After Delores (16 page)

Beatriz was curved and slithering, snake-like, looking down at the seated Charlotte with the greatest tenderness. Charlotte holding her so closely, her jaw relaxed, actually looking content. I could smell them from the hall. I felt great love for them. I became their accomplice. I would never betray them. Charlotte killed a lover with her hands and hid that behind a high while Beatriz covered it all up with lies so they could make love together in a tenement kitchen in the afternoon. Their lies enabled them to keep a passionate relationship. I was one of them now. I was so evil. I was in love with them.

I raced down the stairs onto the street, running, running again as fast as I could. My lungs were aching but I kept running, the gun bumping against my hip. My legs were sore and slapped against the pavement, but I kept running until sweat poured down my face and sliced my chin. I ran to Priscilla's house and she let me in.

24

I WAITED IN
the living room while Priscilla got comfortable. She brought out a bottle of good vodka and a 1940s ice bucket with long-stemmed art deco glasses, pink. Everything was something. Nothing was regular. It couldn't be just a chair. It had to be tacky or exquisite or a great find. There were too many details, like coasters from various world's fairs and ice tongs from here and there and an overload of truck-stop ashtrays. But, bless her heart, that little dollface stepped out of the bedroom all dressed up for me, in her gown and panty girdle and even that black fall. She put on rhumba records and we danced around laughing and drinking from the bottle in between sloppy, drunken kisses. Then Elvis sang, “Wise men say, even fools fall in love.”

That's when I murmured, “Don't be cruel,” and fell on my knees at Priscilla's feet, burying my face in her polyester. I rubbed my whole body in it. Polyster was my everything. I chewed on her girdle and she tightened the grip of tulle around my neck.

“I'm a terrible lover,” I said, tonguing her thigh. “I'm the worst. You can still get out of it.”

“I know you stink,” she said, scratching eight long nails and two short ones under my shirt and down my back. “As long as I know the truth, let's just do it.”

She put her hand on my thigh.

“Cool,” she said.

She put her hand on my cunt.

“Feel how hot,” she said. “You're burning up.”

Pris tore off her Playtex and rocked back and forth over my face. So I ate her the best I could, which was like riding a bucking bronco, because she was not shy when it came to getting what she wanted. And there is little in life that is more terrific than being put in that compromising situation by a woman who outdoes her own fantasy. But then, surprise, surprise, Priscilla got all soft and dewy-eyed. That's when it hit me.

“Priscilla, you're the kind to fall in love immediately, aren't you?”

“It's true. I've never been able to kiss through walls or any kind of protection. That's why I need to carry a gun.”

We lay back on the floor, quiet and out of breath. She raised herself up on one elbow and brushed my hair off my forehead.

“Honey,” she purred. “What made you know I would let you in like that and give you exactly what you were looking for if you just presented yourself at my front door?”

“Well, Priscilla,” I said, noticing her face under the makeup. “You're dangerous. You're dangerous and I'm crazy. We smelled each other in a rathole so I thought it might work. By the way, while we're on the subject. I'd like to ask you a favor. Take your gun back. I've got it right here in my pocket.”

“Why, thank you, honey” she drawled. “But I have plenty. And not one of them is registered. Why don't you just keep it?” “I don't know.”

“It comes in handy. And don't you worry about the address book. All that information is on my personal computer.”

“Tell me, Pris, why did you start collecting firearms?”

She stretched out flat on her back to answer that one. Her breasts stuck up right into the air like the legs of a dead animal in rigor mortis.

“Years ago, when I was very young, I had a girlfriend who worked as a hooker. There were always creepy men coming around demanding things and she was very tough with them but sweet with me, real sweet. One night we were making love at her place. Her mouth was full of my breasts. She had such delicate bones, we were sitting together on a rocking chair. Suddenly, she stopped everything, right in the middle. I mean, both of our faces were flushed red. When you're that turned on, the air is sparking, everything could burn. So her pause had this magical feeling. I understood perfectly not to say or do anything. She picked up her gun, naked, with those sunshine stretch marks girls get from making babies, those marks were gleaming like gold leaf in an old book. She pulled open the curtain and a man was standing there jerking off. His dick was flopping up and down in his hands, like a sausage. I remember the steel of her gun and the precious metal on her stomach. And I remember his expression, knowing she would blow his balls off. But she didn't. He was some old boyfriend of hers and she forgave him. He left her alone after that, knowing that the next time she'd kill him for sure.

“‘Get tough, cookie,' she told me. ‘Get a gun.'”

“That's a great story, Pris. Do you know Coco Flores?”

“I've got more,” Pris said. “If we're ever in a car for a long drive with no radio, I'll tell you six or seven.”

“Do you honestly think I need a gun?”

I was moving real slowly, not sure of what I'd be hearing or feeling next.

“Priscilla, what would you do if someone you loved, who had hurt you very badly, killed someone you loved who hadn't done anything bad to you at all?”

“I'd stay out of it,” she said.

