept — talking into the small hours of the morning between bouts of raw, enthusiastic sex. After one episode Hector said, “This thing about you being a jourmalist and me not knowing...it reminds me I don’t really know you.”

  “You know me...biblically,” she’d said, kissing her way down his torso to take him into her mouth.

  After, the taste of her and them together on his tongue, he said, “I really don’t know you. You’re Rachel Harper from South Bend, Indiana. You’re a would-be painter turned fashion reporter. You’ve got a friend named Bev who has gone missing. You’re magnificent looking naked and you’re splendid in bed. That’s really all I know.”

  “For some men that last would be enough,” Rachel said, smiling.

  “But not for me. Tell me about old South Bend.”

  “A nothing little place with less nothing than most nothing places have,” Rachel said.

  Hector laughed and said, “Jesus, you been reading Gertrude Stein?”

  She smiled again and reached across his torso to the bedside table. She picked up an ashtray, cigarette and Hector’s Zippo. She arched an eyebrow and Hector said, “Sure, for me, too.” He sat up and propped a pillow up against the headboard. He was getting a bit of a chill with the fans now cooling his sweat and he pulled the sheet over his thighs and Rachel balanced the ashtray on his belly. She rested her head on his shoulder and they smoked their cigarettes.

  Hector tried again: “Tell me about your folks.”

  “My mother died when I was twelve,” Rachel said. “Some kind of congenital heart defect. My father was never quite the same after that. He’d always nursed artistic ambitions — photography. But he’d been the dutiful provider and instead channeled everything into business...became a banker. When Mother died, he’d amassed a pretty good amount of money. He decided to retire and chase his dream. So we packed everything, and my father, me, and my younger sister, Alva, moved to Paris. He was intent on pursuing art photography. He was there less than six months when he had his first showing. Studies...of me and my sister.”

  Hector said softly, “What kind of studies?”

  “Nudes,” she said, so softly he hardly heard it. “He still — well, when we cross paths, he still tries now and then to get me to pose.” She sat up and searched Hector’s face. “It’s not like you’re thinking.”

  He nodded, then said, carefully, searching her eyes, “I haven’t said what I’m thinking. It’s...a bit libertine, make no mistake. I mean, I’m just an old boy from Texas. But Man Ray’s lost muse, Lee Miller — I’ve seen similar naked pictures taken of her by her father. So there are precedents.” So far so good, Hector thought. But as was too often the case, he didn’t know when to shut up. “Some of the nudes shot of Lee by her father are fringing creepy, but that doesn’t mean the pictures taken of you by your father...” He trailed off, lamely.

  Rachel stubbed out her cigarette and scooted back down the bed, her cheek pressed to his chest so Hector could no longer see her expressions. “Anyway, that’s how I got to Paris,” she said. “How I...got caught up — you know, in the art scene.”

  “And this sister, Alva?”

  “She met a man, a Spaniard, and got married...got away. She wasn’t as comfortable with posing naked for Father as I guess she guessed I was.”

  Hector said, “Rightly or wrongly guessed?”

  Rachel said, “Anyways...Father’s still in Paris. He moves back and forth between there and Los Angeles, I hear. He does some studio work for the motion picture industry — shooting publicity portraits and the like. Glamour shots of the stars.”

  Hector said, “I’d like to see some of your own artwork sometime, Rachel. Maybe buy a painting or two.”

  “It doesn’t exist like that,” Rachel said. “I never did anything worth keeping.”

  “We’re trapped here a day or two, Rache. Tomorrow, I’m going to go to the general store and buy a couple of canvases and some paint. I’m not letting you off this rock until you paint me something to hang on my wall.”

  She kissed his belly. “It’s a nice sentimental gesture, but unnecessary, Hector. You’ve already done enough for me. And do we have to talk about me leaving already?”

  “It wasn’t meant like that,” he said. “Not at all. I really want to see you at work, painting. I want something of yours to hang on my wall. And I’m not thinking of you leaving.” He moved the ashtray to the sidetable, then cupped her chin in his hand and urged her back up the bed. She turned, her thigh sliding over his lap and her breast pressed tightly to his chest. He kissed her, slow and hard, his tongue exploring hers...the taste of her mouth a heady mix of rum, absinthe, cigarettes and sex. She said, breathily between kisses, “Where have you been all this time?”

  “Here I suppose. Hell, I’m always around.”

  ———————————

  From official weather advisories:

  (Sunday, September 1)

  Advisory 10:00 a.m. tropical disturbance central short distance south of Andros Island moving westward about eight miles per hour attended by shifting gales and probably winds hurricane force small area near center. Indications storm will pass through Florida Straits late tonight or Monday. Caution advised vessels in path. Northeast storm warnings displayed Fort Pierce to Fort Myers Florida. NAR 10:22 a.m.

