Black Lotus Kiss

by Jason Ridler

“Sounds like a lost track from Robert Johnson,” Wendell said, halfway between my legs. Shirley half-laughed with a career smoker’s nicotine gurgle.

  “My boy’s a stand-up comic. Big draw at Ciro’s on the Strip.”

  Ciro’s was a legit nightclub and they hired headline comic talent. “Didn’t know I was dealing with comedy royalty. Where did you get your start, Wendell?”

  He finished measuring my inseam, then ran a quick gait into a sea of clothes. “Like all true artists, I came from nowhere and nothing and wait in limbo for my overnight success. More exactly, I was in a Christian revival family act. I loved show biz, and they threw me off the covered wagon when they realized I was playing with balls at night.”

  Then his hand snapped out of the pile with the three collapsible felt balls.

  “Until they turned red and grew a friend!”

  Shirley clapped. “He just makes this stuff up on the spot, can you believe it?”

  I could. “Shirley, you don’t have to wait here. What about your adoring fans outside?”

  She walked over, trying to look sultry in the yellow light, but what she looked beneath the makeup was sick. Worse was how she sounded. Without the noise of the store, you could hear her breathing was ragged and haggard. She used to move like a swinging blade onstage, legs like iron wrapped in fishnets, and she was strong enough to toss me around the way she liked. But those memories were lost to weak lungs, a sore heart, and a desire for denial to be a cure for whatever was ailing her. There was a taste—not magic, just life—of something crossed that could not be undone. She was a startling vision of life before the next station change on the radio we call mortality. But there was no tear in my eye or pity in my heart as she drew close enough for me to feel her breath. Right now, before me, Shirley Martell was a terrible beauty who still made me want to surrender. “Boys always wait for me, James. You know that.”

  Then she took a kiss. And I surrendered. Smoke and life, hard wet teeth, and for twice in a lifetime my arms didn’t know what to do as she took that kiss and made me her own, swimming together as she placed cold fingers on my ass and pulled my crotch to her belly, hips dancing with me like I was her puppet and the show was completely in her hands.

  “Save it for the ten o’clock show!” Wendell said, tan trousers over one shoulder, navy jacket over the other. “What if America sees that love knows no age! We’d be having babies dating grannies.” He grabbed his head and mocked tearing his hair out. “That is madness!”

  Shirley’s chest heaved with a giggle she was trying to keep from turning into a cough. She pulled back. “Was it worth the wait?”

  I looked down at my member, giving her a righteous salute. “On behalf of all of us, I can say without a shadow of a doubt it was.”

  “Smart gang,” she walked to the office door and darkness enveloped her. “Wendell? This is on the house. Just get the rags he was wearing and burn them.”

  Shirley coughed with the turning of the door’s latch, as if to hide it. She exited and closed the door behind her. Soon thereafter, the shop bell sounded and the lost boys of the love generation were rushing down the aisle to worship their beloved.

  “You know she’s sick, right?”

  Wendell sat at a little desk with a Singer, lining up the bottom of the tan trousers under the needle.

  “How long?

  He shrugged. “She won’t say.”

  “I get it.”

  He gave me the stink eye. “Get it? That’s rich. Might as well be talking about napalming babies and why it’s bad. I get it. I don’t feel it. I don’t see it. I get it, like a brochure or a commercial of a real feeling. It’s different when you’re the one cleaning up the bloody tissues.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Death is easy, comedy is hard.”

  He started to press the treadle to operate the machine, but something was stuck under it: the brown toe cap of my wingtip. Wendell leaned back, scared but somewhat defiant. My voice chilled. “You’re an asshole, you know that? And the only thing keeping me from giving you a lesson in impossible contortions so that you might, indeed, be able to fuck yourself, is that you’re the one giving Shirley joy.” I yanked my shoe free. Then I held out my hand. “Thank you for making her happy.”

  He took it. It was neither strong, nor weak, but the opposite of his appearance: completely controlled. We broke off and he told me to sit. “Turning a cocktail napkin into a magic carpet takes a solid ten minutes.”

  He was ridiculously correct.

