Disintegration (11 page)

Later, at some point, before I headed out again, I pushed the button. I needed a dose of reality, a slap in the face.

“…we'll prosecute the driver of the other car to the fullest extent of the law. We can talk about that when you get here, I think we can help you out.”

Eventually I find myself at the Innertown Pub. The red door must have drawn me in. I sit on a barstool toward the end of the long dark counter and as far away from the front door as possible. I don't remember dropping off Guy's bottle, but I assume I didn't screw him over. There's a vague possibility that I entered his cave again, sat in a faded brown recliner, with stuffing popping through the arms, duct tape running over torn fabric, and smoked the fattest joint of my life with him. Or that could have been a movie. There may have been a talk about the books that surround him, Vonnegut and Palahniuk, King and Straub, eventually landing on the late, great Hunter S. Thompson. I block out somebody crying, and pray it was him, tissues littering the floor. The last glimmer that stays with me, as I stare down a half-empty Budweiser and three empty shot glasses, each holding a drop of amber, is slapping him in the face, screaming at him, and then offering him my protection. What did I do?

I signal the bartender closer when he comes toward my end of the bar.

“Another shot, please.”

His face is beaming and he pours it fast, backing it up with a Bud.

“This round's on me, bro,” he says.

I must be tipping him well. He heads back to the other end of the bar to take care of two Catholic schoolgirls who just got out of juvie, pale cleavage bouncing as they giggle into the bar, hands held, and their hips pressed close together. One is in pigtails, the other a pony, purchased ink leaking out from under short skirts, Celtic bands and star-dotted butterflies, boots that lace up to mid-thigh and suddenly I'm awake again.

The bar is only half full, so it can't be that late yet. White stars twinkle in the ceiling, and a neon glow runs around the baseboards. Some sort of humongous vermin's head is mounted behind the bar. The word
wolverine
runs through my head, I mean, who would mount up a badger? It's graciously dark in here, and at the far end a stained glass window of yellow, red, and brown pushes a holy glow onto a tiny stage, where a young black kid in dreads and a wool poncho kneels at a makeshift altar filled with tall candles. He sets two shot glasses down, crosses himself, and then drinks one of them down with a violent flip of his head. He leaves the other one after pouring out a few drops. Seems like a waste. Maybe I'll steal it later and see what happens.

A dull bass reverberates under my skin, and a rhythmic guitar line matches my heartbeat. A faded squawk of baritone sax and a riff on the drums keeps the time. The crack of the pool balls echoes behind me, while laughter and the clink of glasses hangs in the air.

A tall, pale woman sits down next to me, her black hair in a long braid down the middle of her back. A twinge of recognition passes over me and I frown into my drink. The bartender comes over and sets down something blue and glowing and walks away. She lights a cigarette and holds it to her plum lips. She's wearing a complicated corset, eyelets running up the front and back, and I wonder how she got into it. Or how she gets out. Her pants are some kind of glimmering, slick blackness and I wonder if she's simply dipped in oil.

“Are you allowed to smoke in here?” I ask.

I've always had a way with opening lines.

“What's it to you?” she says. “You a cop?”

“You want me to be?”

I pull my badge out and slap it on the counter.

“I should've known. Most dicks in authority like to be slapped around.”

She turns her head and smiles, and I know her. The club.

“Hey…”

“Ah, so you do remember.”

“Remember, I still have scars, you crazy bitch.”

“You're the one that came to me,” she whispers, sucking down the cigarette, and putting it out on her boot heel.

“Well, that was a mistake, I just wandered down the wrong alley…”

“And I held a gun to your head?” she asks. “I'm so overpowering that I muscled you into submission?”

She grins and holds her drink to me.

“Ostrovia,”
she says.

I toast her with my beer and suddenly I'm very thirsty. The music fades away and I study her face. It's like porcelain, white marble. I can barely believe there is blood beneath that skin, and then she purses her lips, bites the lower one, and takes another drink. Her lips are red, lush, and liquid, the dusting of her breasts that push out of her corset demanding to be nuzzled and bitten. When she leans forward to take another sip, her slender arms leaning on the copper railing that runs around the bar, the hem of her top inches up, revealing a smattering of ink. Ornate scrollwork runs along her hips, centered by a peacock feather in iridescent blue-green, an eye buried in the middle of it, a crisscross of double locks and barbed wire that descends deep into her sprayed-on pants, the crack in her ass inching out. I want to jam my tongue down there and taste her sweat.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Just out for a drink. It's my night off. I live nearby. Funny running into you here.”

