Hellbound Hearts (23 page)

The plasma ceases to pump through the arteries, the liver no longer secretes bile, the urine dries to salt in the bladder, but the blood washes over us all…

In the night of hell, that glows with its own black light, I remember the burning spasms and freezing pangs that beset me when our lord took me and terribly refashioned me according to his will.

Will it ever, can it ever, be that good again?

Ripped to shreds and patched together. I knew then consummately what I was. What I am. What I always will be…

See me.

Love me

Look at my words.

(Examine the writhing tapestries of choice delight implicit in each scratching and each syllable.)

I guard the words.

I keep them tenderly, express them with my tangled flesh and tattered tongue.

Words that form stories, or tales, or patterns.

Words that can but hint at the delights of damnation, of the ultimate pleasures that wait for them all on the beyondside of pain.

Stay with me, my shattered children. Stay and listen and stare and learn. Was that tale good?

I 'll show you another

I'Ve got thousands of them. I hold the stories. I guard the words.

Love me.

Steve Niles

I know bad people when I see them, and Gordon Fuller was a world-class, evil scumbag, son of a bitch. He also happened to be my best friend.

Funny how things work out.

What that makes me, I do not know.

Since meeting him back in 1996, I'd personally witnessed him beat the shit out of several individuals, and at least one woman (Debbie . . . Donna . . . ? Can't remember anymore). Granted she stabbed him about two inches from his dick, but that doesn't make up for the beating he gave her in return.

I've seen Gordon steal people's money and drugs, usually from right under their noses (with drugs, that was
especially
the case). I've seen him con his way in and out of some of the most fucked-up situations and lie like it was an Olympic event.

Gordon was a prick. No doubt. But he was also one hell of a stand-up guy when the shit came down hard. I will give him that. And seeing as I had a knack for getting in some tight spots, he proved to be a decent friend.

I almost feel sorry that I personally led him to Hell, but whatever. That's where he was headed anyway.

It was the middle of March and Los Angeles was having a strange spell of mixed weather days. One second it would rain, the next the sun would come out. The nights were cold, and the constant wind made it all raw, uncomfortable.

I was living in an apartment off Franklin. A scuzzy, roach-infested little dump, but it was cheap and times were tough, so it suited me fine. Not like I ever threw dinner parties or anything.

The last time I scored was six weeks prior and only because I'd walked into a bar that looked like it had been hit by an alcohol bomb. It was closing time and mating standards had dropped for the remaining bar hags, so one of them came home with me.

Julie was her name, I think. She was about as homely as I am, and I remember she sounded like a rattle when she walked. I later found out it was because she carried Tic Tacs in her purse, but I'll always remember her as the Rattle Girl. The last woman who'd even touched me.

Julie was the first person I'd ever heard speak about that stupid box, as well. She talked a lot but all I was thinking about was getting in her pants. Somewhere between foreplay and whatever passed for actual penetration, she told me about a friend, some shitbag named Andy Getz, who recently found a strange little box in an alley. Sold it to a pawnshop for a couple bucks, only to discover later that the pawnshop had turned around and sold it for, get this, ten thousand dollars.

That got my attention.

Ten grand for a fucking box?

I told Gordon about it later on and amazingly he knew Andy. He said Andy used to be the go-between for a guy he bought weed from. Gordon's hunch was that the box was full of drugs or something—that it was the contents that made it valuable, not the box itself.

We decided to check it out. It had all the elements of interest for Gordon: easy money and the chance to screw someone over.

We found Andy Getz at a dive bar in Hollywood, just past the cleaned-up touristy section. It wasn't even noon and he was already drunk.

I slid up next to him on the right and Gordon flanked him on the left.

Gordon spoke first.

“Andy,” Gordon said in a mildly threatening manner. “This is my buddy, Ed.”

Andy looked at me with glazed eyes.

I nodded. “We hear you had some kind of box that you sold.”