  I abandoned my favorite suit for tan slacks, a navy blue double-breasted blazer, white shirt, and burgundy tie. I looked like the kind of putz who enjoyed the links and a par four, attended senior executive functions (whatever that was), and fucked his secretary in Palm Springs while his wife fucked her gardener in Cabo. The guy who shit on the man in the gray flannel suit. The boss. The operator. The clothes fit perfectly, and in the glare of a full-length mirror, circled by boxes full of gags and magic, I felt like even more of a pretender than when I handed Shirley the wrestling mask. A complete and utter phony who thought the world was his pleasure yacht and used everyone else like toilet paper.

  “Now you look fit for the Hilton,” Wendell said from behind me. I turned.

  “Thanks. You’re really good at—”

  “Everything, I know, it’s a burden, but I bear it like Jesus on Easter.”

  I rarely want to punch someone in the face that much, but the mirth and more he was giving Shirley was an invisible shield protecting his mug. Plus, I’d already shaken his hand. “Word to the wise, Wendell?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir as it is.”

  “Don’t quit your day job.”

  “And what do you know—”

  “I mean the comedy. You’re a decent magician, and this store is a great way to keep sharp, but you’ve got a gift for making people laugh that other comedians would kill for.” Of course, I kept that case of a mad sorcerer trying to steal a comedian’s talent all to my bad self. “Don’t get lazy just because you have a captivated audience between recess and the final bell.”

  I turned to leave.

  “You won’t see her again,” he said. I stopped. “Will you.”

  I turned and smiled. “You never know. We live in a world of wonder. The impossible is always strongest when it’s being watched. Never would have thought I’d see her today and yet, here we are.”

  I left as he made a witty retort involving Descartes’ famous aphorism, and perhaps some Schiller, as if to make clear to yours truly he was actually the smartest cock in the yard. I denied him the victory of recognition, shouldered the gym bag, and yanked open the door.

  The burning daylight radiating through the glass gutted my eye, so I only saw the darkened specter of Shirley turn around with a gasp. “Ladies and gentleman, may I present Mr. James Farnsworth, a great patron of the magic arts and owner of several islands in the South Pacific.” I briefly held the attention of the boys, who realized they could now stare at Shirley’s bosom without her noticing.

  I bowed graciously. “Sorry to dash like this, Shirley, but my meeting is minutes away. Thanks so much for being the number one supplier of Magic Incorporated’s worldwide network of performers and establishments.”

  “Not at all!” she said, young and joyous, the phlegm in her throat cleared as if by grace. “But you come back when you’re in town next, James. You still owe me tickets to a wrestling match at the Olympic. I just love those masked men. So mysterious!”

  “It’s a date.”

  I got outside. I opened the cab door, climbed in, sat, and swallowed my heart.

  “Right on time,” Hector said, then looked in the rearview mirror. “Hey? Hey, lucha, are you okay?”

  I wiped my face dry, then smiled. “Just not used to clothes this fine.”

  He read my expression and shifted gears. “Hey, you win enough, you will wear clothes like that all the time! You any relation to Gory Guerreros? I hear he has a son wrestling in
Japan.”

  “No relation. Tell me more about your uncle as we head for the Hilton.”

  He did, without looking back at me, and by the time we pulled into the entrance of the mansion of a hotel—a great white gold edifice against the glow of the early evening, the Pacific at its back like a beautiful slave—my ducts were dry. I might be dressed like a millionaire, but I was reminded of something Shirley once said when I apologized for wearing the same shirt twice in a row to her place. “Honey, I love money and what it can bring, but what matters is what you keep in here.” She’d tapped her head. “Make memories so beautiful and rich that when the Grim Reaper comes for you, you’ll show him things even that old fuck has never seen.”

  “You need me for another run, lucha?” Hector said.

  I grabbed the bag. “No, but thanks for the family history.” I handed him a ten. Before he could protest, I added, “Take it with gratitude; I loved hearing the stories.”

  He shrugged, took the ten. “See you around, lucha.”

  “If you get off early enough, I’ll have you on the guest list at the Olympic. Tell them the Assassinator said it was jake.”

  “Gracias! I hope you banish the villain in the ring!”

  I smiled, nodded, and hoped the same thing.