  ———————————

  “A creator needs only one enthusiast to justify him.”— Man Ray

  TABLEAU VIVANT

  9

  Hector awakened at four in the morning, as he always did.

  He slid carefully from the bed, careful not to disturb Rachel. He picked out some clothes and closed the door softly behind himself. He padded down the hallway to the bathroom. He was careful washing himself down there — rubbed raw in some places. Smiling to himself between winces, he wondered what damage he had done to Rachel’s body — wondered if she would even be able to walk when she awakened.

  After showering, Hector dressed, started some coffee, and sat down at his Underwood.

  For the next two hours, the crime writer worked at his novel, a book he was calling Wandering Eye. Hector was about a quarter way through the first draft and making it up as he went along. He always started with a notion of an ending and just had to pick his path to get his Florida Keys-based investigator, Jim Drake, to the doom-laden denouement his creator envisioned.

  Some authors had confessed to Hector that they always wrote with a particular reader in mind — a wife, a lover...a brother or sister.

  Hector wrote for himself — his own best audience and harshest critic.

  Several years before, a magazine catering to would-be writers had polled Hector and several of h
is fellow Black Mask Magazine stablemates for their definition or summation of the dark school of crime writing they collectively embodied.

  Hector had responded, “Character is plot. Obsession is motivation. The quest, whatever else it may appear to be, is always a search for self — a race against time to a blood-spritzed epiphany. When that light bulb goes on, the world goes dark. No happy endings.”

  Hector kept his “definition” of his life’s dark work pasted to the tray of his Underwood.

  By six he noticed first light glowing on the cherry surface of his writing desk. He finished in mid-sentence, knowing what was to come next, and how the sentence would end — his trick to ensure a fast and smooth start when he next sat down to write.

  Terrible screeching erupted on either side of his house. From the bedroom, Hector heard Rachel call in a hoarse and husky voice, “What in God’s name is that?”

  Hector laughed and stood and stretched. He poured some coffee in a mug and took it into Rachel. She sat up in his bed, coyly tucking the sheet into her underarms to cover her breasts. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, blushing. “Morning, Hector,” she said, unable to meet his gaze. The noise from outside erupted again. She said, again, raising her voice over the din, “What in God’s name is that?”

  “Roosters,” Hector said, handing her the coffee mug. “Fighting cocks, actually. Nasty, tough bastards. Blood sports are big around here in the Keys. And because of those fighting roosters, either side, I’ve never needed an alarm clock.”

  “It’s truly terrible,” Rachel said, smiling. She sipped her coffee and made a face. “Boy, that’s bitter. It’d wake the dead.”

  “Cuban,” Hector said. “I’ve developed a taste for it, but it is potent stuff. I’ll fetch you some sugar and cream.”

  “No,” she said, sipping more and smiling. “It’s fine. It’s good — help clear my mind. That damned absinthe...”

  Hector said, “If I took advantage — I mean, that stuff does wild things to me, too — well...”

  “No apologies, Hector,” Rachel said. “And no regrets. I didn’t need the absinthe or any of the other liquor to do any of that last night. It would have happened anyway, because I wanted it.” She hesitated. “But if you, on the other hand, I mean, if the absinthe...”

  “No,” Hector said. “Last night had nothing to do with liquor for me, either.” He kissed her hand. She was still blushing. She said, “I must look like a wreck...ravaged.”

  “And ravishing.” Hector smiled and stood up. He rummaged through his closet and found his robe. He tossed it across the foot of the bed. “Place is all yours...shower, get dressed. While you do that, I’ll go fetch something to eat and to pick up the newspapers. Any special requests?”

  “Your second book if the newsstand has a copy — I want to start it as soon as I finish the first one,” she said.

  “I have copies here. Hell, I’ll give you my whole ouevre.”

  ***

  Hector found her brewing more of his Cuban coffee. She was dressed in white slacks, a white shirt and sandals. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail. She looked poised and Nordic. She said, “I’m sore in places I never knew existed in me.”

  “Me too,” Hector said, setting down his shopping bags. He reached into one and pulled out a smaller sack. “Chocolate-filled croissants,” he said. “Fresh fruit, and some Cuban bread. We have to finish that last off today — they cook it fresh and without preservatives. Tomorrow, that loaf will be a weapon.”

  Rachel smiled and fetched some plates from the kitchenette’s cabinets. She seemed to be finding her way around just fine. Hector was troubled to find that he didn’t find that troubling. She said, “How are things?”

  “Beautiful, but deceptive. The sky has a kind of coppery color you only see with the worst storms. But there’s no wind to speak of, and no rain. Wouldn’t go out on a boat though — the water is hellish rough...and the big birds are moving in greater numbers to the west — racing out to the Gulf.”

  Rachel set out dishes and silverware. She said, “I thought I heard typing this morning.”

  “Hope it didn’t disturb you,” he said. “I get up around four and go until six or seven...later if I’m really on a roll.”

