In the Blood (Sonja Blue)

by Nancy A. Collins

  Two hours and twelve answering services later, he called Telephones Answered, Inc. and asked to speak to the head of Indigo Imports.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this is their answering service. Would you like to leave a message?”

  He had her. He fought to keep his voice from betraying his excitement. “Yes. Tell her William Palmer called. It’s very important that she contact me,” he said, and gave the operator his cell number.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll make sure she gets the message.”

  The call came at six that evening. He’d fallen into a light drowse, helped by a couple of shots of expensive bourbon he’d found in the wet bar, and nearly fell off the couch attempting to answer the phone before it rolled over to voicemail.

  “Hello?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, then a woman’s voice. “What do you want of me, Mr. Palmer?”

  “I’m a private investigator, Ms. Blue. I was hired by your grandfather to find you.”

  “You work for Pangloss?” There was both suspicion and curiosity in her voice.

  “Let’s say I owe him a favor. All I know is that I’m supposed to deliver a letter to you. Please, I’d like to arrange a meeting with you, if it’s at all possible.”

  “You will be alone.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Of course. You set the time and place. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Tuesday night at eleven. The Devil’s Playground, on the corner of Decatur and Governor Nicholls.”

  The severed connection droned in his ear like an angry hornet. Palmer’s hands were shaking, his shirt glued to his back. It was the same woman. The one from his dream. He’d recognized the voice. He blinked and massaged his brow with the flat of his palm. Christ, what was going on? Was it the acid he used to do back in his club days? If so, it had picked one hell of a time to treat him to a flashback.

  So many things had changed since he’d awakened from the coma. Sometimes it felt as if he’d spent the past thirty-eight years stumbling around in a sleepwalker’s daze and was only now fully awake. Other times it seemed he was on the verge of complete and utter mental collapse.

  Before his “accident” he had never experienced much in the way of nightmares. Not since he was a kid, anyway. He’d had some doozies back then. His parents had disapproved of his discussing the dreams. His father insisted that talking about ‘things that ain’t real and never will be’ was pointless and only lead to confusion and, in some strange logic that only he seemed to grasp, insanity. Whenever Palmer tried to talk about his dreams, his father would threaten him with what happened to his uncle, the one he was named after.

  “You keep fretting about stuff that ain’t real, you‘re gonna end up just like Uncle Willy! He was always worrying about the things he saw in his dreams. Where’d it get him, besides the State Hospital? You two are gonna end up sharing a padded room if you don’t lay off this shit!”

  He could still remember the day the men in the white suits took Uncle Willy away, screaming at the top of his lungs about the worms crawling out of his skin. Palmer’s father had been quite upset. People on TV didn’t have members of their family carted away. At least not on Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best. It happened on the soaps his mom liked to watch all the time, though. He smiled wryly as he reached for the bourbon. Uncle Willy better shove over, then, because he was going to have company.

  Palmer let the crowd push him along Bourbon Street. It was slow going and intensely claustrophobic, but in spite of the overcrowding, the noise, and the reek of piss and spilled beer, he was enjoying himself.

  It was Mardi Gras, and he’d spent the day wandering the narrow streets of the French Quarter, marveling at the costumes and sampling the various local alcoholic beverages. Carnival revelers on the balconies overhead tossed beads and other trinkets at the crowd below. Occasionally a drunken tourist would bare a tit or a backside, causing a shower of hurled plastic beads and a firestorm of camera flashes. The whole thing was silly, trivial, bawdy and dumb.

  Palmer thought it was great.

  He broke free of the press of bodies at the next intersection and headed toward Jackson Square to watch the costumers promenade past the Saint Louis Basilica. He was amused by a band of masqueraders dressed as frogs heckling the extremist fundamentalists, who were protesting the merrymaking by handing out their own bogus religious tracts.

  “Are you Saved, sir?”

  Palmer looked down at the florid-faced woman in the Christ Is the Answer Crusade T-shirt. Her eyes were so magnified by her coke-bottle glasses they seemed to hover in front of her face.