“Yes, hilarious.”

“You put on a good show, you were a good sport, so when I saw you sitting here, hunched over and growling into your beer, I thought I'd make your night.”

I can practically see a cold steam rising off of her body, dry ice and a whisper of a breeze. She waves the bartender over, and points at her drink, two fingers in the air.

“No, no, no. I don't need another one of those. I'm fine with what I have.”

“Didn't you have fun last time?”

“Fun? You call tearing my nipples off, electric shock, and a litany of scars up and down my body fun?”

“I do,” she says.

The drinks arrive, and the bartender skitters away. She must have built up a tolerance or something as the drink doesn't seem to faze her.

“Well, maybe we turn the tables tonight,” she says. “Maybe it's my turn to suffer.”

She pulls a tiny brown vial out of a pocket in her corset and pours some in both of the drinks. Her mouth widens into a bloody grin. The vial disappears.

“This is what you had last time.”

She pulls a tiny glass bottle out of some other crevice and beckons me closer.

“Kiss me,” she says.

I lean in, my hand on her lower back and her skin is hot where I thought it would be cool. I inhale her heady sweetness and my lips meet hers—gentle, moist—and her tongue slides into my mouth, delicate. I pull away and she cracks open the ampoule under our noses.

“Inhale,” she says.

I do.

Holding my breath, her mouth is on me again. I'm covered in honey, a hot light shining down on me, and sweat trickles down my sides. There is the faint tinkling of the glass breaking on the floor, and hoofbeats run through my head, her hands on my knees, running slowly up my thighs, electricity causing my body to twitch, a door slams, glass breaks, there is yelling, a
whoomp
of fire rushing up drapes, and I open my eyes.

“Trust me,” she says, and hands me my drink.

There is a fight in the back of the bar, the altar has tipped over, a flannel shirt has caught on fire, and the Catholic schoolgirls bent on being whores claw at each other, demonic smiles on their faces. I sip the concoction and am filled with ice, as a great ghosting drifts down inside me, my eyes glazing over in a sheen of white, and I swallow it, each gulp expanding the arctic charge, her left hand on mine, her silhouette in front of me, the snowstorm outside now filling my head, and her outline dances in flames. I squeeze her hand, and disappear.

We're in the bathroom snorting coke off the sink. She's bent over and my hand is rubbing up and down her ass, and she's moaning into the air with the urgency and heat of a porn star. I bend over and do a line and her lips are on my neck, sucking, emptying my lungs, biting, and my head swims, shadows at the edge of my vision, flashes of light sparkling off the walls.

We part and reach for two bottles of beer, and drink them down as if abandoned in the Sahara. The stretch of her neck as she empties the bottle is graceful and glorious and pulsing with life. I want to slit it.

I drop my bottle in the trash and she hauls off and slaps me across the face. My head rocks to one side.

“What the fuck?”

She bends over the sink, her eyes closed, leaning into the sink. In the reflection of the mirror I see her face, lips pressed together tightly, cleavage pink and flushed, straining against the corset. She pushes her ass out as far as it will go, arching her back.

“I'm a bitch. Punish me.”

I smack her ass, and she whimpers.

“Harder.”

I smack it again, my hand stinging against the tight PVC. Her breath whooshes out.

“More.”

I pull my arm back, and hit her as hard as I can, my hand open, pants tight as my erection strains against the denim. Again and again, I slap her ass, harder and harder, my hand stinging and red. Slowing it down, I rub between the smacks, in slow circles, slipping my hand between her legs, and then a fast smack. Rubbing slowly, up and down, between her legs, and then a fast smack. Rubbing and smacking, her legs shake, her mouth opens, her face filling with color. Left and right, back and forth, spanking her as hard as I can, her ass bounces, the flesh rippling beneath the PVC, the smack on her ass as sharp as a gunshot, echoing through the bathroom. Another smack and her eyes open, she's close. Rubbing and smacking, and then smacking, smack, her body tightening up, her ass pushing out as she bends over. Smack, smack, smack.

