by Frank Lauria
In a few minutes, the bald man left and the space beside her was empty. Orient got up, eased through the crowd, and elbowed past a bearded man who was about - to occupy the empty stool
“Hey, man, what are you doing?” the man protested.
As Orient turned, he felt the stabbing throbs of anger slash across his temples. “I’m sitting down,” he muttered. “What about it?”
The man looked at Orient’s clenched jaw and vacant green eyes and moved away to another part of the bar.
Orient took a deep breath and tried to recapture his calm. He crooked his finger at the barmaid.
She hurried over. “Double Scotch, right?”
“And whatever my friend here is drinking.” He pointed his thumb at the brunette on his left.
The brunette turned to study him with glazed blue eyes. “You can make it a gin,” she told him in a high nasal voice.
She continued to stare at him. “I saw you looking at me,” she said finally.
“That’s right.” As he spoke, her musky scent clung to his nostrils. “Do you mind?”
She shrugged. “At least you’re not bad-looking. That’s more than I can say for the other creeps in this joint.”
“Here you go lover-boy,” the barmaid grunted. “Double Scotch and gin. And you pay for these.” She wasn’t smiling any more.
Orient pulled a ten from his pocket and inserted it between her breasts. “Next time I’ll try to be more patient.”
“Happy Halloween,” the brunette offered, lifting her glass.
He took a long swallow of his drink. The whisky seemed to burn away the cobwebs of anger sticking to his thoughts. A rush of exhilaration overcame the lingering dregs of his headache and he began to stroke the girl’s arm. The smell of her perfume filled his awareness. “You smell good enough to eat,” he said, his voice slightly slurred and hoarse. “You feel nice, too.”
The brunette’s face remained an impassive, painted mask, but her eyes glittered with blue sparks of excitement.
“You’ve got to slow down, baby,” her nasal whisper rasped against his ear. She took his hand from her arm and turned it over. “Let’s see if I can read your future,” she purred running a teasing green fingernail across his palm.
He looked down at his hand, Ever since childhood his palm had been wrinkled like that of a very old man. But tonight the network of lines seemed as pronounced as the chasms on the dead surface of the moon.
The brunette whistled softly. “You’ve got some future baby or some real weird past.”
“What does it say for the two of us?” he asked as the music rose louder in his brain.
Her smile barely broke the green-tinted line of her mouth. “It says fun and games galore.” She released his hand. “I have to split and meet a friend of mine. Do you want to come along?”
When she stood up, he saw that she was very thin. Her trousers were stretched tight over her narrow hips and long thighs and the cuffs were tucked into high, suede boots. She looked like an artificial night flower fashioned out of black leather, white plastic, and green paint. A surge of sexual power rolled over his senses as he contemplated the erotic excesses of her fantasy search for pleasure.
He finished his drink and followed her through the swirl of people and noise to the coatroom. He helped her put on a fur-lined, snakeskin cape, then tipped the bikini-clad attendant.
“Don’t you have a coat?” the brunette asked when they reached the street.
It was then that he noticed that he was wearing only a V-neck cashmere sweater, suede trousers, and loafers without socks.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Her nasal whine made him laugh. “I’m not cold,” he said. “Feel.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his body.
“Hey, yeah, you are warm,” she whispered. “Like a dog I used to have. Groovy.”
He laughed again and looked for a taxi.
She took him to a bar that was smaller and more subdued than the midtown lounge. There was space at the bar and the blare of the jukebox made normal conversation possible. Orient gave his order to a wide-shouldered, barrel-bodied bartender who looked like an ex-wrestler.
The brunette offered him a cigarette. “What’s your name?” she murmured.
Orient took the cigarette. “Scott. Mike Scott. With two t’s.”
“I’m Dominique.” She lowered her voice. “Do you like to make scenes? You know, swing.”
He held a match for her. “Are you sending an invitation?”
