City of the Lost (10 page)

“You can’t smoke in here,”
the bartender says. She wipes down the bar, puts down my fourth scotch.

I blow the smoke away from her. No reason to piss her off. She’s just doing her job. Besides, I can smell the tobacco on her, see the cigarette tucked behind her ear.

“Yeah?”

“State law.”

“You don’t say.”

She shakes her head, wipes her way back down the bar.

It’s gotten quieter, the crowd less manic. Chilled out trance music floating out of the sound system. The floor show has taken on a subdued, almost reverent feel. The latest couple on stage are lost in each other, peeling pieces of leather from each other’s bodies.

I sip my drink. I don’t feel a thing. I wonder if it’s even possible for me to get drunk anymore.

The bartender comes back, sets a drink in front of me that looks like a refugee from a Cabo resort; bright orange, reeks of tequila. Tall glass with fruit and an umbrella. I look up just to make sure she hasn’t somehow turned into a cabana boy.

“The fuck is this?”

She points. “Lady at the table.”

I look behind me. There’s a girl in a booth raising her glass to me. Same fruity drink. She’s got Veronica Lake hair, stunning eyes. Dressed less for a fetish scene and more for a cocktail party in shimmering blue. She stands out like a da Vinci on a coffee house wall.

And that screams of a setup.

I scan the crowd for anyone else who looks out of place. She’s probably with the guy who’s looking for me. Though having somebody who looks like her do the recon work seems a little odd. But I don’t see anyone who doesn’t belong. And certainly no guy with a midget on a leash.

“Didn’t know this was that kind of place.”

The bartender rolls her eyes. “It isn’t,” she says and goes to pour a beer for a guy slumped against the bar.

Well, whoever she is the blonde started this game. I raise my glass to her. She gets up from her booth and slides onto the bar stool next to me. Sticks out her hand. Not knowing what else to do, I shake it.

“Samantha Morgan.” Her voice is like velvet.

“Joe Sunday.”

“Buried yet?”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry.” She stirs the ice in her glass with a long finger. I know she can’t be for real, I mean I’ve got a good twenty-five years on her, but for a moment I’m tempted to suck the tequila off her fingertip. “It just reminds me of that poem. How does it go? ‘Solomon Grundy, buried on Sunday?’ Something like that?”

Oh. “No,” I say. “Not yet, at least.”

“Good. Above ground and out of jail. Can’t ask for much more than that, can we?”

She sips at her drink looking at me over the rim of her glass. She’s got gorgeous eyes. Blue, with flecks of slate in them.

“It’s good to meet you, Joe. You seem so—” She pauses searching the air for a word. “Normal.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m so far from normal, I can’t see it from here. But yeah, in this crowd, I suppose so.” I realize she looks out of place, not because of the dress, but because she’s seventy years too late. She should step out of an RKO picture, some black-and-white with William Powell. She gives off class like it’s coming out her pores. Kind that makes a dozen men want to light her cigarette for her.

She lifts her glass, toasts the air in front of her. “To the appearance of normal. May it last forever.” She sips her drink.

“So what brings you out here tonight?” she asks. “Tragedy or comedy?”

“Does it have to be either?”

“In my experience it usually is.”

That one’s easy. “I’d say tragedy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. The two aren’t really all that different from each other, you know. All depends on whether the ending’s happy.”

“You don’t say.” I know she’s linked with the stone somehow and what’s happened to me, but there’s something about her that sets me at ease.

“I think your problems could probably yield some pretty interesting opportunities,” she says.

I’m sure you do. “Is this where you try to sell me on Amway?”

“Unitarianism, actually, but I can see you’re not the cultish type. Besides, they kicked me out.”

“Funny. I had the same problem with the Methodists.”

I’d like to say this is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in awhile, but the last twenty-four hours have been a lesson in freakish. Besides, she’s so damn comfortable to talk to. It’s easy, and fun. And for a few minutes, at least, I can forget about immortality and zombies and not breathing.

“What about you?” I ask. “What brings you out here?”