  “I wish I had your discipline,” she said. “Maybe then I could write more than just puff pieces on couture.”

  “You make the time,” Hector said. “The thing that stands between most published authors and those who merely aspire isn’t just talent, but self-discipline.” Christ, he was starting to sound to himself like one of those how-to writing magazines he so loathed. He handed Rachel the newspapers — the Key West Citizen and the Miami Herald.

  She said, “Which sections do you want? Sports...crosswords?”

  “God, suddenly I feel like a married couple.” Hector winked and shook his head. “I don’t keep up with news much. And I ain’t got no politics to speak of. The papers are for you. For my part, over breakfast, I mean to steep myself in some surrealism.” He held up his stolen copy of Le Minotaure. Then he said, “Reminds me, while I was out, I hit the hotel again. There’s still nothing from Bev.”

  Rachel nodded, biting her lip. “I guess I just have to hope that nothing doesn’t mean something.”

  Hector nodded and sipped his coffee. He chewed on his chocolate croissant and began flipping through Le Minotaure.

  It was a curious and often arresting mixture of image and text. Between collages of bulls and severed or disarticulated headless or legless women were bizarre tracts of poetry and essays on Greek mythology.

  In one article, the writer had composed a skin-crawling recreation of an imagined conversation between Jack the Ripper and the Marquis de Sade.

  An equally unsettling centerspread — titled Poupée in block letters — was a collection of photos depicting a naked mannequin shot at various angles. In many of the photos, the figure’s arms were severed at the shoulders and the legs missing below the knees. The mid-section, just below the large breasts, was laid open and the organs replaced with bric-a-brac. The various poses of the figure, designed by Hans Bellmer, looked like nothing so much as morgue photos of a mutilation murder victim. The piece was subtitled, Variations on the Montage of an Articulated Minor.

  Hector closed the magazine in disgust. “All right,” he said sourly. “I’ve seen enough. And seen enough to buy, one-hundred percent, that whoever killed that woman over by Hem’s is working on surrealist models.” He didn’t know what he expected by way of response, but he figured Rachel would have something to say to that. He reached across the table and gently lowered the newspaper. She looked up at him with stricken eyes.

  “Something terrible has happened in Miami,” she said. Rachel read the article to him, and Hector sat back in his chair, shaking his head.

  On Friday morning, a torso had been found sitting on a public bench at South Beach.

  The still-unidentified woman’s body had been disarticulated. The arms and head were missing, and the legs cut off just above the knee. The remains of the torso had been severed just below the breasts, and the two halves arranged, a bit off-center, on the public park bench, the breasts pointed out to sea.

  “These things have to be related,” Rachel said. “This woman in Miami, and the one you saw yesterday...they must have been killed by the same man.”

  “Yes,” Hector said. “I’m sure the murders are linked.” He also thought about the fact that between Miami and Key West lay Matecumbe and about what that might mean — or have meant — for her friend, Bev. He said, “This woman — what was left of her — was posed again. Who do you think the intended audience is...or was?”

  Rachel shrugged. “Maybe just himself.”

  Hector nodded uneasily. “Suppose that could be true.”

  ———————————

  From official weather advisories:

  (Monday, September 2)

  Advisory 1:30 p.m. Hurricane warnings ordered Key West tropical disturbance central
noon about latitude twenty three degrees twenty minutes longitude eighty degrees fifteen minutes moving slowly westward stop. It will be attended by winds hurricane force in Florida Straits and winds gale force Florida Keys south of Key Largo this afternoon and tonight. Caution advised vessels Florida Straits next twenty four hours: Northeast storm warnings remain displayed elsewhere Miami to Ft Myers. NAR 1:30 p.m.

  ———————————

  “Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.”— Ernest Hemingway

  REVISTERO

  10

  Most of Sunday’s remains and Monday morning passed much the same way. To preserve their hurricane supplies, Rachel and Hector dined in restaurants around the island and drank in various of Hector’s favored watering holes. Between those trips out, they’d retire to his bedroom to make love, or to lounge together in a cold bath in order to cool off, drinking Hatuey beer and listening to the radio.

  Hector was more attuned to the barometer now, and watching it fall, he began to think the better plan might have been to pack Rachel up in his Chevrolet sports roadster and make a run for a good Miami hotel. Maybe tool up as far as Tampa, just to be on the safe side. But any window to run had now firmly closed — they were fully committed, at this point.

  But the phones were still working, so Hector called the Colonial Hotel again, checking a last time to see if Rachel’s friend had surfaced, but it was still silence.

  Hector was sitting at his writing desk, the candlestick phone heavy in his hand. Rachel massaged his shoulders and he was again struck by the strength of her hands. But she was built athletically, with lean, graceful muscle tone, and, as she had said, she had no distinguishing marks on her long, sleek body...no birth marks, moles — perfect.