The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All

by Laird Barron

  2

  He stripped her in a half-dozen expert movements and had her crossways on the low, narrow bed, a pillow under her hips because he wanted to work her over with a vengeance. His blood boiled after their conversation regarding her old goon boyfriend. She was voluptuous as a '50s pinup and white as milk and her body amazed him. He held her hips and pushed toward climax while she cried out, shoulders and head suspended off the mattress, her fingers twisted in the sheets. He drove, and the bed moved an inch or two with each thrust, adding grooves to the warped and stained floorboards. Then, he came, crashing the bed with enough force to surely jolt the lights in the lower apartment. She swung herself upright and her expression was that of an ecstatic. He met her eyes in the gloom and his brain became jelly; it felt as if it might drain through his nose, suctioned by some force at once ancient and familiar and beyond his comprehension. The iris of her left eye was oblong, out of plumb. It seemed to elongate and slide around like the deformed bubbles in a lava lamp, and for several seconds every piece of furniture, the apartment walls, its doors and fixtures, were distorted, undulating in a way that made him sick in the stomach. Then it passed and he flopped on his back, spent and afraid.

  Carol climbed atop him and kissed his mouth. Her breath was hot. Her lips moved wet and swollen against his, "Well, Jesus. Aren't you a voyeuristic sonofabitch." She reached down and her petite fist partially encircled him. She slowly put him back inside her and had her way, mouth against his ear now. He closed his eyes and the vertigo subsided, and he lay in a semi stupor while his body reacted.

  When it finally ended, Carol lighted two cigarettes. She gave him one and then dialed her friend the hairdresser and cancelled her appointment. She slurred like she did after the fifth or sixth cocktail.

  Franco smoked his cigarette without enjoying it, his mind ticking with the possibilities of what he'd witnessed. She curled against him, her nails digging into the muscles of his chest. He said, "I think something odd is going on with you."

  "Mmm? I feel pretty damned fine."

  "Have you been taking drugs? You doing X?"

  "Are you trying to piss me off?" She smiled and blew smoke at him.

  "I'm trying to decide what I think. You're acting different." He didn't know what to say about her bizarre iris and figured keeping his mouth shut was the best course for the moment.

  "Hmm. I've been seeing a hypnotist. Trying to break this smoking habit."

  "Uh, did you happen to think that might be the reason you've had lousy dreams lately? Go screwing around in your brain and God knows what'll happen."

  "Hypnotism is harmless. All that stuff about them making you cluck like a chicken or do stupid tricks is bullshit. He puts me in a light trance. I'm aware of everything the whole time."

  Franco rubbed the vein pulsing in his temple. "Who's this hypnotist."

  "Phil Wary. An old dude. Lives upstairs. He was a magician back in the 1970s."

  "This is great."

  "It's so-so. I paid him three hundred bucks. I've cut back to half a pack a day, but sheesh, it could be better. That's what I'm saying-sure as shit isn't a cure for cancer."

  "Okay," he said. He didn't think anything was okay, and in fact had already made up his mind to pay Phil Wary a visit and set the coot straight. Anybody messing with Franco's girl was in peril of falling from a rooftop.

  Franco dreamed of standing in a hallway. He was naked and smelled of sex and bitter perfume. The hallway was dark except at the far end where a pair of brassy elevator doors shone, illuminated by an unseen source. He walked toward the doors and they slid apart. He entered the elevator. It was tight and dim. The doors shut. A panel of glowing buttons floated in the sudden darkness. He pressed the L and waited. The elevator moved, silent and frictionless, and with a sense of tremendous speed and he screamed as his body became weightless and his shoes drifted several inches from the floor. He was trapped in a coffin-shaped capsule rocketing into zero g orbit. The control panel flickered and its numerals blackened and popped and died. The overhead strip emitted a hideous red light that caused his skin to smoke and char where it touched. The light dripped like oil, like acid dissolving him.