She blinked her double set of false eyelashes. “Yeah. You’re really sexy in a weird way. Did you ever think about working as a model? I’ve got lots of connections in that business.”
Orient shrugged and picked up his drink. “I’m doing all right.” He leaned closer to her. “But I can tell you’d be a very talented fashion model.”
She blinked again, this time with pleasure. “Wait till my friend gets here,” she whispered, digging her green nails into his knee. “We’ll have a party and you’ll see.”
Orient became impatient as they waited for her friend to show up. He ordered another round and checked the door again.
Dominique leaned closer to him. “Don’t fret, Mike. Robin will be here soon.” She had loosened some of the thongs of her vest and he could see her hard, pointed nipples pushing out against the thin leather. His groin tingled as he anticipated ripping the vest away from her slender chest. “Let’s go,” he said, his mouth dry. “I’ll show you how to have a party by ourselves.”
“Wait a second. Here he is.” Her voice rose to an unpleasant wail. “Over here, Robin.”
She was waving at a slender young man dressed in an outfit almost identical to her own. His laced vest had long sleeves and was pale blue to match the streak of shadow over his eyes. His long brown hair was bleached to a frosted blond at the tips and was combed into bangs. He moved quickly and gracefully to where they were sitting and gave Dominique a flamboyant hug. When he saw Orient, he lifted one penciled eyebrow. “New faces,” he observed in a high, mocking voice.
“This is my friend, Mike,” Dominique giggled. “With two t’s. He wants to play with us.”
Robin smiled and held out a slim hand. “Hello, Mike,” he purred insinuatingly. “Very nice to meet you.”
Orient stared unmoving at Robin’s hand. A pang of annoyance flickered across his temple and he set his jaw in a tight frown.
“Friendly, isn’t he?” Robin said, delighted with Orient’s discomfort. “But he is cute.”
“He’s tough,” Dominique teased. “You need that.”
“Of course.” The boy clapped his hand on Orient’s shoulder. “I’m sure Mike knows how to handle us.”
When Robin’s fingers touched him, the compressed anger in his nerves ignited, searing his brain with intense implosions of agony. Fury flared through his muscles and he lashed his clenched fist against the boy’s mouth.
As Robin fell stunned to the floor, the other customers around the bar jumped back from the scuffle. Orient smiled as he glimpsed the blank fear on their faces. The violence had released some of the pain and his body pulsed with power. All time and movement floated on the surge of energy pouring through his consciousness.
“What are you, freaked out or something?” Dominique was yelling. “Not here you fool. You’ve hurt Robin.”
“Keep your hands off me, gay lord,” Orient warned as he stood up. “I don’t like you.” He grabbed Dominique’s thin wrist. “You’re coming with me.”
She pulled back. “Let go. You hurt him.” The pain nudged his temple as he yanked her off the stool.
“Wait,” she pleaded. “I want to see if Robin’s all right.”
Orient saw the bartender coming around the bar with a piece of pipe in his hand and let go of her wrist. The bartender came slowly. He crouched down and cut him off from the door with a few professional moves of his burly body.
Blinding pain stabbed through Orient’s temple, but a deeper, stronger i
nstinct for violence riveted his attention on the hunched, flat-footed figure approaching him.
“All right, buddy,” the bartender growled. “Outside. 1 don’t want trouble with you freaks.”
All the rage and pain in Orient’s senses compressed into a soundless, floating calm. “Take it easy,” he said softly. “I just don’t like those guys touching me.”
“Then go somewhere else.” The bartender straightened his body slightly and the arm holding the pipe relaxed.
Orient took a step toward the door. As he passed the bartender, the tension in his body suddenly burst. His knee came up and his foot snapped out against the bartender’s groin. The man howled and went down, clutching his testicles with both hands.
Another flash of energy tingled across the base of Orient’s brain and his muscles trembled with a hunger for complete release. He took a short step and deliberately kicked the kneeling bartender in the face. Something crunched under his foot and when the man rolled over Orient saw the blood gushing out of his smashed nose. The energy swelled through his chest and rumbled through his throat, becoming a primitive growl of triumph.
