by Ray Garton
—and opened his lips, let the man’s tongue ease into his mouth, felt his own tongue being drawn out, being sucked over the stranger’s teeth as—
—a stream of thoughts rushed through his mind, thoughts of Kassandra and Grandma—how he loved them both—and he hoped they would be well, would do well, because he knew he was going to die soon, he had no doubt, but he had no strength in him, either, no will to resist, because part of him was already gone . . .
The man’s face was pressed hard to his, turning this way, that way, twisting and pulling.
Pulling? Chas thought, suddenly more alert. Pulling . . . why is he pulling and what is he pulling and why is there paaaiiin?
The stranger’s head snapped back with a wet tearing sound.
He was smiling.
He stood.
Spat something into the sizzling pan.
Chas’s scream gurgled through a mouthful of blood that sprayed out and speckled his face. He flailed for something to hold and grabbed the handle of the oven door. Pulling himself up, the door slammed open and he fell again, swung another arm up, grabbed the edge of the stove, pulled, stood—
—and saw his tongue nestled in a round patty of dark, hardened scrambled eggs bubbling with grease.
He tried to scream again, but only spat blood onto the omelette, his entire body trembling, right arm propped to the stove, elbow locked.
The stranger was smiling when Chas turned to him, licking the blood from his lips. His arms were moving; his hands were busy below . . .
Chas looked down.
The man was unfastening his trousers.
“No,” Chas pleaded, gurgling the word, shaking his head. He tried to say I only wanted to help you that’s all please DON’T DO THIS! But the words only spilled onto his shirt and slapped to the floor.
Chas’s amber stone ring caught a bit of light as the stranger’s hands pulled the trousers open.
It fell out.
Chas lost consciousness.
3
Questions
“Private clubs? Baths?”
Kassandra blinked at the man with the weary face. He sat across a desk from her, hunched forward, eyes a bit bleary, cheeks sagging, graying hair combed straight back.
“Whuh . . . what?”
“Did he frequent any private clubs or bath houses?”
He was talking about Chas, this man, asking more questions like the uniformed officers had. They’d been waiting for her at the café when she arrived.
“We’re very sorry, miss,” one had said, “but we’ve got some bad news.”
She’d slapped a hand over her mouth. “No. What? What did he do? What did he do to Chas?”
They told her a neighbor had heard Chas scream.
Kassandra couldn’t imagine how Chas’s voice would sound screaming; he’d always spoken so softly, so gently . . .
She’d been nauseated since the ride to the station and one of the officers had given her a Tums. She popped it in her mouth now and crunched it between her teeth.
“Oh, those,” she said. “No. Uh-uh.”
“Public parks?” The man said it slowly, as if he were about to yawn. A rectangular plaque on his desk read LT. CHESTER FLEMMING.
“Public . . . no,” she snapped, suddenly angry. “Look, he didn’t dick little boys through bathroom walls, okay?”
Lieutenant Flemming picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser to his Rolodex.
“You said your roommate was gay, Miss Kaye.”
“Gay,” she said. “Not queer. There’s a . . .” Her throat felt thick and her eyes burned with tears. “. . . a big difference.”
“Can you give me the names of his lovers?”
“I can’t . . . I don’t . . . it’s not gonna help. Chas doesn’t even—did—didn’t . . . even . . . know this guy. It wasn’t a gay thing, all right!”
For a moment, something came alive in the man’s face, twitching over his features as he shuffled some papers on his desk, clearing his throat. “Like to read you something. Coroner’s notes. Uh, let’s see, here, ‘tongue severed from mouth in such a manner as to suggest it was bitten out . . .’ ”
Kassandra slid down in the chair a little, slowly closing her eyes.
“ ‘. . . bite marks on the back of the neck . . .’ ”
Leaning forward, she held her stomach, feeling a sob coming up. “Please,” she whispered, seeing it in her mind, seeing those things being done to her friend, hearing his cries . . .
“ ‘. . . evidence of massive anal penetration, resulting—’ ”
“Please . . .”