  When the doors opened he stumbled into the empty lobby of The Broadsword Hotel. Yet the chamber was far too vast, and in the distance one of the walls had collapsed. It was cold, and the gloom thick with a sense of ruin. Furniture lay in broken heaps, and tiles of the vast marble floor were smashed, pieces scattered, and everywhere, curtains and streamers of cobwebs and dust. The tooth of the moon shone through the skylight dome. Carol stood hipshot in its sickly beam. She too was naked except for a silvery necklace, and panties that gleamed white against her delectable buttocks. Her figure was unutterably erotic in its slickness and ripe strength and quivering vulnerability, a Frazetta heroine made flesh. Her head craned toward one of the support columns, arm raised in a defensive gesture. She was a voluptuous conceptualization of Fay Wray transported to some occult dimension, gaping at an off screen terror.

  A shadow moved across the floor and obliterated Carol's paralyzed figure. It stretched unto colossal dimensions until its clawed edge overlapped Franco's feet and he raced into the elevator that was no longer an elevator, but an endless tunnel, or a throat.

  3

  Franco lay in bed alone until noon. This was his first vacation in two years from his millionaire charge, Jacob Wilson. Wilson had jetted off to Paris for the week with his girlfriend of the moment and Leonard and Vernon, the senior bodyguards.

  He didn't have any fear of confined spaces, but today the elevator ride was harrowing. He loosened his tie to alleviate a feeling of suffocation. A middle-aged woman in an enveloping dress crowded him and he sweated and squeezed the bridge of his nose and breathed shallowly until the lift thudded to a halt and squealed open a full ten seconds later.

  Despite his rather mundane and admittedly coarse occupation, Franco enjoyed a good, thick book, and was enamored of classical architecture. The hotel had become a hobby. Almost a century old, and enormous, its caretakers kept alive certain elements and traditions not often present in its modern counterparts. There were at least two sub levels, one of which hosted a barbershop, international newspaper kiosk, cigar shop, and a gentleman's club called The Red Room, this latter held over from speakeasy days. On the ground floor was the lounge, the Oak & Shield restaurant, a largely defunct nightclub called The Owl, and the Arden Grand Ballroom. There were galas every few months and he'd vowed to accompany Carol to one in the near future. Franco was an elegant dancer, comfortable waltzing to a big band.

  He went to the lounge and sat at the end of the deserted bar furthest from the double doors and the sun streaming through the windows overlooking the hillside and Capitol Lake far below, and across the way, the Capitol Dome itself, a cracked and grimy edifice that somehow retained its grandeur despite years of neglect. He ordered a Bloody Mary, followed immediately by a double vodka. He lighted a cigarette and pressed his hand to his eyes while he smoked.

  Franco had become a regular at the lounge these past months since his dalliance with Carol. The staff knew who he worked for and when he dropped a hint about his interest in resident Phil Wary, the white-suited bartender disappeared, then returned with a hotel business card, Mr. Wary's apartment and phone numbers scrawled on the reverse. Franco glanced at the card, then burned it in the ashtray as a courtesy. He left a fifty on the bar when he finally dragged himself off the stool and went in search of answers. He buzzed Mr. Wary's apartment, then he unfolded his cell and tried the phone number.

  Someone picked up and breathed heavily. "What?" The accent was foreign to Franco, although it reminded him of the old Christopher Lee Dracula movies.

  "Mr. Wary, hey. Could I have a few minutes of your time? I'm downstairs-"

  "I heard you buzzing my intercom. I hate that buzzing. That brash, persistent noise drills straight through my eardrum. No, I think you sound like an oaf, a knuckle dragger. A second generation Italian mongrel, perhaps."


  Franco made a fist with his free hand and squeezed until his knuckles cracked. "Very sorry, sir. I just need five minutes. Maybe less. You know a friend of mine. Carol-"

  Mr. Wary breathed into the phone. He made an odd noise in his throat. "Then I am convinced I am not interested in your company. My business with her is not for you. Goodbye."

  The line went dead. Franco stared at his cell for a several moments. He carefully folded and put it away. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand. It was a long climb to the seventh floor, but there was no chance of his risking the elevator again. He felt homicidal enough without exacerbating his dire mood with an outbreak of latent claustrophobia. By the fourth floor he'd come to regret his decision. His legs were soft from spending too many hours on his ass in limousines and holding down barstools. He'd given up weight lifting and jogging. The endless columns of booze and stacks of unfiltered cigarettes made his sporadic appearances at the gym painful.