“Got bored, decided to check this place out. Nice vibe.” She gives me that dazzling smile again. “Nice people.”

“So you’re not a regular?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, hell no. Though I must say I’ve been enjoying the show.”

She seems to see my scotch for the first time. “If I’d known you were a serious drinker, I wouldn’t be trying to ply you with this crap. What are you drinking?”

“Nothing.” I slide the glass over to her. What’s the point if you can’t get drunk?

She reaches over, takes a sniff, a delicate taste.

“Oban. Pretty expensive nothing.”

“You know your scotches. Consider it the obligatory drink I buy you.”

“Obligatory? You make it sound like you’re lancing a boil.”

“If you don’t want it.” I start to pull the drink back, but her hand closes over mine. Her touch sends a ripple through me.

She keeps it there for a moment longer than is entirely comfortable, and her voice softens. “It’s just what I’m in the mood for. Thank you.” She looks at my hand. “You’re awfully cold.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I start to pull my hand away. “Sorry.” I’m probably running right around room temperature. I’ll have to figure out a way to hide that. Gloves?

She holds onto me. “No, it’s nice. Soothing.” She turns my hand palm up, stares at it with an odd intensity.

“Oh, now this is interesting,” she says.

“My palm?”

“It’s a window to the soul, you know. Same thing, really.”

“Lot of pressure to put on a hand.”

She turns it over, a jeweler examining a particularly rough diamond. Touches my fingertips, scarred knuckles. Carefully traces the crevices.

“You’re a fighter. You’ve had some trouble with the law. See this line, here?” She runs a finger across a deep seam that runs the breadth of my hand. “Says you’ve got a long time ahead of you. But this one,” she touches another near my thumb. “You die early.”

“What else does my hand tell you?”

“That you have a thing for hot blondes who hit on you in fetish bars.”

“You’re good at this.”

“It’s a talent.”

I suddenly realize how close she is, her scent strong, sweet. It cuts through the meaty sweat stink of the crowd. She smells like warm summers and lemonade, sunlight through the trees. And something a little darker below the surface.

I glance at my hand for signs of rot. But there’s nothing. And this is a different feeling than the hooker. There was hunger there, blind need. But this is like melting in a hot tub. Relaxing.

But that’s not something I have the luxury for anymore.

I pull my hand away. “You know,” I say, “not to spoil the moment or anything, but I could be your dad.”

“Not a chance,” she says. “My dad was a bald cobbler who regularly beat his wife. You’ve got all your hair.”

“That’s not what I—” She shushes me with a finger to my lips. That touch again. She fills my vision until there’s nothing but her and me. Even the music fades away.

The bartender sticks her head between us to tell us it’s last call, and the spell breaks.

Samantha shivers, like she’s just woken up. “And things were just getting interesting,” she says. I look around, surprised to see how much the crowd has already thinned out.

“Lost some time there.”

“Lost implies a waste,” she says. “You know, I have a beautiful view from my apartment in Santa Monica. Care to see it?”

“Oh, now that depends,” I say.

“On?”

“Whether you’re a friend of Giavetti’s or not.”

The question hangs in the air between us, thick and heavy. A little pout on those luscious lips. Her eyes never leave mine.

“I was laying it on kind of thick, wasn’t I?”

“Just a touch.” I knew that it was all a show, but I’m still disappointed to find it confirmed. “So, I suppose you know Giavetti?”

“More or less. I hear you made him go away.”

“Yeah? From who?”

“Oh, little birds here and there. You’ve stirred up quite a ruckus in the trees, you know.”

“Don’t suppose you want to elaborate?” I want to know what birds she’s talking about and what trees. If I’ve got admirers, it’d be nice to know before they come after me.

“Maybe later.” She pulls a brilliant white calling card from her handbag, hands it to me.
Samantha Morgan
and her phone number in florid script.

The change is abrupt. She’s almost businesslike. “Just a second ago you were all for me coming home with you.”

“Still am,” she says, “but I think those gentlemen might have other ideas.”