  “If not you shall burn in hell on Judgment Day!” she continued. “Jesus loves you, even if you are a sinner! If you confess your sin now, and kneel with me and pray for deliverance of your soul, it may not be too late for you. . “

  Palmer shook his head, too overwhelmed by the woman’s zealotry to say anything. It wasn’t until he’d disentangled himself that he realized she’d slipped a tract into his pocket. The title dripped red ink like slime and read: Are You Ready for the End Times?

  Judging from the crude illustration beneath the question, no one was: terrified “sinners” in tattered rags ran from flying insects the size of dachshunds, while haggard derelicts tried to slake their thirst at drinking fountain gushing blood, and a busty MTV-style Whore of Babylon lolled atop a seven-headed Beast. Meanwhile, in the background, a nine-hundred-foot-tall Jesus beamed beatifically at the hundreds of souls zipping skyward from a tangle of wrecked and abandoned cars on the interchange. Palmer tossed the tract to the ground and hurried away in search of beer.

  He passed the next few hours drinking concoctions with so much grenadine in them the back of his throat puckered. Darkness came, and, as if upon clandestine agreement, the families with children vanished from the area, leaving only the hardcore to bid farewell to the flesh as, which seemed compelled to cram as much as possible into the few hours remaining to them before returning to their normal lives.

  As darkness arrived, a shrill, almost hysterical, sense of abandon began to tinge the masqueraders’ celebrations, as drunken horseplay quickly turned into brawls. Palmer couldn’t tell the difference between screams and laughter in the crowd, and the eyes of the revelers gleamed from behind their borrowed faces. The need Palmer glimpsed in their bleary, unfocused stares was both repellent and fascinating. It was as if he were surrounded by thousands of empty people desperately trying to fill themselves. Suddenly he found himself overwhelmed by an image of being attacked by the screaming, laughing, empty people, who devoured his soul as easily as a lion cleans the marrow from a broken bone.

  Gasping, he pushed past a group of masqueraders dressed as cockroaches and stumbled inside one of the all-hours tourist traps that lined the street, selling novelty items and T-shirts. He leaned against a postcard rack and shivered like a drunk with the DTs. There was still an hour to go before he could consider his job done. He decided to lay off the booze so he would be in the right mind to talk with the elusive Ms. Blue. Or if he meant to steer clear of the nuthouse, for that matter.

  “You awright, mister?”

  Palmer jerked his head up and stared at the man behind the cash register. The shopkeeper was the overall shape and size of a small foothill, dressed in khaki pants and I Survived Katrina T-shirt. He chewed on an unlit cigar, eyeing Palmer warily.

  “You ain’t gonna be sick, are ya? If yer gonna puke, do it outside, fer th’ love ‘a Gawd! I awready cleaned up after three people t’night! Jesus!”

  “I’m okay, thanks. It was a just a little... crowded out there.”

  “Yeah, ain’t that the truth! I’ll be glad when ever’body goes home so’s I can get some sleep. Hey, is that a friend of yours?” He pointed at the busy street on the other side of the glass.

  Palmer turned around, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly erect, but all he saw was a well-fed tourist couple.

  “You mean them?”

  “No,
it was some guy in a suit. You know, dressed like them queers down at the art galleries. He was smokin’ a cigarette and wavin’ at ya, like he was tryin’ t’getcher attention.”

  “It must have been a case of mistaken identity. I don’t know anybody in this town.”

  The shopkeeper grunted and returned to thumbing through his racing forum. “Whatever ya say, Cap.”

  Palmer stared out into the street. He hadn’t lied. He didn’t know anybody in New Orleans. So why did he feel as if someone had just walked over his grave?

  The Devil’s Playground was a block off the historic French Market, and the odor of discarded produce was strong on the night wind, mixing with the ever-present reek of beer and urine that seemed to hang over the Quarter during Carnival. Painted flames covered the bar’s windows and a fiberglass statue of a grinning Mephistopheles, resplendent in his skintight red jumpsuit and neat goatee, stood next to the door. The Prince of Lies held aloft a pitchfork in his right hand, his left fist firmly planted on one hip, his jaunty demeanor far more reminiscent of Robin Hood than Goethe’s demon.

