12 Bliss Street

by Martha Conway

  Nicola looked back out the window. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.

  The light turned green and they drove up Seventh Avenue past the reservoir then continued up the hill toward Portola. So far they were heading in the direction of the Golden Gate Arms and Nicola felt a little bit smug, a little I’m so smart. It would be okay, she thought. They will go to the motel, the police will be there. She pulled the chain on the door because you never know, maybe she’d turn out to be really lucky and the handcuff would unlock by itself.

  But instead of turning left on Portola Chorizo went over the hill and down the other side toward Glen Park and the highway. Nicola suddenly felt something wash over her, a clammy kind of sweaty feeling under her arms. This wasn’t the way downtown. This wasn’t the way to the motel. Where was he headed? She stared out the window in something like shock. She wanted to say: but the party’s downtown!

  “Where are we going?”

  Chorizo didn’t answer. She could see his profile, his dark birthmark, when he checked for oncoming traffic—he’s definitely nervous, she thought. As for her, well at this point nervous wasn’t the word. The wind was blowing even harder now; she could hear it through the windows. A wind from the north. This was bad. Nicola didn’t know what to do. What should she do?

  At last the car turned left onto a small side street, then turned left again. Nicola looked hard at the corner sign as they passed.

  “This is Bliss Street,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  The car went to the end of the narrow, dreary block, and slowed in front of the last house. Nicola stared at the address spelled out in gold above the door: 12 Bliss.

  She said, “But this is where Robert lives.”

  “Lived,” Chorizo corrected.

  Twenty-one

  Twelve Bliss, Robert’s home, was the last house on the block, built against a hill with cement steps leading—where? To the bus line, Nicola guessed. She had never been here before.

  There was something slightly off about the place. It was turned away from the other houses on the street, not quite on the grid, and thick wires crossed over the roof in several places protecting it like a loosely made web.

  The street itself was short and dark and empty. If this was bliss, then bliss was a kind of dry, secluded event, something solitary and enjoyed largely because of its furtive nature. Tall deciduous pines leaned dangerously near Robert’s property and the front yard was covered with nasturtiums—flowers that grew in chokehold vines around the house.

  In the garage the car’s headlights shined on a couple of metal desks against the back wall. On the desks were two computers—the computers Lou had seen. Chorizo cut the headlights and all it once it was completely dark. As Nicola’s eyes adjusted she could see two small points of lights like far-spaced eyes: the monitors’ power lights.

  “Robert left his computers running,” Nicola said.

  “Those are mine. I do a little of my work here sometimes.”

  “In Robert’s garage?”

  Chorizo didn’t answer. He turned off the motor, got out, then, rolling down the window, he unlocked Dave from the door. Dave was still conscious and he seemed perfectly able to walk by himself; still, Chorizo held onto his shoulder and hip and guided him out of the car then through the doorway.

  He came back for Nicola saying, “You’re next.” He unfastened her seat belt, unlocked her from the door, then locked her hands in front of her.

  “Watch your head.”

  “Oh, I’ve had plenty of practice with this,” she said, getting out.

  He took a square, black gym bag out from under the passenger’s seat, then with his other hand he held Nicola’s arm. She asked about her purse.

  He said, “We’ll leave that in the car.”

  They walked through badly fitting French doors into the room behind the garage, which had a low ceiling and wood paneling and smelled faintly like mold.

  “Robert had this room recently done over,” Chorizo said in the semidarkness. He carefully twisted the window blinds closed before he turned and flicked on a light. “The contractor did a terrible job. Look at that floor. So uneven.”

  In the middle of the room there was a futon couch and a low table with an empty glass on it. Dave was sitting in a chair in the corner. Behind him were three small, square windows and a door leading, presumably, to the backyard.

  But Nicola was staring at the opposite wall. A row of inflated rubber dolls were sitting, legs dangling, on a custom-built shelf. They wore wigs and their faces were painted in such a way that they appeared to have on makeup.

  There must have been twenty of them; they took up the entire wall. But weirdest of all were their costumes—negligees, camisoles, bustiers, chemises, and all in ugly, vibrant colors. Nicola couldn’t take her eyes away. In spite of the makeup there was something manly about the dolls, as if they were painted to look like guys in drag.

  “I knew about this, this rubber doll business, but it’s … it’s different actually seeing them. It’s sick,” Nicola said.

  “Isn’t it,” Chorizo agreed. He narrowed his eyes into a kind of smile.

  He said, “Wait until you see what’s next.”

  Her mouth went dry and Nicola felt herself washed of all feeling, preparing herself to take the worst. But Chorizo merely opened a cabinet. The cabinet was actually a tiny desk, she realized, a tiny workstation, with a computer and a pencil holder and several narrow black shelves. Inside, on a shelf, was a monitor.

  “Watch this,” Chorizo said.

  He sat in the desk chair then felt for the button underneath the monitor. The screen blinked and came to life. It took Nicola a minute to understand what she was seeing: a room. Everything was gray and small. It was not a very good picture really, the resolution was terrible. She could make out a bed, not made, and something—a foam mattress—on the floor. Someone was lying down on the mattress, someone who looked familiar … she knew that hair. Nicola stared. It was Carmen.

