Two Worlds and In Between: The Best of Caitlin R. Kiernan (Volume One)

by Caitlin R. Kiernan

  Rabbit restores the perfect bee-stung pout, Cupid’s-bow artifice, a clockwise twist and the lipstick stub pulls back inside its metal foreskin. No point in bothering with the eyes again this late, but he straightens his dress, Puritan-simple black as if in apology for all the rest. He also straightens the simpler strand of pearls at his throat, iridescent plastic to fool no one lying against his milk-in-coffee skin, skin not black, not white, and there he is like a parody of someone’s misconception of the mulatto whores of Old New Orleans. Bad romance, but this is real, this room that smells like the moldy plaster walls and the john’s cum drying on the sheets, cheap perfume and the ghosts of tobacco and marijuana smoke.

  This is as real as it gets, and you can sell the rest of that shit to the tourists with their goose-necked hurricane glasses, Mardi Gras beads, “Red Beans and Anne Rice” T-shirts, and pennies for the tap-dancing nigger boys with Pepsi caps on the soles of their shoes. Rabbit closes his eyes and makes room in his head for nothing but the sweet kiss of the needle, as if anticipation alone could be rush, and he doesn’t move until someone knocks at the bedroom door.

  Arlo works downstairs behind the bar, and he sweeps the floors and mops the floors, scrubs away the blood or puke and whatever else needs scrubbing away. He sees that the boys upstairs have whatever keeps them going, a baggie of this or that, a word of kindness or a handful of pills. Sees that the big motherfuckers downstairs at the tables have their drink. He empties ashtrays, takes away empty bottles, and washes whiskey glasses. Arlo isn’t even his name. His real name is Etienne, Etienne Duchamp, but no one likes that Cajun shit up here, and one time some mouthy, drunk bitch said his hair made him look like some old folk singer, some hippie fuck from the sixties. You know, man, Alice’s Restaurant, and you can get anythang you waaaaaant… and it stuck. Good as anything else in here, he supposes, and in here beats selling rock in the projects, watching for gang bangers and cops that haven’t been paid or conveniently might not remember they’ve been paid.

  Arlo pulls another beer from the tap and sets it on the bar, sweaty glass on the dark and punished wood, reaches behind him for the piss-yellow bottle of Cuervo, and pours a double shot for the tall man across the bar. The man just passing through on his way back to New Jersey, the man with the delivery from Mexico City, the man whose eyes never come out from behind his shades. The man who looks sort of like a biker, but drives that rusty-guts land-yacht Lincoln. Jimmy DeSade (Mr. DeSade to Arlo and just about anyone else who wants to keep his teeth, who wants to keep his fucking balls), so pale he looks like something pulled out of the river after a good long float, his face so sharp, and lank blue-black hair growing out of his skull.

  “Busy night, Arlo?” he asks, icicle voice and accent that might be English and might be fake, and Arlo shrugs and nods.

  “Always busy ’round here, Mr. DeSade. Twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty-five.” And Jimmy DeSade doesn’t smile or laugh, just slowly nods his head and sips at the tequila.

  Then a fat man comes shambling down the crimson-carpeted stairs opposite the bar, the man that’s had Rabbit from midnight till now, and Arlo sees right off that the man’s fly’s open, yellowed-cotton wrinkle peek-a-boo careless between zipper jaws. Stupid fat fuck, little eyes like stale venom almost lost in his shiny pink face. And Arlo thinks maybe he’ll check in on Rabbit, just a quick You okay? You gonna be okay? before the two o’clock client. He knows the fat man wouldn’t have dared do anything as stupid as put a mark on one of Jo Franklin’s mollies, nothing so honest or suicidal, so not that kind of concern. But this man moves like a bad place locked up in skin and Vitalis, and when he hustles over to the bar, ham-hock knuckles, sausage fingers spread out against the wood, Arlo smells sweat and his sour breath and the very faint hint of Rabbit’s vanilla perfume – Rabbit’s perfume, like something trapped.

  “Beer,” grunts the fat man, and Arlo takes down a clean mug. “No, not that watered-down shit, boy. Give me a real beer, in a goddamned bottle.”

  Not a word from Jimmy DeSade, and maybe he’s staring straight at the fat man, staring holes, and maybe he’s looking somewhere past him, up the stairs; there’s no way to know which from this side of those black sunglasses, and he sips his tequila.