  19

  HECTOR’S CAB GAVE ME A WHIFF OF EXHAUST THAT I found soothing before I faced the glitz.

  Gilding the lily must have been the mantra for the school of architecture that birthed the sandy towers of the Venice Beach Hilton. If Dracula had been a beach bum, he’d have a penthouse suite there with the windows blacked out. There’s a certain kind of opulence in L.A., a particular brand of gaudy that came in with the white people and the money they minted with their white moving pictures. The face of this flashy monstrosity was, at first blush, the exterior of the Aragonese Castle. But all faces have a skull beneath, and from what I’d heard, there were bones in this place from Chicano labor. Conrad Hilton made a fortune by turning graveyards of the working class into palaces for the chosen. I had a hard time washing the taste of that out of my mouth as I saw a couple in their sixties exit the silver-and-gold front door. He wore a red ascot and sailor cap, she a gold and black dress with liver spots beneath her diamonds and pearls. I walked across the driveway as they strutted out.

  “Bring the car!” he said to the young black man in the red bellhop outfit.

  “Right away, Mr. Stringer.”

  “And careful what you touch.”

  “Really, Aubrey,” said the woman. “They can’t afford to have proper bellhops.”

  I set the gym bag down. “And what might a proper bellhop look like?”

  Aubrey stood in front of his now-tarnished-by-age trophy wife. “Watch your mouth, smart guy. Nobody talks to my wife like that.”

  I grinned and spread my arms. “Then you must still live in the Confederacy. Welcome to the twentieth century, time travelers! Enjoy our indoor plumbing and emancipation.”

  “Do something, Aubrey!” Mrs. Stringer said. “He’s worse than your son.”

  The snarl on his face was not meant for me, but Aubrey was not the kind of man to back down. He took a boxing stance. “Say something else, junior, and I’ll feed you some golden gloves.”

  “Sorry, friend,” I said, hands up. “I live in the era of nonviolence. Your mastery of the sweet science is wasted here. But if you want to see the modern gladiators of the ring, I invite you to the Olympic, where you will see an enlightened crowd enjoy a fight that is actually about cooperation.”

  Mrs. Stringer pulled his arm. “He’s one of those crazy people from the Strip.”

  “He’s a bum who found a suit in an estate sale.” He dropped his fists. “A bum. You have it written over your face. Some blue-collar hood who works out and doesn’t know the meaning of class beyond the one he was born into. Enjoy your crazy routine, loser. I’ve seen better from worse.”

  The Cadillac approached. The door cracked open with just the right amount of pressure to leave no one any doubt that the owner was outside the car and not on the handle.

  “Thank you for choosing the Venice Hilton,” said the bellhop.

  Aubrey dove his hand into his blazer, took out a wad of cash and threw it behind him. “Consider this reparations.”

  The two miserable creatures piled into their car and vanished down the driveway while I helped the bellhop chase the paper birds in flight. When the last spinning green was snatched from the air, the entry door opened again, and a man with the cruelest combover I’d ever seen came running out with his own red coat, single breasted, buttoned on his belly. “Roger! What on earth are you doing? You look like some contestant on Truth or Consequences.”

  Roger sucked in air, because he knew that if he told the truth, it would sound ridiculous, and that might be fatal to his livelihood.

  I intervened. “The problem was mine, mister . . . ?”

  He adjusted his combover. “Duncan.” He looked at me. “Are you a guest of the Hilton, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m a friend of Alan and Veronica Carruthers, and I’m meeting them here.”

  The name Carruthers carried enough weight to sock Duncan in the jaw and turn his frown upside down. “Wonderful to have you with us. Any friend of the Carruthers family is an honored guest with us. Now, Roger—”

  “As you can see, my hands are real Snickers bars,” I continued as Roger looked on in resigned terror. Two white men battling for his future? God alive, it did make me feel shitty. “I was getting out my wallet when the big digits just went pure Butterfingers on me. Off the bills flew until this helpful young man took it upon himself to help someone he didn’t even know and hadn’t checked in. A selfless act and I’m grateful.”

  Duncan smiled, top lip glistening with sweat. “The Venice Hilton is always happy to serve the community.”