  And then she got it. She was looking at the bedroom in her own house. She was looking at a live monitor of the bedroom in her own house.

  Chorizo was watching closely, the shadow of a smile on his face. “Surprised?” he asked.

  I can’t believe it, Nicola was thinking. Scooter was right.

  “I was looking for Carmen and I was looking for you,” Chorizo went on. “I came to Robert’s house and here I found both of you. Isn’t that lucky?”

  “Unbelievable,” she said. She was still thinking about Scooter. How unbelievably annoying! When was the last time he was right about anything? She hated thinking that she should have listened to him. Nicola looked back at the dolls.

  “So he used me to dress his mannequins. He used my clothes. Clothes like mine.”

  “His model, so to speak.”

  “Creepy.”

  “He probably had an itch for you.”

  “Let’s hope it was just the easy access.”

  Chorizo turned the monitor a bit. “Yes, well, my problem was, I didn’t know where the camera was, what house he was videoing.”

  “You weren’t doing this together?” Nicola asked.

  Chorizo smiled. “We had our own separate hobbies. He showed me his Web site with the dolls and that’s how I got my idea for … for my own enterprise. He let me set up a computer in his basement here, and he put a link to my site on his page. But I don’t think he had any idea what I was really doing.”

  Nicola looked up again at the dolls. “You know, I thought some of those outfits seemed familiar. What, did he zoom in on my catalog covers as well?”

  Chorizo grinned. “Do you read them in bed?”

  She shuddered. “Thank God I haven’t had sex in a year.”

  “You haven’t had sex in a year?”

  Nicola hesitated. “That sounded better before I said it.”

  In spite of herself she kept looking back and forth from the monitor to the dolls. Really, she was more annoyed tha
n disgusted. She was annoyed with Robert for being such a sleaze, and she was annoyed with Scooter for being right, and she was annoyed with Chorizo for showing it to her with such obvious enjoyment.

  Suddenly though Chorizo’s smile faded and he stood still for a moment, listening to something. Or for something? He frowned. Then checked the window locks again.

  “All right, well, I think we’re set here,” he said after a minute. He went over to a long wardrobe against one wall and opened the door. There were easily thirty pieces of lingerie hung neatly on hangers inside.

  “Now here we have my stock. Of course, I never told Robert what I used them for. I wonder what he thought! But let’s see, what would be a good one for you. Hmmm. I can see you in red,” he said. He pulled a garment out and fingered the soft material.

  “Red?”

  “For the video. Feel this. It’s hard to believe it’s made out of tar.”

  Nicola said, “What is?”

  “Nylon. It’s made from tar byproducts. And do you know where the name nylon comes from?” he asked.

  He was teasing her: cat and mouse. Nicola thought, okay I’ll play your little power trivia game.

  “From the World’s Fair in New York,” she said. “That’s where it was first shown. They took the name from the city initials.”

  Chorizo lifted his eyebrows. “I forgot you were a clever girl.”

  “It caused the collapse of the Japanese silk market in 1940,” she said.

  “Is that so?”

  “And I prefer black if you have it,” she told him.

  Chorizo smiled. “I like your courage,” he said.

  “I don’t intend to let anything happen to me.”

  “Well, unless you have the key to those handcuffs you might be in for a surprise.”

  Nicola sat down on the floor with her handcuffed hands in her lap. The carpet was thin and smelled new. He knew she was bluffing. The dolls were creepy but the lingerie reminded her what she was here for. What was she here for? How far would this go? Her voice, at least, sounded steady, but her heart was racing like a bull.

  She had to face it: she was alone. She was alone and no one had any idea where she was. How could they possibly guess in time? Or ever? Nicola rubbed the nubby carpet with her two hands, trying to think, trying not to panic. It was all up to her now. Dave was no use. She thought of her little epiphany back at the warehouse, when Scooter arrived and untied her at last—that she could get what she wanted if she believed in herself. She could be in charge of her life.

  Well at this point, she thought, I pretty much have to be.

  Chorizo took a bottle of water out of his gym bag and unscrewed the top, then suddenly stopped and tilted his head again.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Nicola held her breath for a second to listen. “Just the wind,” she told him.

  “Does it sound … unusual to you?”

  “It comes out of the north this time of year. December and January.”

  “I don’t mean that,” Chorizo said, but he didn’t say what he did mean. Instead he quickly stepped across the room and locked the French doors that led back to the garage.

  There was no doubt, he was also on uncharted ground. A little jittery. Here’s a woman who knows what’s going down, who might fight him. I can’t just give up, Nicola thought. But she could feel the edge of panic like something clammy brushing against her skin. Her hands were shaking. She exhaled slowly and thought: what I want is to live.

  When Chorizo came back he gave her a drink of water, holding the bottle to her lips. She felt the warmth of his hands under her chin and her chest seemed to tighten. He is not going to hurt me, she told herself. It was a resolution.

  I can’t be afraid.

  She looked over at Dave, who was clearly in his own world. Meanwhile Chorizo began sorting through the rack of lingerie. Next to the wardrobe was a long mirror, and Chorizo held a garment up to his chest then looked at his reflection.

