Authors: Edward Lee
Shifters (15 page)
“In five minutes? Christ, the hospital’s just a couple of miles away from the Concannon’s parking lot.”
“Then when I went back inside to have the keep call,” Locke guessed.
“Unlikely. We’re talking minutes here, Mr. Locke. Somebody just happened to be walking by at two o’clock in the goddamn morning when you just happened to be back inside having the barkeep call the ambulance? And this somebody just says hey, that dude just blew his brains out in his car so what the hell I think I’ll just write some funny word on his windshield? In his blood?”
Locke could not assess this. It was too fast, and there was too much he didn’t know. “Listen, Captain, I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I didn’t write any
word
on the guy’s windshield. I wasn’t even aware of it.”
word
on the guy’s windshield. I wasn’t even aware of it.”
Cordesman’s keen, analytical gaze went suddenly flat. Was he disappointed? “No, Mr. Locke, I guess you didn’t. Maybe you didn’t. But I’d really like to know who did.”
Locke sat in the silence, trying to untie the knot of feelings and questions. “What was the word?” he finally asked.
The gaunt policeman turned to the cork board, where he’d posted the blank sheet of paper. He picked up a red magic marker, which squeaked as he hastily wrote:
SCIFTAN
TEN
Encounters
(i)
It goes on forever. Why?
I’m a monster. I’m hideous. I ate a man’s brains last night and I liked it. There’s something—some gravitation, some force—that wields us in some way. It’s not fair, I don’t understand it.
Why am I like this? Why do I do the things that I do?
I guess I’m just in one of those moods. Women get that way sometimes—ha—Maybe it’s that time of the month. I’m a bitch. I want to kill.
Good and bad. Beauty and ugliness. They’re words, they’re relativities. Why can’t I be like everybody else? I’m not allowed to be, it’s my providence. We all have a providence, don’t we?
The man on the boat—whose brains I ate like a rich meal—he had some money on him. I bought some clothes at a store called The Gap. Do I look pretty now? Will people look at me and say “There’s a pretty girl”? Maybe. But beauty’s skin deep. What a trite phrase! They wouldn’t think I was pretty if they could see what I look like underneath.
I almost wish that they could.
««—»»
I know what I’m looking for now. I’ve always been looking for it—something true, something real. It’s my only salvation, and it never ends. Never, never… It’s like the Sartre story: what we need the most—to be happy, to be free—is the one thing we can never have. Vicious cycles. I want you, you want somebody else, somebody else wants me.
I want to be loved. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody? Sometimes I laugh about it, my hands outstretched to the moon at midnight, with some peon’s blood running over my breasts and down my legs, making myself come with my own fingers in this black chasm that’s my life. I want to be loved. But the only man on earth who loves me is the only man who has the power to destroy me. And he will. Someday he will. Because the closest feeling to love is hate.
««—»»
Men are so stupid, even immortal ones. See, I dumped him. It was a long time ago, and he’s found me and brought me here. He’s got this idea in his head that when I see him again, my love will return. Stupid, stupid! Only men can conceive of stupid things like that. And when he finally realizes that my love for him is dead—
He’ll kill me in the worst way imaginable.
I’m not very happy right now. Can you tell? I guess I’ll go and find something to do.
Something that will make me happy.
(ii)
Locke sat at his typewriter. It was 9:00 p.m. He’d been trying to write for hours, but the only payment for his efforts was the blank sheet of paper that stared back at him from the platen. It mocked him with its intractable blankness—
Poet, where are your words…
Poet, where are your words…
Uninvited thoughts drew him back to his many talks with Lehrling, who’d told him he considered “writer’s block” to be the excuse of the “candy-ass dilettante” and Locke had nodded, agreeing with him. That had been a lifetime ago, when he had a muse named Clare; there had been no ending of words then, he could fill volumes, but now—
Now there was only the awful whiteness of the blank page which lolled out of the typewriter carriage, the page as empty as his life, his spirit.