  “Jo knows that I’m waiting,” Jimmy DeSade says, doesn’t ask, not really, the words rumbling out between his thin lips, voice so deep and cold you can’t hear the bottom. Arlo says yes sir, he knows, he’ll be out directly, but Arlo’s mostly thinking about the smell of Rabbit leaking off the fat man, and he knows better, knows there’s nothing for him in this worry but the knot winding tight in his guts, this worry past his duty to Jo, past his job.

  The fat man swallows half the dewy bottle in one gulp, wet and fleshy sound as the faint lump where his Adam’s apple might be rises and falls, rises and falls. He swipes the back of one hand across his mouth, and now there’s a dingy grin, crooked little teeth in there like antique cribbage pegs. “Jesus, sweet baby Jesus,” he says. “That boy-child is as sweet a piece of ass as I’ve ever had.” And then he half turns, his big head swiveling necklessly round on its shoulders, to look directly at Jimmy DeSade. “Mister, if you came lookin’ for a sweet piece of boy ass, well, you came to the right goddamn place. Yessiree.”

  Jimmy DeSade doesn’t say a word, mute black-leather gargoyle still staring at whatever the hell the eyes behind those shades are seeing, and the fat man shakes his head, talking again before Arlo can stop him. “That’s the God’s honest fucking truth,” he says. “Tight as the lid on a new jar of cucumber pickles – ”

  “You done settled up with Rabbit? You square for the night?” Arlo asks quickly, the query injected like a vaccination, and the fat man grows suddenly suspicious, half-offended.

  “Have I ever tried to stiff Jo on a fuck? The little faggot’s got the money. You think I look like the sort’a cheap son of a bitch that’d try to steal a piece of ass? Shit,” and Arlo’s hands go out defensively, then. No, man, that’s cool, just askin’, that’s all, just askin’. The fat man drains the beer bottle, and Arlo has already popped the cap off another. “On the house,” he says.

  Behind them, the felted tables, and one of the men lays down a double-six (no cards or dice, dominoes only in Jo Franklin’s place, and that’s not tradition, that’s the rule), and he crows triumphantly, is answered with a soft ring of grumbled irritation round the spread of wooden rectangles the color of old ivory, lost money and the black dots end-to-end like something for a witch to read.

  His hair not grey, cotton-boll white, and, even by the soft Tiffany light of his office, JoJo Franklin looks a lot older than he is, the years that the particulars of his life have stolen and will never give back. He closes a ledger and takes off his spectacles, rubs at the wrinkled flesh around his eyes. Rows of numbers, fountain-pen sums scrawled in his own unsteady left hand because he’s never trusted anyone else with his books. He blinks, and the room stays somewhere just the other side of focused: dull impression of the velvet-papered, wine-red walls, old furnishings fine and worn more threadbare than himself, the exquisitely framed forgery of Albert Matignon’s Morphine that a Belgian homosexual had tried to pass off as genuine. He paid what the man asked, full in the knowledge of the deceit, small talk and pretended gratitude for such a generous price, then had the Belgian killed before he could cash the check; Jo forgot the man’s name a long time ago, but he kept the phony Matignon, the three beautiful morphinomanes, decadent truth beneath Victorian delusions of chastity, and this fraud another level of delusion, so it’s worth more to him than the real thing could ever be. The value of illusion has never been a thing lost on JoJo Franklin.

  And now Jimmy DeSade’s outside his door, waiting to do business, the simple exchange of pure white powder for green paper. JoJo puts his glasses back on his face, wire frames hooked around his ears, and the three ladies in the painting swim into focus, gently euphoric furies hiding one more deception, the counterfeit bills just up from Miami, stacked neatly in his safe, fi
t company for his ledgers and the darker secrets in manila and old shoe boxes; good as gold, better than.

  The topmost drawer of his desk is open, and the little pistol is right there where it should be, tucked reassuringly amid the pencils and paper clips. Just in case, but he knows there’ll be no ugly and inconvenient drama with Jimmy DeSade, creepy fucking zombie of a man, but a sensible zombie; no more trouble than with the Haitians the night before, the Haitians who are always suspicious of one thing or another, but these bills so goddamn real even they hadn’t looked twice. Jimmy DeSade will take the money and carry it northwards like a virus, no questions asked, no fuss, no trouble. In a minute or two, Jo Franklin will push the intercom button, will tell Arlo to send the smuggler back, but he’s thirsty, and something about the pale and skinny man always makes him thirstier, so a brandy first and then the intercom, then the zombie and this day’s transaction.