  I folded the stack of bills that Stringer had released and placed them in my pocket, Roger’s eyes registering that I was one rotten son of a bitch, taking the money another man had thrown at him, making me lower than dirt on a worm’s ass. “Now could you see if the Carruthers are here?” I regretted it as soon as I said it, but I was playing the friend card, and even if it alerted Veronica, I didn’t have to see her.

  “Of course, right away.” He smiled, but gave a batting look at Roger, then doubled back, adjusting his blazer as another bellhop opened the door for him.

  Roger was pure suspicion, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “Sorry for acting like such an ass.” I handed him the wad, folded down the center so it looked like a single bill to anyone looking on. “And sorry those Stringers are such shithooks.”

  He took the bills with long fingers and pocketed them in his jacket with a smooth, controlled motion similar to the way he’d opened the door. “Thanks,” he said. “And what the hell is a shithook?”

  I grinned. “An asshole’s kid brother.”

  He smiled. “I better get back to work. Duncan is impossible to keep happy.”

  “I bet. Say, you know anything about the perfume shop El Dorado?”

  He exhaled with a whew. “Place always smells wild.”

  “Ever see funny characters in there? Guys who might not fit in a fancypants place like this one?”

  “No, sir,” he said, formally, and he was now so guarded I realized that a friendly chat with any white guy always carried with it fears and assumptions about consequences for his words. “Mostly just women in there. Never seen a man go there alone.”

  “No boyfriends or husbands buying presents?”

  “If they are, they are with their girlfriends or wives. I think the place makes men . . . uncomfortable.”

  I nodded as if this all made sense. “Thanks again, Roger. Take care.”

  “I will,” he said as a Jaguar approached. I scuttled toward the door, which opened to reveal another young black man in red, stockier but just as respectful-yet-wary, which made my skin crawl.

  “Welcome to the Venice Hilton, sir.”

  “Than
ks. You friends with Roger?”

  He looked quickly at Roger, then me. “Yes.”

  I smiled. “Tell him to buy you a beer when you’re done work. The amount of crap you guys put up with, you need all the breaks you can get.”

  He nodded as if he’d been scolded, and I realized he couldn’t join in the festivities of my words. “Okay, sir.” Again, my privileged position made me feel like a shit, but I was burning daylight and hoped I’d done at least a little good. I’d just have to learn to do better.

  If the face of the Hilton was a skull, her brain cavity was a gilded nightmare, as if class and garish had fucked themselves silly and sired only one spoiled child—and she was a screamer. A vast gold-and-white foyer glittered with faux elegance, but all of this was drowned out by the thundering rush of a green fountain the size of a kraken’s sex organs and almost as ornate. Dusty cherubs lined the inner spire and peed in every direction at the ritzy glitzy clientele who wore sunglasses inside and tried to outdo the look of bored command that they’d practiced since private school.

  It’s not that I hate the rich, per se. But run around with the underclass long enough and you see the kind of desperation that would make the life of a Dickens character look like a permanent vacation. The barrios of East L.A., the slums of Harlem, the combat zone of Boston, the Street Without Joy in New Orleans, 9th and Hennepin in Minneapolis: places where families are cutting an egg six ways to eat on Christmas morning and one bad decision can leave you jailed, raped, dead, or all three. Live with those folks long enough and you develop a chip on your shoulder as dense as a king upon his incestuous throne. I’d never wanted to rule the world, which had infuriated Edgar to no end, but those who did, as that Greek fascist Plato noted, were likely the least capable of doing so.

  The Hilton smelled of aftershave, perfume, and exploitation. White summer suits and tan leather shoes made in Italy. Men strutted with models only slightly past their prime who were fighting aging with Estée Lauder in one hand and a surgeon’s scalpel in the other. Edgar joked once that someday you would be able to buy the face you wanted and have it replaced like glass eyes. When I foolishly asked where the faces would come from, figuring they’d be made in some science-fiction vat of green jelly, I had to endure Edgar’s snark. “Oh, you know, the usual suspects. The masses carry within them occasional gems and those girls will be commodities, sold like pig skin and rubber to the highest bidder. Imagine the fads! Swedish faces this year, Boer the next!”