He glanced out the window, the street beckoning him.
A long walk, a tall drink—something hard. The vision of a chimney glass of Tullamore Dew barged without welcome into his consciousness.
He was drinking too much, or maybe not enough; but in any event the idea of staring any longer at the blank paper seemed abhorrent.
He was drinking too much, or maybe not enough; but in any event the idea of staring any longer at the blank paper seemed abhorrent.
Next, he was out walking into the tepid night. He looked up at the stars. So much to see, or was there? Many saw inspiration, others—writers, perhaps—often saw their muse, while still others viewed a vast and fascinating panorama of possibilities. Like that bizarre San Diego coterie who’d seen a UFO coming to take them to a better world, but only if they killed themselves. Locke wondered what Lehrling saw when he looked up at the stars.
Dollar signs and women’s phone numbers?
Locke looked up and saw the moon, a baleful, malformed eye staring back at him with a cold dispassionate gaze. The stars themselves seemed empty and devoid of possibilities; just a vacant gulf that made him feel trapped and twisting in a net of isolation.
Dollar signs and women’s phone numbers?
Locke looked up and saw the moon, a baleful, malformed eye staring back at him with a cold dispassionate gaze. The stars themselves seemed empty and devoid of possibilities; just a vacant gulf that made him feel trapped and twisting in a net of isolation.
People are out there right now,
he realized.
Laughing, kissing, making love…
But for Locke there was only the dull sensation of being utterly and completely alone. His future seemed behind him, a spot on the night’s horizon too far away now to go back to.
he realized.
Laughing, kissing, making love…
But for Locke there was only the dull sensation of being utterly and completely alone. His future seemed behind him, a spot on the night’s horizon too far away now to go back to.
Gems glimmered suddenly and he stopped. Hawberk’s Jewelers, the narrow store where, in the past, he’d often stopped to peruse their selection of engagement rings. Clare had been with him once and pointed out a beautiful band with a small diamond in a heart-shaped mount. Now, of course, the store windows were blank, the window displays stripped of their true adornments until morning, leaving only the baubles and paste and slender mannequin hands with nothing on them.
The shit that’s worthless,
Locke thought
.
Locke thought
.
Like his muse, and the way his life felt now.
The shit that no one would bother to steal.
Locke found himself across the street from Concannon’s, the neon sign of a leprechaun holding a martini glass winked at him as if in recognition.
I’m so broke I can’t even pay attention.
Maybe Lehrling would be there…
I’m so broke I can’t even pay attention.
Maybe Lehrling would be there…
The tavern stood quiet for mid-evening. Only a few people sat at the bar, the lone drinkers who had lingered long past happy hour. Stockbrokers and junior partners for the most part; twelve-hour days of cocaine-driven screeching intensity followed by the usual five hours of power-drinking to mellow out and hopefully snatch a few hours of dreamless sleep before climbing back on the Sisyphean economic treadmill. A lone man stood at the dartboard, playing a solitary game; and there at one of the tables, Lehrling, and a companion…
Someone’s getting lucky.
The blonde seated with Lehrling was almost a stereotype of Aryan beauty—reminding Locke of one of the girls from the beer commercial featuring “the Swedish Bikini Team”—she sat pressed against Lehrling, his arm around her and her body-language leaving no doubt that some rapport was growing which would eventually lead them both to bed later. It astounded Locke—this girl was drop-dead gorgeous, and Lehrling, though a witty enough conversationalist, was certainly no one’s idea of a movie star, unless of course the movie star in question were like, maybe, Charles Grodin
.
Locke glanced at the mis-matched couple again and Lehrling met his gaze and nodded toward the bar making a writing motion which indicated that Locke should charge his drinks to Lehrling’s tab.
.
Locke glanced at the mis-matched couple again and Lehrling met his gaze and nodded toward the bar making a writing motion which indicated that Locke should charge his drinks to Lehrling’s tab.