  Jo Franklin rests his hand a moment on the butt of the pistol, cold comfort through fingertips, before he slides the drawer shut again.

  Four knocks loud on the door to Rabbit’s room, four knocks heavy and slow, reckless sound like blows more to hurt the wood than get attention, and he blots his lips on the cheap tissue, sparing a quick pout for the mirror before, “Yeah, it’s open,” and it is, the door, slow swing wide and hall light spilling in around them. Rabbit sees the men reflected without having to turn his head, and he sits very still, seeing them. Both dark, skin like black, black coffee and both so fucking big. Rabbit can’t really see their faces, only silhouettes with depth: one much thinner than the other and wearing sunglasses, the other bald and built like a wall. Concrete in a suit meant to look expensive. Pause, heartbeats, and “Come in,” he says and wonders if he said it loudly enough, because the men don’t move, and his voice grown small and brittled in an instant. Christ, it’s not like he hasn’t done doubles before. Not like Arlo would ever let anyone come up those stairs that was gonna be a problem. Speaking to the mirror, scrounging calm, “C’mon, he says. “You can shut the door behind you.”

  A low whisper from one or the other, and the bald man laughs, a hollow, heartless laugh before Rabbit breathes in deep and stands to face them. The tall man first, his face so slack, his bony arms so limp at his sides, torn and dirty Mickey Mouse T-shirt and rattier pants, no shoes on his knobby feet. Movement underwater slow, sleepwalker careless, like those four knocks, and the bald man follows after. He shuts the door, and the lock clicks very loud.

  “Three hundred and fifty for the both,” Rabbit says, cowering rabbit voice that wants to be brave, that wishes for the needle and sweet heroin salvation; the bald man smiles, hungry-dog smile and one silver tooth up front catching the candlelight. “Ou chich,” chuckled Creole and Rabbit shrugs, street-smart shrug even if he doesn’t feel it. “Whatever,” Rabbit replies, “We’re priced to sell ’round here,” and the ice not breaking even though the trick laughs again, every laugh just that much more frost in aching veins, laugh and “You’re a funny masisi, funny faggot,” Caribbean-accented bemusement, Jamaican or Haitian or something of the sort. The tall man just stands behind the fat man, stands with his back against the door, and doesn’t smile or laugh or say a word.

  Only part of their turn-on, trying to psych you out, and Don’t you let ’em fuck around with your head, Rabbit thinks, trying to hear his own words in Arlo’s voice, or Chantel’s, Chantel three doors down who never gets cold feet with weirdoes. But it’s still just his voice, small thing rabbit-whispering from tall bayou grass. And a fat roll of bills comes out of the bald man’s coat pocket, rubber-band snap, and he’s peeling off two, three, four, laying them down like gospel, like an exclamation point on the table by the door, the table with plastic lilies stolen late one night from a St. Louis vault. Sun-faded plastic lilies in a dry vase.

  “Gonna fuck you till you can’t sit down, funny masisi,” and Rabbit looks to the money for strength, four one hundred dollar bills, crisp new paper, bright ink hardly touched, and there’s an extra fifty in there, fifty free and clear of Franklin’s cut. “Yeah,” he says. “Whatever you want, Mr. – ” and the customary pause, blank space for an alias, your name here, but the bald man is busy getting out of his jacket, too busy to answer, or maybe he just doesn’t want to answer. The tall, still man takes his companion’s jacket, drapes it gently across one thin arm, like some nightmare butler, and the bald man reaches for his zipper.

  “What about him?” Rabbit asks, trying to sound hooker-tough, but almost whispering instead, sounding scared instead and hating it, motioning at the man with his back pressed to the bedroom door. “He doesn’t talk much, does he?”

  “He don’t talk at all, and he don’t fuck. So you don’t be worrying about him. You just gonna worry about me.”