“ ‘—in multiple and severe—’ ”
“. . . stop it.”
“ ‘—lacerations of the—’ ”
“Look, will you cork it, asshole!”
“ ‘—rectal . . . cavity.’ ”
She was sobbing now, hugging herself, rocking in the still chair.
“Look, can I. . . I really can’t listen to anymore, and I . . . just to grab my insulin . . . can I go back?”
“You a diabetic?”
Even full of tears, her eyes rolled and she said, “No, I dab a little behind my ears twice a day. Yes, I’m diabetic.”
“We’d like to find this guy, Miss Kaye,” Lieutenant Flemming said, setting aside the papers and making room for a fresh blank one. “Before he, uh . . . you know, makes an omelette out of someone else’s tongue.” Pencil poised to write. “Lovers?”
She swallowed some tears. “Look, it’s nineteen eighty-eight, you know? I mean, he didn’t have a bunch.”
“Makes it that much easier. First names if that’s all you have. We’ll start with the most recent and work back.”
Kassandra stared at the lieutenant’s pencil, crying some more, realizing that the worst of it, the part that made her hurt the most, was that she wouldn’t be able to go home and tell Chas about all this over a pot of tea . . .
4
A Beautiful Day
in the Neighborhood
When the warlock left the house with his host’s blood still fresh in his mouth and on his genitals, he was encouraged by the day. The sky was an eye-watering blue, the sun bright. The Lord’s will was best visible on clear still days, not on dark and stormy nights like old wives and children thought.
He walked down the steep path to the road and the black and gray cat followed him. He didn’t know where he was, so he didn’t know where to go, but he started walking. The cat followed close at his heel at first, fell back for a while, then quickly caught up again.
An odd but fascinating coach rode by, pulled by nothing, rolling on four strange padded black wheels. It smelled of some sort of filthy, but apparently effective, magic.
Perhaps the Father had sent him to a place of magic . . . a place for warlocks . . .
Hell, perhaps? he thought. Then, Surely not. Surely some of the rumors must be true, and this is rather . . . pleasant. He fancied the idea of hellfire and brimstone.
He began to whistle. He had no idea where he was headed, but he was confident he was being sent there for a reason.
The warlock was confident his Lord would send him a sign . . .
Terry Hanson, a twenty-five-year-old man at the wheel of his bright red Suzuki Samurai, wearing white Bermuda shorts and a yellow muscle shirt, didn’t usually pick up hitchhikers, but this one was just too cool. He wore tight black pants—not like any Terry had ever seen before, but with an odd wraparound look to them—and a baggy black shirt mostly covered by a formfitting black coat with a long cape-like tail that hung below his waist. A black and gray cat trotted along beside his feet.
He was walking along Mulholland Drive when Terry pulled his Samurai to the shoulder and shouted, “Hop in, dude!”
The man looked, at first, as if he were offended by the suggestion, then swept the cat up in an arm and climbed uncertainly into the Samurai, giving Terry a suspicious stare.
“Where you headed?” Terry asked, swinging back onto the road.
&nbs
p; He looked so . . . curious for a moment, head tilting right and left, lips moving slightly.
“I . . . I wish to see . . . your village,” he said finally.
“Oh, you mean, like, Westwood?”
“West . . . wood . . .” He stroked the cat absently.
“Hey . . . you all right, man?”
The stranger was inspecting the dash, frowning. “Your coach . . .” he said with puzzlement, but didn’t go on.
“Samurai. Boss, huh? Even has a CD. Parents got it for my birthday. Dad’s an exec over at Fox.” He chuckled. “My stepmom’s a professional wife. Been married five times.” He flipped open a box between the seats to reveal a collection of compact discs in square plastic cases.
The man sorted through the albums, pulled one out, looked at it, and grinned. The disc case was decorated with a pattern of pentagrams surrounding an upside down crucifix.
“Witchcraft?” the man muttered.