  He had a beautiful straight back and beautiful gestures and he took hangers off the rod and lifted them out with a neat but showy gesture. He was really very handsome, Nicola thought again. For a freak.

  “So, Chorizo,” she began.

  “Why do you call me that? You said that before, in the car.”

  “I don’t know. It’s how I thought of you before I knew your name. It’s what you eat at that café.”

  “Americans with their nicknames.” He held a sheer black negligee up to his neck.

  “So, anyway, what’s your story?” Nicola asked.

  Chorizo selected two black chemises and lay them carefully across the back of the office chair. “I have no story.”

  “Everyone has a story.”

  “Everyone has a life,” Chorizo corrected. “Not everyone has a story.” He smoothed the fabric of a purple bustier. “Let’s consider this one too,” he said, and laid it on the chair with the others.

  “People go from point A to point B,” Nicola continued. “I just want to know how.”

  “Or why.”

  “Or why.”

  “And that’s what I won’t tell you,” Chorizo said.

  “You won’t tell me why.”

  “I won’t tell you why.”

  “Isn’t it in the code of murderers to tell their victims why?”

  “I hate that word.”

  “Murderer?”

  “Victim,” said Chorizo.

  “Look at that boy,” Nicola said, meaning Dave. His eyes were closed now, and his head had fallen back on the chair’s headrest at an odd angle. Was he unconscious?

  “He’s so young,” she went on. “How much time does he have?”

  “Oh, maybe an hour.”

  “He’s barely begun to live.”

  “The world won’t miss him.”

  “Yes, but.…”

  Chorizo was looking at another black garment. “Please don’t start in about his mother.”

  “I was going to say yes but he’ll miss the world,” Nicola finished.

  “You think after he dies he’ll be sitting somewhere looking down at the rest of us?”

  “Could be.”

  “So you believe in the afterlife.”

  Nicola shifted on the carpet. “At this point I would have to say yes.”

  “You’re only saying that because you are about to die.”

  “According to you.”

  “If you’re only saying that because you’re about to die, then it’s not a belief, it’s a hope.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Faith,” Chorizo said. He stopped looking through the rack for a moment, and looked down at his hands.

  “Do you hold this faith?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you hold some hope then?”

  Chorizo hesitated. “No.”

  “This life is it,” Nicola said.

  “This life is it,” he agreed.

  “Then why do you do it? Why kill people when this life is it for them? You don’t seem like that kind of person to me.”

  “I don’t go in for that sort of thinking,” Chorizo said. He looked over at himself in the mirror again. “I do what I need to,” he said.

  Nicola watched him watch himself. There was more than just vanity there. “You must believe in something,” she said.

  Chorizo smiled. “You remind me of my wife.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “Yes, that’s right, I have a wife.”

  “You’re doing all this for her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is there a camera in this room somewhere?” Nicola looked around. “Is she watching this somewhere?”

  “Not where she is.”

  Chorizo picked up the pile of clothes he had selected and brought them over to Nicola. She was still sitting on the floor. He held one up and Nicola looked at it and shook her head.

  “Too small. So, is she dead?” she asked him. “Your wife?”

  Chorizo’s face changed
.

  “Not dead,” Nicola said. “But inaccessible. In jail?”

  She watched him closely. Chorizo didn’t move.

  “She’s in jail,” Nicola decided. “You’re trying to get her out. But how can snuff films help?”

  Chorizo put down the chemise he’d been holding up and picked up the next one.

  “What about this?”

  “No,” she said. He put it down and picked up another. She shook her head again. “Too many poky things. So your wife is in jail; you want to get her out.… Okay, I get it, you need the money. You’re charging, what, probably hundreds of dollars to view one show. Let’s say five hundred dollars a hit.”

  Chorizo looked at her.

  “My guess is bribery,” she said. “You need money for bribes.”

  Chorizo shrugged his shoulders and held up the next piece of underwear and Nicola shook her head.

  “So she’s not in jail in the U.S.,” she said.

  Chorizo laughed. “You think United States officials will not take bribes?”

  “I’m thinking how much you will make on the snuff films. Not enough for someone in the U.S. Enough for say, Turkey.”

  Chorizo’s face didn’t change.

  “Or Greece.”

  She watched him carefully.

  “Or, oh, I have it, Cyprus.”

  Nicola watched Chorizo and almost laughed. “That’s it,” she said. “Cyprus.”

  “You are very good,” he said. “How do you do it?”

  “I pay attention. I believe my instincts.”

  “Do you know what an instinct is?”

  “It’s information your brain receives but doesn’t know how to process,” she told him.

  “That’s good. That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “So Cyprus, that makes sense,” Nicola said. “You can practically see Cyprus from Kas.”

  “You can see Cyprus from Kas,” Chorizo corrected. “From what I hear. Though I’ve never been to Kas myself.”

  “But it’s your hometown, you said. You told me that last week.”

  “Oh, I just heard you talking about it one day to the waiter. I’ve never been there myself. Too many tourists.”

  Nicola thought for a moment. So he’d been listening to her conversations. Gathering information. “You mean I was a target all the time?”