  “You paid enough, for both – ”

  “Fèmen bouch ou,” and a sudden flicker like lightning in the man’s dark eyes, flickering glimmer down a mine shaft so deep it might run all the way to Hell. Rabbit doesn’t understand the words, but enough meaning pulled from the tone of that voice, from those eyes and the hard lines of his face to know it’s time to shut up, just shut the fuck up and play their game by their rules until it’s over.

  “Stop talking and take off that ugly dress,” the man says, and Rabbit obliges, unzips quickly and lets the very plain black dress fall around his ankles, a pool of black cotton around his heels to step out of, reluctant step closer to the man. His pants already down, grey silk trousers to match the jacket, but no underwear, uncircumcised droop, bizarre and fleshy orchid, organ, but he’s getting hard, and Rabbit knows he’ll probably be using hemorrhoid pads tomorrow, shitting a little blood as well. The pants are hung on the tall man’s arm now, too, and still no emotion in that face, every movement past slow or efficient, pared to jerky last stop before coma paralysis. Rabbit feels cold inside, more naked than can be explained by the discarded dress; the bald man makes a satisfied sound in his chest, mumbled approval, and Rabbit glances at himself in the dresser mirror. His thin body like a teenage girl’s, almond skin, legs and underarms shaved smooth, and he’s wearing nothing now but the black lace and satin, bra and panties trimmed with scarlet, naughty somber contrast, matching garter belt and thigh-high net stockings on his long legs: nothing to mar the cultured illusion of his femininity except the subtle bulge at his crotch and the flatness of his chest.

  “Sure you a boy?” the man asks, and this is nothing new, this question and the answering so routine that Rabbit can almost relax a little. He hooks a thumb into the front of his panties, pulls them down enough to reveal his own sex, the sex of his flesh, and the man nods, one hand rubbed across his hairless, glinting scalp. “Leave them on.” he mutters.

  “Sure, if that’s what you want,” and now the man’s big hands are on him then, sweat-warm palms and fingers over his cool skin. Hard kiss like something desperate, something forced that isn’t, but needs to feel that way, faint cigar taste, tongue pushing past Rabbit’s teeth and inside him, exploring teeth and palate and his own tongue. And then their lips parting, and a string of spittle between them to cling to Rabbit’s chin.

  “Bend over, bitch,” the bald man says, and Rabbit bends over, hands on the bedspread, ass to Heaven, and he feels his panties coming down, draws a deep breath before two wet fingers shove their way inside him, probing, working his asshole, and he closes his eyes, braces knees against the sagging bed as those strong hands grip his thighs, purchase found, strong fingers to leave bruises behind, and there’s the smallest whimper from Rabbit’s lips as the bald man’s cock pushes its way inside.

  The very last door at the sunset end of a hall that is all doors, six choices with antique crystal knobs to ease decision, and that last door is Chantel Jackson’s; been here longer than anyone, any of the boys, longer even than Arlo. Her end of the deal upheld after JoJo Franklin paid for her trip to Brussels, money she’d never have to resolve the quandary between her legs, and money he’d never miss. In return, she’s the house specialty now, this o
ne all the way, not just a pretty boy in frilly drawers, no shit, wanna know what it’s like to fuck pussy that used to be dick? And she’s got no complaints, so many ways things might have gone so much worse, and that resolution all she ever really wanted, anyway.

  No complaints except that magnolia right outside her window, and there’s a few minutes before her two-fifteen so she sits on her bed, smokes and watches that scary old tree, the sash down and locked, smudgy glass protection between her and those crooked limbs, big leaves like the iridescent green shells of a thousand gigantic beetles. Nothing good about that tree, and mostly she ignores it, keeps the blinds down and tries not to notice the shadows it makes on her walls day and night. But sometimes, like now, when the demons inside are worse than the demons outside, she tries to stare it down, make it blink first, make it flinch. She imagines that magnolia shriveling the way movie vampires do if the sun gets at them, all those leaves turning brown and dropping off, the tree gone to dust before they even touch the ground, the gnarled trunk husk laid bare like a guilty heart, and wood cracks and splits, and the earth opens to take it back down to Hell. Or, maybe it bends itself over, pulls up its roots, tired of the masquerade if some tranny hooker bitch has its number, anyhow, and so it shamefully drags itself back to the swamps, move over, Mr. Catfish, move over, Mr. Snapping Turtle, and it’ll lie waiting in some black pool until everyone’s forgotten it again.