The Fire Night Ball (12 page)

As Christmas week was traditionally the deadest time of the year for B. L. Zebub’s, Marlena had won Harry’s grudging approval to close the bar for two hours this afternoon so the staff could enjoy a private Christmas party. At noon, guests would be given a last-drink signal. At two, a special punch would be concocted, which she had named the Bonfire of the Competition, in honor of the year's unprecedented numbers. Favors would be laid out for each staff member, who were the heads of the various departments from Front Desk to Laundry. The party would then commence, and at five the bar would be reopened to guests.

The favors were bronze replicas of the new bonfire sculpture created by a world-famous Denver artiste and roustabout who was a popular customer at the saloon. The dazzling piece had been unveiled amid much fanfare at the outset of the holiday season. Flanked by pristine Western landscaping, its location was at the corner of the sculpture garden nearest the arching windows of the hotel restaurant, so dining guests could enjoy the newest addition to Drake’s art collection.

The sculpture was cleverly made of metal and ponderosa strips. It closely resembled the historic bonfire that would be burned up at the Hat on Christmas evening. But the bonfire sculpture, because of the ponderosa and metal composition, would not burn.

As Marlena approached the hotel, the first sign of trouble was a dark plume of smoke hovering over the sculpture garden and two fire trucks parked on the lawn. Beside them were two empty squad cars with their red lights swirling.

She got out of the car and ran to the nearest person she saw, who was old Joe.

He told her that in the dark of night, unknown persons had embedded kerosene-soaked pine strips into the sculpture, additions which had gone undetected.

Then at noon, the sculpture had been torched, again by unknown persons and in full view of the annual solstice luncheon attended by members of POT (Pioneers of the Territory).

Though the sculpture itself hadn’t burned, it had been enveloped in flames, along with two stick figures that had been placed there by the vandals. These effigies and their conflagration were large enough to be seen through the windows, where the diners witnessed the unplanned event first hand.

Joe reported the burning figures had spectacular devil’s eyes, red horsehair, and metallic neckbands crudely carved with the initials MB and CV. She could readily see for herself that the manicured grounds were badly scorched, an ugly sight. The firemen were still on the scene, hosing it down. All other vehicles had been removed from the parking lot.

It was only after she drilled her eyes into the security guard's and repeated her insistence that she be allowed to go inside the building that she was escorted inside. Access had been disallowed until it was known if the vandals were still around.

As she entered the lobby, the acrid smell of smoke hung in the air. She hurried past the front desk clerks, who were standing in a group, whispering.

She found the secret door to B. L. Zebub's was wide open. Where was the guard? Typically he was there at all hours. As she proceeded down the narrow hallway at a fast pace, a dead quiet was eerily present. The only sound to be heard was the thud-thud of her platform heels on the wood floor, which matched the loudness of the beating of her heart. Usually there were clusters of customers hanging out in the entrance-way, which was a calculated part of the pleasure. Newcomers would stop to observe and admire Drake's collection of classic erotic art.

As a patron had once observed, the entrance to the West’s only eerie pub was "part of the fun, much like having sex with a cowboy who has a groovy way of getting on and getting off.”

But no one seemed to be up for having fun today. For once the hallway was empty, and it echoed like a tomb.

Odder still, the bar itself was empty as she entered it. Despite the plans for the staff holiday party, the entire room was deserted; she could see the bronze favors laid out on the table were untouched.

She put her hands on her hips and looked around. No one was tending the bar. No one was sitting in the saddle bar seats. Not a living soul was present.

"What in hell is going on?" she wondered aloud. "Where is everybody? Did we get raided by the DEA?"

Then she noticed the entire mirrored back wall of the bar was shrouded in huge pieces of purple velvet drapery, like the statues on Good Friday in a Catholic church. That was certainly peculiar.

She called out. "Hello! Anyone here?"

The blind eyes of a stuffed mule deer hanging on the leather wall seemed to be staring at her reproachfully.

"What're you looking at?" she muttered. "You're creeping me out."