Terry laughed. “Yeah, witchcraft. Backward masking, Satan worship . . .” He lifted his hands from the wheel, waggled his fingers, made a weird “woo-woooo-woo-woo” sound, and laughed again. “Gives the evangelists something to scream about between forty-dollar blow jobs, y’know?” He slipped the disc into the player and said, “You a foreigner? British? You ever watch The Young Ones on MTV? That’s British.”
The man seemed startled by the blast of heavy metal that suddenly pounded from the speakers; he wrinkled his nose and looked at the CD player with disgust.
“What, too loud?” Terry asked. He turned the music down. “Hey, the rags’re smokin’, dude,” he said, gesturing to the man’s clothes. “Where do you shop? Especially those buckles on your shoes, man, you could start something with those. But you know what would be really smokin’?” The man simply stared at Terry, so he went on.
“A black leather jacket. You know, the motorcycle type? You in a band?”
“A band?”
“Yeah, you look like a rock singer, or somethin’. Hey, you wouldn’t mind a little, like, a detour, would you? I gotta pick up my girlfriend and Westwood is a little outta the way, y’know? So I thought I’d, like, pick her up first. Name’s Danielle. By the way, I’m Terry. Glad to know ya.” He smiled, chuckled a little, and shook his head. “It’s nothing serious between us, y’know? Danielle and me. But, like, a guy can’t take his pants off too often, these days. Not in this weather, man. I mean, not just AIDS, either, but all that shit. Herpes, chlamydia, syphillis. It’s a jungle out there. Best to just settle down, y’know? So Danielle and I, we’re thinking of maybe getting married.”
Danielle was a perky blond girl with dark skin. She laughed a lot and complimented the stranger on his clothes three times. In fact, Danielle took quite a liking to him, even though he hardly spoke.
“Oh, Terry,” she said, “we oughtta invite him to Mitch’s party Saturday night, huh?” To the hitchhiker: “You oughtta come to Mitch’s party Saturday night. You got a girlfriend? Or whatever? Y’know, it’s a good idea these days to just, like, pick one and stay home. The sexual revolution is over. Terry and me are playing it safe. We’re gettin’ married.” She smiled at Terry. “Anyway, if you’ve got one, bring her. Or him. Wanna come?”
“If you want,” Terry said, “you can come out to the beach with us. We’re going to meet with friends.”
“You’re not really dressed for it,” Danielle added; she was sitting in back, leaning forward between the two front seats, and her head turned back and forth from Terry to the hitchhiker. “But you’re welcome.”
“Or do you have an appointment?”
The man nodded slightly, jaw firm, and said, “I have an appointment.”
“Oh, well,” Terry said. “We could give you Mitch’s address and you could just, like, show up.”
“That . . . will not be necessary.” The man looked around them at the buildings and people and signs and stoplights they passed as they entered Westwood. “I wish to go now.”
“Right here?”
He nodded.
“Well, okay . . .” Terry wondered if he’d said anything to offend the guy; he seemed pretty abrupt.
The man struggled with the door handle, finally got the door open, and climbed out of the Samurai, turning to them.
He said, “You have been . . . generous,” and bowed slightly. “I thank you.”
Danielle said, “Well, hey, it’s nicetuhmeetcha,” and leaned forward to shake his hand, but her finger caught on the back of the seat and a long nail snapped off and fell into the seat. She reached for the nail, but—
—the stranger reached it first, asking, “May I have it?”
Danielle blinked. “Sure,” she said, then turned to Terry with a giggle and whispered, “Kinda kinky’, huh?”
“Later, dude,” Terry called with a wave, driving away from the curb . . .
. . . where the warlock stood and looked around him.
He was surrounded by color, so much color, on the buildings and coaches and people and even on the walkways. Everyone—everything—seemed so busy, so frantic and festive.
He had entered a fascinating time filled with fascinating people.
They spoke so freely, Terry and Danielle—and so constantly—of things he’d known only to be kept silent. Such as syphillis. They seemed so frightened of such diseases and he smirked at the thought.
Amusing souls, Terry and Danielle . . .
As he strolled the walkways, passing people and windows, enjoying the sunshine, he held Danielle’s fingernail in his hand, gently fondling it between his fingers . . .