Andy's shoulders slumped like he was revisiting his biggest regret. “Aw, man,” he whined. “Everybody in town know about that shit?”

Gordon said, “Some bitch named Julie told Ed here about it.” Andy looked at Gordon and then back to me. “Yeah, I fucked her, too.”

I rolled my tongue in my mouth and tried to remember if I'd used a condom.

Gordon ordered a round of beers to make the situation friendlier. After a few, Andy spoke freely about the box and the deal he lost out on.

“It was about so big,” he said, indicating what seemed to be a drunken, palm-sized square. “And it had these grooves with metal and shit. I tried to open the fucking thing but all that happened was a little static spark.”

I looked at Gordon. “Spark?” I asked. “That's fucking weird.”

Andy drunkenly nodded, swinging his head side to side depending on which one of us was talking. “And I'll tell you something. That box freaked me out. Honest. It was weird. Stupid little box and it gave me the creeps.”

He was getting sloppy. It was time to get the key info. Gordon took the ball and ran. “So what pawnshop was it again?”

Andy thumbed back over his shoulder and almost fell off the stool. “Iz that place over by, what the hell's it called, the Scientist Building?”

“Scientology?” I corrected.

“Yeah, thaz it. The shop in the strip mall across the street.”

Gordon and I exchanged another glance. The pawnshop was called
Dexter's
. It was four blocks from my apartment in a strip mall behind some trendy restaurants. We thanked drunken Andy, slapped him on the back, and slipped out of the darkness of the dive bar into the blinding light of day.

We headed over to
Dexter's Pawn Shop
. Neither of us had a car, so we had to take the bus, of all things, from Hollywood a few dozen blocks north back to my neck of the woods. I got off the bus behind Gordon, and as he stepped off onto the sidewalk I noticed the angular bulge under his shirt.

I grabbed him by the shoulder as the bus pulled away. “You carrying a piece, man?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said like it was the dumbest question in the world. “Of course I am.”

“Why?”

Gordon rubbed his chin mockingly. “Let me see,” he said. “To shoot someone in the fucking face if they mess with me. How's that sound?”

I didn't reply. I just shook my head and walked toward the strip mall where
Dexter's Pawn Shop
sat between a Korean barbecue and a dry cleaner's that had gone out of business. We approached the shop. Gordon grabbed the door, but despite the
OPEN
sign hanging crooked in the window, it didn't budge.

Inside I could see a mountain of a man with a beard, perched behind the counter, on a stool that looked like it grew from his ass. I waved and the man mountain reached under the counter and released the door lock.

I entered first with Gordon trailing. The dude at the counter kept his hand underneath it. I assumed that's where he kept his gun.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?” he said, removing his hand, evidently deciding we were safe.

“Are you Dexter?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Dexter died years ago. I'm Jerry. Anything in particular you're looking for?”

Gordon stepped up. “Name's Gordon. This is Ed. We're looking for some information.”

Jerry eyeballed us hard. “You guys cops?”

Gordon laughed out loud and I just smiled. “Good Lord, no,” Gordon said. “We're anything but cops.”

“What kind of information you looking for?” Jerry asked, and I noticed his hand inching under the counter again.

“We're looking for somebody who bought something from you,” Gordon said.

Jerry shook his head. “That's not being very specific. Besides, we don't give out that kind of information.”

My heart almost stopped as I saw Gordon reach for something behind him and relaxed when he came back with his wallet and not the gun. He pulled out a twenty and laid it on the counter.

“Somebody bought a small box for a lot of dough.”

Jerry took the twenty, then wrote a name on a scrap of paper and slid it back.

“Thanks, Jerry,” Gordon said and abruptly turned and went for the exit.

I nodded at the man mountain named Jerry. He nodded back, and I saw the corner of his mouth curl slightly, and his eyes narrow like he knew something we didn't. A chill snaked down my spine and I almost ran into Gordon as he waited for the smirking man mountain to buzz the door.