What a man.
Locke returned the nod, took a seat at the table nearest the dart board to watch the solitary practitioner of the ancient game.
Carl wasn’t behind the bar tonight and the waitress who took his order for a Tullamore Dew and water seemed exasperated when directed to charge his drink to Lehrling’s tab. Locke sat and watched the dart player; a tall man of indeterminate middle age, dressed in a fine charcoal gray suit. He played as though the remarkable precision of the game came as naturally as breathing. Locke had played casually before counting down from 301 to hit zero exactly on a “double” got on his nerves; he’d thought it the most frustrating game he’d ever been exposed to: hit a target a quarter of an inch wide to start the game, the “double” ring and then finish by hitting the appropriate “double” to bring one’s score to zero… The precision involved was maddening; that’s why Locke had quit.
But now he watched the man take careful aim and throw, double twenty; a lucky first dart “on,” he thought, then in rapid succession: two darts sped unerringly to the treble twenty; a “160” on…
This guy’s real good or real lucky.
Immediately, Locke’s interest was piqued. He watched the man retrieve his darts and quickly throw a treble seventeen, treble eighteen and then the double eighteen: a perfect game…
Christ!
Locke thought.
Locke thought.
Gathering up the darts, the man came over to Locke’s table and, reaching into his pocket, produced a crumpled bar napkin and placed it in front of Locke.
“I believe you dropped this the other night, and what with the small drama that took place outside, I neglected to return it to you then. You have a rare gift for true poetry, Mr. Locke.” The man spoke in a soft voice that betrayed just a hint of accent.
“Well, thank you. I’m afraid that this little snippet isn’t really among my more serious works, but thanks for returning it, Mr.—”
“Lethe, my name is Lethe.” The tall man proffered his hand, long piano-player fingers, a solitary onyx ring on his index finger. Locke shook hands and gestured for the man to take a seat; he was surprised by the tensile strength in the returning grip. This was not the macho-see-how-strong-I-am handshake of one of the pathetic ex-high school jocks, but instead almost a restrained, controlled strength, as though Lethe was far, far stronger than his slender frame would indicate.
“That’s quite a grip you have, Mr. Lethe,” Locke said smiling. “Musician or athlete?”
Lethe chuckled, “I’m glad you didn’t guess woodworker or stone-mason. Actually I’ve a number of interests, many of which require a good deal of physical discipline, but that’s not what motivated me to stop by and chat; I hadn’t intended to discuss my frivolous hobbies like tae-kwan-do or the
klavier
. No, I wanted to talk to you more in my capacity of, shall we say, a patron of aesthetics. You see Mr. Locke, I’d like you to write a book.”
klavier
. No, I wanted to talk to you more in my capacity of, shall we say, a patron of aesthetics. You see Mr. Locke, I’d like you to write a book.”
Locke nearly choked on his drink. He’d heard of deals struck at upscale parties and writers’ conventions, but this had to be some kind of weird angle.
Is this some sort of gay come-on?
“You’re a publisher then, Mr. Lethe? Which house do you represent?”
Lethe smiled and signaled for the waitress before replying, “No, no I’m not with one of the New York houses; I’m more of an aficionado of literature; particularly that in which the author is able to capture the true feelings within the human psyche. Not the crass sort of popular drivel that your friend over there churns out.” He gestured dismissively towards Lehrling. “What I’d like for you to do is create a small volume of your work that I could have privately published in a suitably ornate edition for my library. There’s an old fellow out on one of the San Juans that does exquisite hand-made books, and has in fact prepared a few choice volumes for me previously.” Lethe paused and took a sip from his drink.
“You mean a vanity press sort of thing?” Locke frowned. “Of course I’m flattered, but I really do try to focus on wider circulation, no offense intended.” Locke looked over at Lehrling’s table again. The blonde seemed to be doing her best to force her tongue down his throat.
How the hell does Lehrling do it?
How the hell does Lehrling do it?
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