Lust Demented (6 page)

A
NY
NOTION OF PASSIVITY HAD
drained with the blood of a dead writer into the soil of this Algonquin swamp. I lay in the hot stone sauna of a greasy kitchen, bed next to the stove, secret novels of the future scattered across the floor… counting the seconds between thunder and godly skyshine… the more level I attempted to stay… the more my lungs heaved out of control. Signs of life outside of the passing mechanized iron on its rattling tracks were few and far between. At this hour the lack of distractions kept me in my head. New York’s geometric prism was just a speck, an heir to the time’s trampling.

I dropped the pen in the ink and pressed it to the page. The words were waiting for a destination. I knew where to put them. I knew which ones to ignore. I forgot where I was. I forgot what I was missing. I forgot who I was supposed to be. The words showed up and I placed them… tracing outlines of people I knew… filling in their flesh as if it all melted together. It was a world overlooked by everyone, but myself. The feather pen tore through the paper snapping at the end. The bottle of ink fell on its side soaking the desk and page of writing. I could see the black void.

It was the closest I’ve approached getting my name back on the cover of the book Missy adopted as her own, snatching it away deep into the cavernous venus man-trap between her legs. Done lugging around the guilt of pimping her out for my own ambitions. She didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe it was in her nature. Missy was an expert of putting an idea in your head and methodically making you believe that it materialized within you. She, the subconscious nurturer, left even the most oblivious passerby with a destructive obsession. Wildfire, I collapsed to the floor reaching for a pen and paper with enough room to scribble on like a soldier back from the war who only knew how to be a soldier, I could only write. I was writing this as I was thinking this.

Water dripped down. All the dead roses except one were resting on a bed of glass at my feet. The one lonely one held on with its thorns, stuck to Missy’s palm. I gently stepped towards her.

“Farrow. Please.” Missy told me a thousand ways on the same tongue, but I stayed in the morning dew of a distant galaxy. A book I never started…

“You hate me because I live by different rules. You couldn’t own me - so you used me.”

“I’m sorry I was selfish. All I ever want to do is write.”

“Isn’t that what writers are supposed to do: Write.”

The past could no longer be forgotten out of convenience as it had been before the war. Dishonor before death. Suicide mission through the irreparable city. Lorem ipsolem inculare. Not sure if I disowned humanity or the ant farm disowned me.

With an ear-splitting crash, the ceiling came down onto the studio’s floor. The rain seemed to have weakened an already mooshy three generation decayed rooftop. Light shot in. I stood revealed to the night sky. The electrical storm showed no sign of weakening, until the entire borough succumbed to a jittery seizure, bruised from rolling around their cramped digs in drool. Squinting through the blur, I watched the clock reading high noon on the dot fade into dreams of crumbling teeth and invincible strangers sneaking along fire escapes. Lars was in pitch perfect tune: Writers are hustlers by default. I was always buying time to finish up another book. Every decision I made was with the next story in mind.

T
HE
SUN WAS HIDING FROM
me. I lost a day. Slept one afternoon to the next night. Jet lag without the jet. Returning from the opposite of a vacation. A knock at the door. Then another. And one more. The 7 train rattled the window frames.

No other sane option, than to pull myself up into the sky. A quick hop from the kitchen sink. Up through the hole in the ceiling. The city let her gown down, along with the intruders below.

“The place is flooded.” Sgt. Bethany Powers shook the rain off her boots. I could smell the gunpowder in her crimson locks.

“There’s nothing here.” Wasting no time, Detective Anderson nonchalantly picked through my trash with his baton.

“Looks like he’s working on a new book.” Sgt. Powers picked
Lust Demented
off the bed. Flipping through it she got a little excited, vaguely aware of the power concealed in what she was holding. “It’s all written by hand. Illegible and on ragged scraps of paper. Parking tickets. Job applications. Court summons. Sample sale fliers. Looks like Farrow wanders the city writing this drivel, picking up scraps of paper whenever the muse hits him.”

“Leave it. Guy’s had enough...” Detective Anderson seemed to sense that I was listening.

“Finally some leverage. How far do you think Farrow will go to get it back?”