. . . knowing that with each stroke of his warm fingertips, something insidious grew . . . and spread . . . in the darkest folds of Danielle’s body . . .
Such amusing souls, Terry and Danielle . . .
The warlock saw a sign.
THE MAGICK MERCHANT
Magic for
•BIRTHDAYS•
•BAR MITZVAHS•
•ALL OCCASIONS•
Only one word on the sign meant anything to him: MAGICK.
Below the sign, there was a man . . .
. . . sitting in the window.
His name was Gregory Jarvis. He was fifty-six, portly, had manicured nails, and spent a good deal of his working time in the window of his shop, wearing his hokey wizard’s robe and cap and demonstrating his wares.
At the moment, he was amusing passersby with the old pick-the-cup-with-the-ball-underneath game.
Moments ago, two blue-haired ladies with canes and a poodle had been watching, taking turns with their guesses, but they had gone; he was too good for them.
Gregory sighed, standing from his card table in the window and missing for a moment, as he often did, the days when he’d performed in small nightclubs for delighted, albeit inebriated, audiences.
Turning to step out of the display area, Gregory saw the man. He hadn’t been there just half a heartbeat before, but he was there now, staring at the three cups on the table.
Gregory had never turned his back on an audience, even an audience of only one.
He grinned, lifted his arms in welcome, and waved his right hand before him, producing the small white ball from empty air. He seated himself at the table again, hid the ball under the center cup, and shuffled them deftly. Sitting back, he passed a hand over the cups, waiting for the stone-faced man to choose . . .
After stroking the cat in his arms for a moment, the man outside chose the cup on his right.
Gregory lifted it dramatically, showed nothing, revealed the ball under the center cup, and quickly shuffled them again.
Once again the man chose incorrectly.
Once again Gregory shuffled the cups.
Thoughtfully, the man chose the center cup.
Wrong again.
Gregory lifted the cup on the right to reveal—
—nothing.
He frowned. The ball was supposed to be—should be—there. But it wasn’t.
That had never happened before.
&n
bsp; Then, he thought, it must be—
The left cup held the same. Nothing.
Gregory looked up at his audience.
The man smiled as he cupped his palm beneath the cat’s chin. The ball fell from the cat’s mouth and he held it up between thumb and forefinger.
That can’t be, Gregory thought, looking down at the remaining cup.
The ball had to be there.
He lifted the cup and saw—
—nothing.
Until long hairy legs skittered out of the upside down cup in his hand, crawled over his fingers and—
—up the baggy sleeve of his wizard robe.
Gregory Jarvis screamed like a woman and fell backward in his chair, flailing his arms and legs as . . .
. . . the warlock laughed and walked away from the window, stroking the cat.
He passed another window displaying flat square packages with pictures on them. Each picture was accompanied by words:
Motley Crue.
Billy Idol.
Whitesnake.
There were many others, and so many of them displayed symbols with which he was very familiar, but which seemed to mean nothing here.
The disc he’d found in Terry’s coach had been decorated with pentagrams and inverted crosses, but had done nothing more than make offensive, brutal noises that meant nothing.
These were strange people; they surrounded themselves with such powerful tools but apparently had no idea how to use them.
He strolled on through the village called Westwood with his affectionate pet and a relaxed smile on his face.
There were lanterns that flashed red and green, signs that glowed with all colors, and in one window, marked with a nonsense series of letters—TVs VCRs—there were boxes with moving talking pictures in them.
The warlock stopped at the window and gazed in wonder at the boxes.
In one, a man and woman were embracing, kissing passionately, pressing themselves together hard. It was enough to make even him raise a brow.
Two women were sipping drinks and talking in the next box; their voices were muffled, but he could hear enough to know they were enthusiastically discussing something called a tampon.
The third box held a large black woman standing among a group of seated people. She spoke into an odd stick with a ball on the top end: “But do you, Reverend—I’m asking you personally—do you believe that witchcraft is a powerful and evil force in our country?”