  He hesitated at Mr. Wary's door to try the knob-locked. He wiped his brow with the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Mr. Wary's apartment lay near the stairwell at the far end of the corridor opposite the elevator. The passages in The Broadsword Hotel were slightly wider and taller than typical of such buildings, rounded and ribbed at the peak in a classical manner. Gauzy light filled the window alcove above the stairwell. Shadows stretched long fingers across the carpet and most of the hallway remained in gloom. A fly complained in a darkened overhead light globe.

  Franco tucked away the handkerchief and slipped his stiletto from its ankle sheath. He never carried a pistol when off duty. There wasn't much reason to-unlike thugs such as Carol's ex, he didn't need to moonlight as an enforcer. His time off was free and uncomplicated.

  Mr. Wary hadn't engaged the deadbolt, so Franco easily jimmied the lock and pushed through the door. The apartment was cramped and hot and smelled of must and moldering paper. Centered in the living area was a leather couch, matching armchairs and a pair of ornate floor lamps, all from a bygone era. Mr. Wary owned numerous paintings of foreign pastorals, vine-choked temples and ziggurats, and men and women in peculiar dress. In a corner was an antique writing desk and above its hutch, poster advertisements of magic shows. Several were illustrations of a man in fanciful robes and bejeweled turban, presumably Mr. Wary himself, presiding over various scenes of prestidigitation that generally featured buxom assistants in low cut blouses.

  A yellow cat hissed at Franco's approach and darted behind the coach.

  "So it's like this, is it?" Mr. Wary leaned against the frame of the entrance to the kitchen. Short and brutish, his silver and black hair touched the collar of his expensive white dress shirt. His craggy face was powdered white, his eyes deeply recessed so they glinted like those of a calculating animal. His eyelids were painted blue and his lips carmine. He wore baggy pants and sandals that curved up at the toe. He sneered at Franco, baring a full set of sharp white teeth. "This wasn't wise of you."

  "Hello, Phil," Franco said, bouncing the knife in his hand. He casually reached back and pulled the door closed. "As I was saying, we really need to have a discussion about Carol. You've been trying to help her quit smoking, I hear. Your methods seem unorthodox. She's acting squirrely."

  "Her treatment is no concern of yours. You'd do well to depart before matters go too far."

  Franco bent and sheathed his blade. He straightened and cracked his knuckles and took a couple of steps further into the room. "Yes, yes, it does in fact concern me. I don't like how she's acted lately. I think you've fucked with her head, got her hooked on dope, I dunno. But I plan to figure it out."

  "Fool. Love is a poison in that regard. It robs men of their common sense, inveigles them to pursue their own damnation. If it allays your worry, I promise no drugs are involved. No coercion. A touch of chicanery, yes."

  "That doesn't sound very nice."

  "You're not a complete barbarian. You comprehend simple words and phrases."

  Franco's smile sharpened and he moved slowly toward Mr. Wary, sliding his belt free of his pants loops as he went. "Keep talking, old man. I might enjoy this after all."

  "She has a virus of the mind and it's rather transmittable, I'm afraid." Mr. Wary squinted at him. He nodded. "Ah, that's who you are. Such an interesting coincidence. I know your employer. His late, lamented Uncle Theodore as well."

  "Jacob?" Franco hesitated. He doubled the tongue of his belt around his wrist and let the buckle dangle. "And, exactly how is that?"

  "Olympia is a small town. On occasion we've done business. Your master has, shall we say, esoteric interests. As I am a man of esoteric talents, it's a match made in…well, somewhere."

  "Carol says you're a washed up magician. Nice posters. You do anyplace famous? Vegas? The Paramount? Nah; you aren't any David Copperfield. You were a two bit showman. A hack." Franco itched to smack him in the mouth; should have done it already. The old man's contempt, his sneer, was disquieting and stayed Franco's hand for the moment as he reevaluated his surroundings, trying to detect the real source of his unease. "Your hands are gone, so now you hustle dumb broads for whatever's in their purses. I get you, Phil."

  "Magician? Magician? I'm a practitioner of the black arts. Seventh among the Salamanca Seven. You understand what I mean when I speak of the black arts, don't you boy? Since you refuse to leave me in peace, would you care for a drink? Too late now, anyway. I have one every afternoon. The doctor says it's good for my heart." Mr. Wary went to a cabinet and took down a crystal decanter and a pair of copitas. He poured two generous glasses of sherry and handed one to Franco. Mr. Wary sat in an armchair. He clicked his nails on the glass and the cat emerged from hiding and sprang into his lap. "Magician? Feh, I'm a sorcerer, a warlock."