“Don't stop,” she whimpers.

She gasps and shakes, her legs trembling.

“Oh God,” she breathes, and collapses.

We leave the bar, only a slight edge taken off of our lust. The snow is up past our knees, so we walk slowly, taking our time. She is a bit calmer now, but we're both still high, two more shots at the bar, and out into the night. Wrapped in long black coats we stroll arm in arm down the block, a couple just coming from the symphony, returning from a nice dinner out, not two coked-up freaks, a killer and a bondage whore, tingling with release and eager for more.

“My ass is on fire,” she whispers.

The demure declaration makes me laugh.

“You okay?”

“More than okay. I'm only a couple of blocks away.”

“Hold on a second,” I say, “my boot is undone.”

I bend over to tie my boot, squatting in the snow. She stands above me, her purse in hand, the glass and gold latch shimmering in the night. She takes a step toward a streetlamp, and spins under the light. Flakes drift down on her and it's as if she's in a snow globe. She's angelic, even after all that just happened, somehow filled with light.

Out of the alley steps a large ratty man, clothes torn and stained, a knife in his hand. His hair is like the mane of a lion, twisted and dirty, covering his face.

“Give me the purse,” he says.

“Fuck you,” she says, pulling away from him.

He stabs at her arm, and she screams, dropping her purse. He grabs it up and lumbers away from us on down the block.

“Holy shit,” I say, jumping up. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. Go get him, my life is in that bag.”

I pause for one second, a gleam in her eye, and take off after him. He's big and slow and I catch him just as he turns the corner from Thomas south onto Damen. I wheel him around and punch him in the face. It's like hitting a bear, my fist glancing off his bearded jaw. I don't catch him squarely and he turns on me and shoves the blade in. I gasp as hot liquid runs down my side.

“Motherfucker.”

I cock back and this time I land the blow squarely in the middle of his face, crushing his nose. He grunts and falls backward, dropping the purse. I'm on him in seconds, old instincts taking over, pummeling his face as I straddle him. He blocks a blow, his foot coming up, squarely into my balls. A wave of nausea rolls over me, my nuts in my stomach, and I turn to the right and vomit. He stands up and I turn to see him bending over to get the purse. I manage a kick up into his face and he flips over onto his back, teeth flying into the night, winking off the glow of the streetlamp. Blood flies in an arc over the snow, and a puddle starts to form below me. He doesn't move.

She appears beside me as I drop to one knee and vomit again.

“Oh my God, come on, I'll get you home.”

She turns to the vagrant and kicks him in the stomach, kicks him in the nuts, a low grunt from him, and then she stomps on his face with her heeled boots, a high-pitched squeal slipping from her lips.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

I get to my feet and we stumble south down Damen, away from the homeless man. The snow falls heavier on us as we approach a large brownstone. My side is burning but we make it up the stairs, every step shooting bolts of pain up my side and across my nerves. As she fumbles in her purse for the keys, I tip over and fall down, covered in snow. I'm dizzy.

“No, no, no. You're fine, it's okay.”

She opens the door and helps me up again, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. She's strong. The halls are filled with a red glow disappearing into the distance. Black-and-white photos of a naked female form are hung and framed up and down the long hallway, faint lights from dimmed sconces and soft, dark carpet beneath my feet. She closes the door, holding me up on the wall with one hand, locking the front door behind us. She turns me toward the next room, a wide open space with hardwood floors and no furniture. Handcuffs are secured to the walls, and an assortment of whips are mounted to a display. Gilded mirrors in dingy gold line one wall, and for a moment I see an army of strange men, staggering in the darkness. She peels off my coat and lays me on the floor, hustling off to the kitchen.

“Don't die on me,” she says.

Drawers bang open and closed, the rattle of silverware, muffled cursing, and lights flicking off and on. I hear water running. As the room fades away I notice a drawing on the ceiling, some sort of elaborate pentagram centered under a hanging chandelier of white crystals and bronze fittings.

My last thought before I pass out is that I hope he didn't ruin my coat.

And I hope that thing doesn't fall on me.