  Palmer pushed his way inside, ignoring the looks from a pair of men sheathed in black leather and chrome chains lounging near the door. The place was packed, the buzz of a hundred voices lost under the crash and thunder of amplified dance music. He scanned the cramped quarters for a sign of his quarry. He made a try for the bar, brushing against a tall, heavyset woman.

  The woman turned, smiling good-naturedly if somewhat drunkenly. Her face was heavily made up, chunky costume jewelry dripping from her fingers and ears.

  “Hey there, handsome.” Her voice was husky, her breath redolent of whiskey. She reached up with one beringed hand and patted her hair. “You look lonesome. No one should be by themselves on Mardi Gras. My name’s Velveeta.”

  “Uh, okay. My name’s Palmer. And I’m here to meet someone, actually.”

  Velveeta’s smile grew wider. “Aren’t we all, sugar?” She leaned closer and Palmer glimpsed a hint of five o’clock shadow under the makeup. “Maybe I can keep you company until he shows up.”

  Palmer shrugged. “Fine by me. But I’m waiting for a ‘she’, not a ‘he’.”

  “Oh, I see.” Interest drained from Velveeta’s voice as she returned her gaze to the mirror behind the bar, readjusting her wig.

  “Maybe you know her? Her name’s Sonja Blue.”

  The drag queen jerked her head in his direction so hard she unseated her wig. Palmer glimpsed thinning hair the color of wheat straw. “The Blue Woman? You’re meeting the Blue Woman? Here?!” she gasped, staring at him as if he’d just announced he had an armed nuclear device strapped to his back.

  Palmer was suddenly aware that everyone else in the bar was staring at him as well. The music continued to thump and growl like a caged animal, but no one spoke. His armpits began to dampen.

  “Get out of here! We’ve got enough trouble as it is without you bringing her here!” The bartender shouted, gesturing angrily at the door.

  “But—!”

  Suddenly a dozen pairs of hands grabbed him, lifting him off the floor. Palmer recalled how he used to stage dive at the hard-core concerts, leaping out into the crowd for a brief moment of stolen glamour before jumping back into the seething confusion of the mosh pit. He didn’t try to fight them and, instead, allowed himself to be roughly passed over the heads of the bar’s patrons and dumped, unceremoniously, back onto the street. He straightened his rumpled clothes as best he could, glancing back at the doorway. The two men dressed in leather and chrome moved forward and blocked the entrance.

  “Fuck this shit.” Palmer was in no position to take on two guys ten years his junior. Not if he wanted to keep what was left of his teeth in his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off around the corner before pausing to light a cigarette with trembling hands.

  Palmer.

  The voice was so close, it sounded like it was in his head. He spun around so fast he burned himself with his lighter, and found himself face-to-face with the woman he had been searching for. She was dressed in a pair of faded, much-worn blue jeans, a Cramps T-shirt, a ragged leather jacket a size too big for her, scuffed engineer boots and mirrored sunglasses.

  “Are you Sonja? Sonja Blue?”

  “You are Pangloss’s agent?”

  He shrugged. “You could say that.”

  “Were you followed?”

  “No.

  Her lips twisted into something like a smile. “You seem pretty sure of that.”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “You spoke of a letter from my... grandfather?”

  Palmer reached into his jacket and withdrew the envelope. “Funny, the Doc doesn’t look old enough to have a granddaughter your age,” he quipped.

  “He’s very well preserved. It’s a family trait. I’ll take that now, if you don’t mind.” She extended a pale, narrow hand toward him.

  As he handed her the sealed letter, his fingers accidentally brushed against hers, and he heard what sounded like an old-fashioned flashcube going off in the back of his skull. He saw Sonja jerk her head as if she’d received an unexpected electrical shock. The street around them disappeared and Palmer found himself transported to what looked like a pool hall. Scattered around him were splintered pool cures, cracked billiard balls...and broken young men. The smell of blood and fear was everywhere, its primal intensity acting like an aphrodisiac. Standing before him was a frightened youth with Parrish-blue hair and the face of an errant choirboy. Palmer’s lips peeled back in a humorless smile as he plunged his teeth into the baby-faced miscreant’s throat. An orgasm shuddered through his nervous system as a hot gush of thick, salty blood filled his mouth.