  "A warlock, huh?" Franco remained standing. He tasted the sherry, then drained his copita and tossed it against the wall. The small crash and tinkle of broken glass temporarily satisfied his need to inflict pain upon his host. "There's no fucking such thing, my friend."

  "That was a valuable glass. I acquired the set in Florence. It survived the Second World War." Mr. Wary's eyelids fluttered and he smiled with the corner of his mouth. "Yes, I practice mesmerism. Yes, I pulled rabbits from hats and pretended to saw nubile women in half. I am conversant in many things, sleight of hand being among these. Camouflage, boy. And amusement. One meets fascinating people in that line. However, my bread and butter, my life's work, lies in peeling back the layers of occult mysteries. I was preparing your delectable girlfriend for myself. Ripening and fattening her on the ineffable wonder of the dark. Upon further reflection, I've decided to let you have her."

  "What the fuck are you on, man?" Franco imagined poor Carol blithely acquiescing to Mr. Wary's charms-Franco recognized a predator when he met one. Doubtless the old man with his eccentric garb and quaint accent could pour on the charm. And dear God, what did the creepy bastard do to her when she was incapacitated on that decaying couch? "You sonofabitch. You crazy, fucked up sonofabitch." He whipped the belt buckle across Mr. Wary's face. "You're not going to see her again. She calls you, don't answer. She knocks on your door, you don't answer. She tries to talk to you in the hall, you go the other way." Franco punctuated each directive with a slap of his belt buckle while the man sat there, absorbing the abuse. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth swipe that he realized his victim was grinning.

  Mr. Wary caught the belt and jerked Franco to his knees and grabbed him by the hair. "You insect. You creeping, insignificant vermin." He stood, dragging Franco upright so they were nose to nose. "Do you wish to witness my work with your precious, idiotic paramour? Such unhappiness awaits you."

  Franco was calm even in his terror. He pretended to struggle against Mr. Wary's iron grip before slamming his knuckles against the man's windpipe. He'd once killed a fellow with that blow on the mean streets of Harlem. His fingers broke with a snap and he grunted in shock. Mr. Wary shook him as a dog shakes a rat in its jaws. Franco's vision went out of focus even as he slashed the edg
e of his left hand against the bridge of Mr. Wary's nose, and yelped because it was like striking concrete.

  "That's quite enough," Mr. Wary said and looped the belt around Franco's neck and drew it snug. Franco went blind. His muscles stiffened and when Mr. Wary released him, he toppled sideways and his head bounced off the carpet.

  4

  Mr. Wary handcuffed Franco in a closet and strung him up on tiptoes by means of keeping the belt around his neck and the other end secured to a rusty hook dangling from a chain. Mr. Wary left the door partially ajar. He suggested that Franco remain mum or else matters would go poorly for him, and worse for Carol, who was soon to arrive for her weekly appointment.

  The closet was narrow and stuffed with coats and mothballed suits, but roofless-the space above rose vertically into blackness like a mineshaft. While Franco struggled to avoid hanging himself, he had ample opportunity to puzzle over how this closet could possess such a dimension. Occasionally, reddish light pulsed from the darkness and Franco relived his recent nightmare.

  Afternoon bled into red evening and the stars emerged in the sliver of sky through the window behind the couch. Franco was in a state of partial delirium when Carol knocked on the door. Mr. Wary smoothed his shaggy hair and quickly donned a smoking jacket. Carol came in, severe and rushed as usual. He took her coat and fixed drinks and Franco slowly strangled, his view curtailed by the angle of the closet door.

  Franco only heard and saw fragments of the next half hour, preoccupied as he was with basic survival. He fell unconscious for brief moments, revived by the pressure at his throat, the searing in his lungs. He contemplated murder. A few feet away his lover and the magician finished their drinks. Mr. Wary told her to make herself comfortable while he put on a recording of scratchy woodwind music. He drew the curtain and clicked on a lamp. He cleared his throat and began to speak in a low, sonorous tone. Carol mumbled, obviously responding to his words.