He spun around, positioning his body to defend against anyone else who wanted to challenge him. But the others were all cringing back against the wall. Someone was dialing a telephone.
Dominique was on the floor, kneeling awkwardly next to Robin. The boy was sitting up, watching Orient with a dazed, wide-eyed stare. The bright red smear of blood around his mouth looked like lipstick on a circus clown.
Orient felt a compelling urge to hit him again, but he dimly understood that the police would arrive soon. He backed slowly out of the bar and when he reached the street he began to run.
He ran quickly for two blocks then slowed down to a steady, loping jog. He kept that grueling pace until the pounding exhaustion in his brain and lungs forced him to stop. He ducked into an alley and leaned against the brick wall.
He lifted his head to gulp some air and saw a full, golden moon drifting over the tops of the darkened buildings and the savage exultation of combat collapsed in a whirlpool of despair. His stomach heaved and a wave of bitter nausea broke over his tongue.
As he crouched in the shadows, spilling his bile on the concrete, the pounding in his skull boomed like rolling thunder, shattering all emotion.
9
When he was able to breathe normally again, Orient. pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall, trying to clear the congestion of fear and sickness in his belly.
A large section of his brain, just above his eyes, throbbed like a bruised muscle. He inhaled and tried to think past the aching confusion. He focused and lifted his will against the stubborn weight crushing his concentration. He staggered out to the street and started walking. The movement seemed to loosen the numbing grip of pain around his mind.
He walked for blocks, his thoughts forming very slowly. He was sick. He had to get help. An image of the bartender’s bloody face ballooned in front of him. The sharp acid of remorse welled up in his throat and he had to stop.
He saw a phone booth in front of him on the corner. It seemed far away. He stood swaying, breathing heavily as he fumbled through his pockets for a coin. He had to call Sordi and tell him to bring a sedative. He stumbled to the phone, trying to remember the number.
The first number he dialed didn’t answer. Orient called information and found that he’d switched the last two digits. He called the correct number. Still no answer.
He called information again and got Sybelle’s number. But when he dialed, no one answered.
Orient stood in the booth holding the phone, reluctant to hang up and leave the security of the plastic enclosure.
He needed help. There had to be someone he could reach. A dim memory tried to push past his straining thoughts. The healer he’d met in Sweden. Professor Hazer would know how to help him. The old man lived in Brooklyn. He hurriedly dialed information for Hazels number.
This time someone answered. “Professor Hazer?” Orient’s voice sounded deep and thick as if his mouth was stuffed full of cotton. This is Owen Orient. From the SEE meeting last month.”
“Yes, yes, of course. How are you?”
“Not so good. Can I come see you?”
“Certainly. What’s the trouble? Are you ill?”
“Yes,” he managed as a spasm of pain cleaved through the center of his brain. He squeezed the phone against his ear while Hazer gave him the address and subway instructions, trying to remember the directions through the agony.
After he left the booth he walked for blocks before he found a subway entrance. There was a cab standing empty nearby. The driver was leaning against the fender, reading a newspaper by the light of the streetlamp. When he saw Orient approaching he quickly folded his newspaper, got into the cab and pulled away, tires screeching.
As Orient walked slowly down the stairs to the train, he was only faintly aware of what he was doing. He was moving by instinct alone. All awareness had become an extension of the torment in his senses: a series of liquid images prodded into grotesque shapes by the unrelenting pain.
“Say friend....” An unshaven old man with rumpled clothing took a step toward him. Then his rheumy eyes went wide when he saw Orient’s face. “... forget it,” he finished, his voice cracking as he backed away.
Orient continued toward the tollbooth, but before he reached the platform he saw a disheveled, familiar figure coming toward him and stopped.