It was then she heard a familiar whistle--Harry's--and she smiled widely with relief while she watched him stroll into the bar at his usual sauntering pace, as if nothing were going on. But from his pallor and a clenching at his jaw-line, she knew something serious was up.

Behind Harry lurked Lorna Anderson, her old schoolmate. Marlena was surprised to see her, and Lorna wasn't looking her in the eye.

"Oh, hi, Lorna," she said politely, though what was on her mind to say was "What in the hell are you doing here?"

"We've got a hell of a situation," said Harry laconically.

"Yes?"

"We've been vandalized. The central mirror on the bar wall is shattered. Someone threw a javelin at it."

"What century are we in? Who throws a javelin at a bar mirror?"

"Well, apparently someone who doesn't like you very much."

"What do you mean?"

“You were burned in effigy out in the sculpture garden, where they torched the bonfire. Two stick figures with red hair, one named Cassandra, the other, Marlena. They were burned to the ground in the sight of alarmed guests. Another message was left for you in here.”

“I don’t believe it.”

"Take a look for yourself." He gestured toward the back of the bar, which was heavily draped.

Marlena quickly ducked under the bar's flap door and then moved toward the drapery. She took a strong yank at it, pulling off the middle drape.

She gasped, "Oh my God."

By some mechanism, the mirror on the gigantic central panel had been warped beyond recognition. It now resembled the mirror in a carnival, and her image appeared grotesquely distorted. At the center of the mirror was a large gaping crater, the size of a manhole cover. A javelin, fashioned like an oversized Indian arrow, lay where it had fallen on the hard wood floor after doing its damage.

It was as she gazed at the floor that she began to notice the creeping worms and snakes. The whole place was infested with the slimy things! She shook her head in disgust, reaching her hand back to Harry. He had followed her to the mirrors and drawn near her. But instead of taking her extended hand, he stepped away from her. She shuddered.

"Who did all this?" she asked.

"You tell me. You’ve missed the best part."

He walked to the left panel of the mirrored walls and flung back a second velvet drape, revealing three lines of writing scrawled in a childishly rounded hand, all in red crayon.

"Behold: the handiwork of Marlena Bellum, who has invited Satan into our midst.

"Harry Drake, this is your final warning: stand against the forces of evil!

"Smite the hellish snakes from the red head of Satan's whore, or your eyes will be turned to stone."

She stared at her lover, her eyes round and her cheeks ashen.

"Someone thinks you need a haircut," he said.

Their eyes met, and she shivered. The pin-point pupils in his pale brown eyes were cold, hard, and angry. The sensation in her stomach was the painful, terrifying lurch of falling from a very high place.

“It’s Letty and her legions,” she said in a whisper.

"How do you know that? More to the point, how would she get in here?" he demanded.

Harry's scornful eyes were boring into hers, resisting her power. To counteract his cold stare, she was envisioning the last time they had climaxed together.

He had teased her with his cock, putting it in and then pulling it out, until she was in a frenzy. Then he'd mounted her, ruthlessly pushing his entire member into her. They had cried out in mutual orgasm, the sweat from their bodies spurting from their chests, draining into their eyes, nostrils, and open mouths.

She willed him to remember it; she poured her eyes into his. It was no use; his eyes were stone cold, blocking her power.

"I don't know," she said in a whisper. "Somehow she did."

Think on it, Marlena; worms and mirrors.

Worms and mirrors, she thought. An odd combination, wasn't it? The words and images resonated with her in such a particular, peculiar way. Suddenly her eidetic memory had it, her brain having culled the database and pulled up a solitary entry in the first of her two brown notebooks.

Worms and mirrors were iconic images from an old wives’ tale told to her by Granny Bellum.

Having noticed Marlena spent hours staring into the mirror, Granny Bellum had impressed a stern, superstitious warning on her grand-daughter: “If you look at yourself too much in the mirror, Lena, you'll get worms.”

Had someone gone through her journals and fiendishly devised this particular punishment, just to freak her out?