I turn my head. Big guy in a black suit and tie that, no matter how well tailored, isn’t covering the fact that he could probably lift a boxcar. Buzz cut, pretty boy face. He could make it in movies if he weren’t built like the poster boy for roid rage.

I didn’t hear him come up behind me. Or smell him, for that matter.

He’s holding something in his hand. Takes me a second to realize it’s a leash. The midget on the other end pops his head out from behind his handler’s tree-trunk legs.

Twisted body, rheumy eyes. But the resemblance to the giant holding him is unmistakable. Brothers? Father and son? They’re even wearing the same suit.

I turn back and she’s climbing off the barstool. Gives me a flash of thigh and that American sweetheart smile.

“Miss Morgan,” the gorilla says, nodding his head at her.

“Archie,” she replies. “Take care of yourself, Joe,” she says to me. She leans in to kiss me on my cheek. Her lips close to my ear. “And don’t believe everything you hear,” she whispers. She steps away from the bar.

Not so fast. I’m not done with my questions. Maybe they’re together. They obviously know each other. But the vibe is different. She doesn’t like him. But she’s not afraid of him, either.

I get up to block her path, and Archie is suddenly standing in front of me.

“Mr. Sunday,” he says. “We need to talk.”

“I’ll get to you in a second,” I say. I start to step around him, and the midget jerks in front of me and to the side, his leash pressing against my ankles. He snarls at me, showing needle-sharp teeth.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Archie says.

I step over the leash, ready to punt the midget into next week. “So I’ve heard.”

Samantha disappears between the curtains to the exit.

“Nothing sinister, I assure you,” Archie says.

“All things considered, I doubt it.” If I hurry I can get to her before she gets to the parking lot.

“You’ve eaten the heart of at least one person tonight, Mr. Sunday. Don’t you think that’s something worth discussing?”

That stops me dead. “What?”

“A heart,” he says. “Some unfortunate stranger I hope. It would be a tragedy if your condition manifested itself around your loved ones.”

“How do you know about that?”

“My employer,” he says. “He’s a doctor. He can help you. He’s familiar with your condition.”

“If you know so much, then you know I don’t need a doctor.”

“Mr. Sunday, tonight you were filled with a burning need you couldn’t control. Do you think it’s not going to happen again?”

“I was kinda hoping, yeah,” I say.

“It’s going to get worse,” Archie says. “A lot worse. And soon. Come with me, and he can help you. Or don’t, and you know what will happen. It’s your choice. I really don’t care either way.”

My choice. Right.

I shouldn’t be surprised,
but I am. The hell made me think this was going to be a free ride? I take a deep, empty breath.

“We can help you,” Archie says. The midget behind him nods his head vigorously.

What the hell. It’s not like he can make it worse. I follow them outside where they lead me over to a white Bentley in the club’s parking lot. Leather trim, wood paneling.

Archie opens the back door for me. I start to get in and stop. “What’s with the tarp in the back?”

“Sorry about that,” Archie says, reaching past me to pull it out. “We weren’t sure what condition you were going to be in when we found you.”

I remember falling apart in that bathroom. How my hands turned gray, skin blistered and oozing yellow pus.

“Guess you weren’t too worried about that new car smell.” I edge past him, slide onto the seat.

As Archie drives, the midget peers at me over the top of the passenger seat. His skin is waxy, like it was carved from a block of resin. I resist the urge to go “Boo” at him. No telling what he’ll do.

We cut west through Hollywood Boulevard, hookers and johns dotting the street corners, late night deals in front of the Chinese Theater.

“He have a name?”

Archie glances at me in the rearview. “Jughead,” he says. Got to wonder what Betty and Veronica look like.

“I meant the doctor.”

“Oh. Neumann. He’s a good man. You’ll like him. He can help you.”

“So you keep saying. How exactly does he know me?”

He shrugs, Jughead aping his movements. They’re weirdly in synch. “You’d have to ask him.”

Jughead keeps staring at me. He’s starting to creep me out.

“What’s the deal with the midget? You brothers, or something?”

Archie laughs. “Or something. He’s harmless. Unless I tell him not to be.” Jughead smiles with that mouth full of lamprey teeth.