It was a few moments before he realized he was staring at his own reflection in a store-window mirror. His hair was a ragged tangle in front of his eyes and his lips were twisted away from his teeth. His face seemed to be swollen, distorting his features so they looked hard and brutal. White flecks of spittle drooled out of the corner of his mouth and his sweater was stained with vomit.
He heard the train coming and turned away from the window. He found the tollbooth closed. Without hesitating he vaulted the turnstile, landing on his toes like a cat, somewhat surprised at the powerful agility of his reflexes.
The three occupants of the subway car looked uncomfortable when Orient entered so he sat as far away from them as possible, closed his eyes, and tried to smother the jangling hurt in his body.
The vibrations of the subway train eased the tension in his chest and groin and he felt the knot around his mind relent. As the throbbing in his temple diminished, his mind and senses began to function.
A bouquet of spicy odors filled his nostrils.
He opened his eyes.
It seemed as if each of the passengers in the car had a unique aroma that he was able to distinguish.
The black woman in the flowered hat smelled of strong soap, lavender, mothballs, and sweet wine.
The round young man with blotchy pink skin smelled of beer, sweat, and hair tonic.
The other man in the car gave off the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke and whiskey.
Orient found it difficult to make out visual details; his eyes were still aching from the pressure that was pushing them from their sockets, but the odors gave him a distinct perception of the people at the other end of the car. Perhaps more complete than just sight. A yawning hunger opened in the bottom of his stomach.
The odors in the car became more acute; the sweet -artificial scent of a blob of gum on the floor, crumbs from a salami sandwich And each smell fanned the raw appetite spreading across his senses.
The train groaned to a stop and he lurched to the door.
It was the Fourth Street Station. Hazer had told him to change there. Still mumbling Hazer’s directions, Orient located the stairway to the lower level and descended quickly, trying to ignore the hundreds of tantalizing scents that goaded at his smoldering hunger.
He came to a platform that was smaller, older, and dirtier than the one above. It was also empty. He saw a candy machine and looked for a coin. He felt famished, as if he’d burned up every last ebb of energy in his body. Every cell inside him was parched.
He tried
every lever until one worked. He tore the wrapper off the candy bar that dropped into the slot and stuffed it into his mouth. But the artificial consistency of the candy congealed into a cold, toxic jelly on his tongue and he spat it out, A ripe aroma warmed the inside of his nostrils. Instinctively he stood still, not even moving his head as he located the source of the scent. Then he turned slightly. It was coming from somewhere in the shadows, near the stairs.
Orient crouched, picked up the remains of the candy bar, and threw it toward the source of the odor. His underhanded toss landed on the narrow extension platform next to the stairs.
Then he waited, his body motionless and his concentration centered on the hot aroma in the shadows.
After a few minutes had passed, he took a step forward and paused. He took another cautious step, his movements directed by a single instinct: his will to feed.
His feet didn’t make a sound on the deserted platform as he came nearer. When he reached the stairs, he climbed the first step and stopped.
It was directly below him. He saw it warily approaching the chewed candy bar he’d thrown. A plump brown ball of hair and flesh. Its raw scent promised new strength to replenish the dried vitality in his cells and soothe the raging appetite in his belly. He waited until the rat had begun to feed on the candy before leaning on the stair rail and springing effortlessly to the narrow platform below. He landed in a crouch over the rat. As the animal tried to scurry away his hand flicked out with the speed of a striking snake and scooped it up. His fingers squeezed around the furry throat to prevent the rat’s long, sharp teeth from biting. His mouth filled with saliva as its maddeningly hot smell saturated his senses. He cradled the rat in both hands and brought it close to his face.
He saw the animal’s fear-brightened eyes and shiny white teeth. Then he saw something that stunned his reflexes.
It was a strip of hair on the side of his thumbs. He opened his free hand, the other still gripping the rat’s neck.
The puckered, wrinkled skin on his palms was covered with fine black hair. Memory snapped like a whip through his awareness.