Hidden in the backup rice cooker, I found the unused ticket to Sri Lanka dated for the same week we met. She was planning an escape from her escape. I was in awe by the fact what we shared between us kept her here. I’m sure it was more complex than that, but simple at the core: A love overwhelmed us both. A blizzard without snow. War without boundaries. A storm of beauty and destruction that would take prisoners, end lives, and above all make new life.

The jakes got what they needed and were off, slamming the door behind them. Seems they were sick of chasing me and instead wanted me to chase them. The old rusted iron skeleton of a fire escape took me down to Roosevelt Avenue. The sidewalks were packed under the shadowy tracks of the 7 making it easy enough to stay hidden in the crowd.

Since Sgt. Powers and Detective Anderson stayed in sight, I moved with them. The redhead was saying something the big man didn’t appreciate. The way he kept scratching his eyebrow sent chills down my spine. Then she went for him with the taser. He looked surprised, but maybe it was just how it felt to catch a jolting. Detective Anderson twitched and spasmed as he hit the concrete. I found him in a sad shape, eyes rolled to the back of his head, foaming at the mouth.

“What’s wrong with him?” A woman cradled his head answering her own question. “A seizure. He’s having a seizure.”

“Relax. An ambulance will be here shortly.”

“Who is he? What happened to him?” The first wave of paramedics find his gun. They find badge. They find his strong grip.

“I’m a detective with the 13
^th
precinct. I’m fine. It’s a health condition.” The way he grabbed the paramedic’s shirt by the collar, dragging him in for a close look was more a threat than promise.

“Still. We’re bringing you down to the hospital to have you checked out. Just to rule out…”

“Rule out bringing me anywhere. I’m in the middle of an investigation.” The big man was back on his feet. Leading me down an alley with a familiar fury through the back entrance of a building marked with an obscure sign.

T
HE
ENTIRE CITY WAS SINISTER,
full of secret worlds. We were already halfway down the curling stairs. Past the non-descript sign. Past the doorman who let us in with a wink. I wasn’t sure exactly where the sleeze was oozing from, but it was oozing.

“Farrow this may not be easy for you to hear: We know where Missy is.” Detective Anderson looked twice as menacing and massive in the red-lighting.

Together we allowed ourselves to be swallowed by the giant velvet labia with mirrored ceilings and walls. In a backless dress, black lace cut diamonds of soft skin on her thighs. She wasn’t facing me yet. She teased us with glimpses of improvisation. Even the women in the audience got excited twirling the thin straws dangling in their drinks. She was something else, dancing the same old feather boa routing as if nothing’s on the line. Whipping her body with a quick turn and a look of suspense, she fell back when she saw my face. Already on her hands and knees, she called me to her, hand outstretched, hooking her finger to the slappy upright bass. The entire lair was sure she was summoning them. I blinked and her stockings were off, balled up and flying through the air. Hypnotically, I gravitated as close as possible to her scent, until my nose was resting on the stage with the others. Hysteria got the better of us as we grabbed for her uncontrollably. She taunted us ripping a cane out of an older gentleman’s hand, sliding it across her skin, pumping it between her legs, mockingly attempting to deep throat it, only to twirl it like a schoolgirl at a pep rally.

“Hey you.” She whispered breathily leaning in towards me, blowing a kiss.

“What baby what?” I mouthed at her, shaking my head instinctively. She tightened her lips, raising an eyebrow.

“You better learn to read a lady’s mind.” The music stopped momentarily so the whole room could hear her.

“I will.” All the men mouthed in unison.

“What gives you the right to look at me like that?” She held her stare for as long as I could take it. Squeezing her breasts together, she stood above me, brave and unashamed, commanding the dive with a whimsical smirk.

“You look like someone I know. Someone I once knew.” I looked and looked away. She grabbed me violently and kissed me gently. It was another last kiss that I waited for without admitting. She tasted of Christmas tree gin and subway tunnel perfume. It was theatrical and anonymous. It was a soft spark. Static electricity.