  The razor-sharp image disappeared as Sonja jerked her hand away from his, growling like a mountain lion. She then turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness before Palmer had a chance to orient himself. He felt dizzy, as if he’d just stepped off aTilt-A-Whirl. He could still taste the boy’s blood. The very memory of it made bile burn the back of his throat. He didn’t want to think about it; not now, not ever. He especially didn’t want to think about how he’d recognized the blue-haired boy as being Jimmy Eichorn.

  All he wanted to do was get back to the house, phone Pangloss and tell him he’d fulfilled his part of the bargain. He’d collect his bonus and go somewhere nice and sunny, like Mexico, and sell tchotkes to the turistas. He’d had enough of the private detective business to last him a lifetime.

  It was almost midnight, and Bourbon Street was jammed with partygoers determined to wring the few remaining minutes of pleasure out of Carnival. The noise and excitement was almost enough to make him forget what had just happened.

  At first he thought the fluttering of his sleeve was nothing but the wind. Then it spoke his name.

  He turned and stared into the pale, haggard face of a man in his late thirties, dressed in an expensive, but poorly-fitted suit. The stranger lifted a smoldering Gaulois to his thin lips, his eyes seeming to glow in the fluorescent and neon glare from a nearby live sex show sign.

  With a start, he recognized the smirking, arrogant features. He took an involuntary step backward, his scalp tightening as his heart began to race. The street noise faded into an indistinct rumble, as if he were underwater. He prayed he wasn’t having a stroke, though that would at least explain what was happening to him.

  “You’re dead,” Palmer said in an accusing voice.

  Geoffrey Chastain, known to friends and enemies as Chaz, simply shrugged his shoulders. “Tell me something I don’t know.” The dead man drew another lung full of smoke from his phantom cigarette, causing his midsection to swirl. “I’ve been tryin’ to get your attention all bloody night! Coo! You’re a dense bugger! Look, there’s not much time left: Mardi Gras is one of the few times us friggin’ spirits of the dead can corporealize and mingle with the living. We dead men aren’t supposed to be tellin’ tales, but take some advice from one who knows: Sod getting your pay from Pangloss. Ju
st get on the next bleedin’ bus outta town and forget you ever saw her!”

  “You mean Sonja—?”

  “Who the bloody fuck else? She’s the Bloofer Lady herself! She’s death on two legs, not that she can help it, mind you. It’s just her way. But that won’t help you none when the time comes. Look, mate; I was a real pisser when I was alive like you. It’s not pretty, lookin’ back an’ seeing me for the bastard I was. But I prefer things are to when I was flesh ‘n’ blood. So maybe how she did me wasn’t so bad.”

  Palmer’s stomach knotted tighter. “Are you saying she—?”

  “Snuffed me? Ain’t you the bright student! She killed me, alright; just like she did the Blue Monkeys. She was feeling her oats that night. Not that I could blame her for it—but I haven’t been knackered long enough t’ forgive her for the murdering.

  “Why are you warning me?” Palmer’s fear had abated in the face of this mundane, chain-smoking specter. He was starting to feel more aggravated than frightened.

  Chaz’s smirk widened. “You and me, we’re kindred spirits. That bullet did more than punch a hole in you, mate. It woke up something inside you. Jump-started it, as it were. So far you’ve only had a taste of having the world turn itself inside out like a magician’s sack, and you being the only one who seems to notice, but you better get used to it, mate, before it drives you mad, like it did me mum—and yer Uncle Willy. You’re what they call a ‘sensitive,’ now. They like using sensitives like you and me; we make handy servants. How do you think Pangloss found you, eh? You’ve been broadcasting like a bloody shortwave radio since you’ve been shot!

  “Wait a second! What do you mean by that?”

  The cathedral bell began to toll, marking the transition from excess to penance. “Sorry, mate. Seems me time’s run out,” Chaz grinned as he stepped into the street.