The notebooks had been locked in her private closet for a couple of days. It was possible one of Letty's spies had a key to the closet. If so, her most personal memories and childhood secrets were now ammunition in the enemy's camp.
How to fight back?

She forced herself to focus.

Harry said stonily, "You're on leave from your official duties here, as of now."

"You don't think I had anything to do with this?"

"I don't know what to think."

Marlena pressed her fingers to her temples. This couldn't be happening to her. Just an hour ago, the way ahead had seemed clear. She was looking forward to a celebration of 1977's numbers, followed by an afternoon of lovemaking with Harry.

Now their icon of success was smashed, littered in broken glass and infested with worms. And he was looking at her as though she were a stranger, or worse.

"I don't pretend to know what's on your mind, Marlena, but my mind is on the money. It's a holiday week, and I can't afford to keep this bar closed because of whatever spook is out to get you."

Harry sneered as he uttered "whatever spook is out to get you."

She had special gifts, but she could not see what was going through her lover's mind.

What was gnawing in Harry's gut was a suspicion that Marlena herself had master-minded this travesty to elicit his sympathy, that it was part of a relentless campaign to push him toward marrying her.

First, she’d purposely left out her divorce papers for him to see; then, she’d fled to her cousin’s house without a word; now, she’d staged a gruesome show for his benefit. Apparently she would stop at nothing to convince him to make an honest woman of her.

For years, she had made a mockery of his good name and reputation in his native town.

When some citizens voiced concerns with “B. L. Zebub’s,” she'd defied them, running advertisements touting the bar’s lurid history.

Before Thanksgiving, historically a slow week for business, she’d hired an Elvis impersonator to spice things up, greeting guests in a rhinestone-studded white suit, red cloak, and pointy horns. When he'd objected--"for God sakes, Marlena, the hillbilly's barely cold in his grave"--she'd laughed and called him a square.

The message had come through loud and clear. Like
Playboy
said, B. L. Zebub's was where the possessed went to get fucked up.

It's the last straw, thought Harry, and I'll let the hellcat fry. I'll shake loose from these nails she's dug into me, even if it kills me.
No more, bitch. Take a hike, baby.

“Love to love you baby…” sang Donna Summer over the loudspeaker.

“Will someone please turn that damn thing off?” snapped Harry.

By Mungo, he was going to make changes, pronto. Along with cleaning up the mess, he was going to sanitize the property’s image.

In future, he'd also be checking the color of crotch hairs, to make sure he wasn't dipping his wick into a redheaded witch’s brew. Fuck vixens, wiccans, feminists, and drag queens. These deranged female types had an insatiable, morbid desire for attention.

He'd take a simple, pot-smoking cowgirl like Lorna Anderson any day, despite her acne and fake boobs.

Marlena was the first to drop her eyes. She felt lethargic and defeated. The nausea was rising in her throat.

"I agree," she said in a dead voice. "We have to keep the bar open, if only to prove we aren't intimidated."

"Intimidated? I'm not intimidated. I'm fucking furious! Do you know what it's going to cost me to replace that mirror? God knows how they bowed it, took a blow torch to it, maybe. Those crawlers will have to be exterminated. I'll be back in business tomorrow. But make no mistake about it, Marlena. I don't want you here. Clear out your things. I'm changing the lock on your suite."

"I'm not staying here. But you already knew that."

He grabbed her by the arm. "What do you mean, I knew it?"

"Harry, you're hurting me."

He let her go, shifted the knot of his red silk tie, and cleared his throat.

As her world crashed around her, Marlena had to use every ounce of her will to keep from falling down on her knees before him.

She opened her mouth. She was about to ask about the note she'd left in his suite yesterday, requesting a private meeting. Hadn't he got it?

But before she could speak, the central mirror panel cracked in a thousand places, exploding shards everywhere. The three people in the bar bolted under the shower of glass and ran for their lives.

Once she was safely outside, Marlena looked for Harry, desperate to convince him Letty had wreaked the damage.

He was already inside the police car, talking with an officer. Lorna was nowhere to be seen.