Calm moments pass fast in this land. The bloated fellows packing the joint lost their brotherhood and resorted to simpler times. A scuffle broke out. Two desperadoes that didn’t forget to bring their brimmed hats when they crossed the border. The space was so cramped that we were all connected at the hips. The band tried to hold it together as the percussion intensified knuckles striking bone. Violent men with looks of insatiable hunger multiplied spawning from each other. Strange how they focused on each other with such hate, forgetting the one woman left the room. She punched and kneed the air playfully. Biting into nothingness like a newborn going for a missing breast. There was a certain freedom to the madness. I saw beauty, but had no hold on her.

S
TUPOR
INTERRUPTED, I FOUND MYSELF
in a chokehold being dragged up the backstairs. The world was moving in reverse. Bouncers usually threw people down the stairs, not up. Gradually breath left me. The throat was a vulnerable spot.

Detective Anderson picked me up with one hand, jerking me onto my feet. Rhythmically patting my face until I opened my eyes…

“Say something Farrow. Say something.”

“What’s the point of it all?”

“Didn’t you notice the resemblance?”

“It’s all how you look at it.”

“Out of all the tips that came in. That dancer was Missy’s lost twin sister.”

“It wasn’t her.”

“I know, but the resemblance.”

“She was hardly a shell of what Missy was.”

“Farrow. Dig deeper. Don’t give in to exhaustion yet. Hold it together.” Detective Anderson put his arm around me. He spoke closely, trying to join my family through presence alone.

It was clear by the way Sgt. Bethany Powers closed in on me she meant business.

“With the way pieces are disappearing from the chess board, you’re in some position.” Seagull feathers falling from her mouth. The nozzle of her gun was at my throat.

“Are you listening Farrow?” All I could see were her green green eyes. “Give me Lars and I’ll give you my book.”

“Your book? Wait… Lars? Why Lars?”

“There are two perps, not one. Gloom was dead for 18 hours before Percy turned up. There was a huge difference in the amount of force used to stab the life out of the two victims.”

“How much do you know?”

“We know everything. Just remember you’re lucky to be walking the streets. You better hold onto this.” She was handing me the gun again. I knew better not to take it.

“For once in your life Farrow, take what you deserve.” I turned my back on her.

“Farrow, we did our part. Now you do yours.” The butt of the pistol smashed into my head. The world faded.

I
WAS AN ARROW SHOT
from the beach towards the sun only to drop into the ocean. The ocean in this case is an ocean of books. The sky I was staring at was a fresco on the ceiling of the New York Public Library’s reading room. I rubbed the bruise on the back of my head. Kind of ’em to place me face first into a hardcover copy of
A Greater Truth.
I rubbed my eyes with both fingers, standing up, and moving to the main staircase. I kept rubbing my eyes until I was staring at the door leading out onto the roof, which was left open a crack, similar to the way Percy’s apartment invited me in. I kept rubbing my eyes until Lars appeared in front of me. He didn’t turn around, just kept writing in the fat notebook. He knew I was there, but took his time finishing up his last thought.

Lars popped the pencap back on, sword in its sheath, momentarily leaning inward like he was disemboweling himself. I knew the words were still coming.

“You came here to trade confessions, I assume.” Lars peeked out of his black sunglasses.

“Lars, I knew about the baby. One day your old man hunted me down. Percy told me he wanted to raise the baby as if it was his own. He wanted to never let the baby know I was the father. I froze in anger. I could hardly react. He said he’d take care of me. Rent an apartment for me where I could write and be left alone. He said he’d publish every book that I’d put out for the rest of my life. A few weeks later I sent him
A Greater Truth
. He seemed to truly like it, but said if we were going to sell it, I’d have to change the ending. I flew into a rage and disappeared on a never-ending bender. Somewhere, in the middle of the haze, Percy approached me one last time. This time he had a better plan he said. He looked devious, but even before he explained what he was up to, I knew it would work. Percy still wanted to change the ending, but instead of publishing it under my name. He wanted to publish it under Missy’s name… but only until it was success. Which is when he promised to reveal I was the true writer. Percy told me he wanted to sell a scandal. He said he not only planned to put out a profitable book twice, but he wanted to create a legend. It was best for the baby. It was best for me. It was best for your father. It was best for everyone, but Missy. I wanted to tear his throat out, then and there, but there was some truth in what he said. No matter how evil or manipulative, there was truth in his plan. And words are words, right Lars. Words are words.”