“What would you do if your old girlfriend used you for a place to live and then dumped you for a yuppie in a loft in TriBeCa?”

“Keep the gun,” she said. “You're gonna need it.”

She dropped the accent and started washing up in the kitchen sink, putting on her plain clothes and looking like a normal girl again.

“I'm gonna give it to you straight. If you're nice, people think you're a sap. Give it back! Show how much you hate them. It's the only thing they'll understand.”

“Yeah, what you're saying works theoretically, but in real life, that's how people get killed.”

“Oh, don't be such a pansy,” she said, brushing her hair. She said it so carelessly that it tossed off her head with a stroke of the brush. I saw a fire inside her that cleansed her skin. It burned through her makeup.

Then I looked at the clock. The hands were dramatic. It was seven-thirty, almost time for Delores. I watched the second hand race round its face and I didn't have the stomach for hating her. I wanted, most of all, to believe in peace and love. I wanted to be romantic, read Chinese poems on a snowy day, watching a crow fly across a country sky. I wanted to sit with my lover in a big house in old sweaters, drinking tea and listening to Javanese music. I wanted to ride a horse and when it gallops, I start coming and when it stops, I keep coming. I wanted to be the horse.

“You're sweet,” she said, kissing me. “And this was fun. Maybe we'll do it again sometime. But not too soon.”

“Peace and love, Pris,” I said when I walked out the door. “Peace and love.”

And oh God, I really meant it.

25

THE BASIC OBSTACLE
to getting justice is that everything in life has its consequences. Of course, you could argue that
they
hurt
you
and
your
revenge is
their
consequence. But bullies see themselves as the status quo, and when a person is a reactive type, like myself, what you consider “getting even,” they call “provocation.” They actually expect you to sit back and take it. And once you learn that the consequences are coming, it gets harder to ever relax. For each pleasure I've enjoyed I've had to pay back in sorrow. So now, every moment is shadowed by the evil one, waiting with a grin. Each emotion becomes, in that way, a parody of itself.

Outside it was nice and cool and clear. Every single person in the whole city was right there looking at each other. All the hidden craziness was blatantly dancing, blasting radios, making conversations, shrugging off responsibilities, flirting, fighting, leaving forever and turning over a new leaf. It was evening. It was beautiful. Then, across the street, I saw Sunshine.

I was a freight train. I didn't have to think. I ran right into her, screaming. Not words, but a high-pitched shriek and she saw me coming and was surprised. I ran into her face and it had surprise on it because bitches like that think they can get away with anything. They think they can take your girlfriend, rub your face in it, sic their goons on you and still be invincible. It was so sweet letting her know how wrong she was. I smashed her. I could smell her fear. I could smell her leather jacket, it was spanking new. I smashed her face and gritted my teeth and pulled her by her new shirt and smashed her again. I hit her so hard, my hand broke. I could feel it go. Then she actually fell down and began to cry. You hit them and they fall down. It really works that way. Then some blood started dribbling out of her nose, like a school kid. It was the same color as Dino's blood but there was a lot less of it this time. Everyone on the street who had nothing to do kept looking at us and everyone else kept walking.

She didn't say anything. I felt great. I felt really good. I walked away with my hand swelling but I started to feel tense again, so I kicked her one more time, really hard, and then I felt fine. I was so happy. I was free. I was the freest bird.

There was only one thing left to take care of, Delores. I touched the gun. I could shoot her. Or better yet, I could smash her too. I could smash her ugly little face.

Then the weirdest thing happened. I remembered the way Delores used to say my name when she came in after work. I remembered how I was the only one who never took her money or broke her nose and who always took care of her, even when she was driving me crazy. I remembered the way we used to run into the water in our underwear in front of everyone at the beach because neither of us had bathing suits.

Oh shit
, I thought.
Oh shit
. I can't smash Delores. I love her. Maybe we can talk things over. Maybe she can act like a reasonable human being. But we'd have to go away from here, far away from Sunshine and all those yuppie influences. Then she could get her own apartment and we could have a normal relationship. All she had to do was show in some little way that she really loved me.

When I got home, the red light was blinking on the answering machine. Wow, my first message. I bet it was Delores. She probably thought the whole thing over and decided to come back home.

“Hello? This is Coco Flores. I want my eight dollars for the paint. Eight dollars.”

She didn't even add, “I know you're having a hard time right now and I can't be there for you at this moment but I really am your friend.” She just said, “Eight dollars.” In fact, she said it twice.

I almost turned off the machine but there was a second message. Dolores!

“I hope you fucking die,” she said.

All my breath came out of me. I was very quiet. The city was quiet too. All I could hear was the buzz of the cassette inside the phone machine. It was spinning around and around. What would happen to all my anger now? Where could it possibly go? I walked into the kitchen and poured a drink. I didn't care what color it was anymore. Then I stood at the threshold of the bedroom, staring at the bed. Maybe I'd be able to sleep there in a couple of weeks. I went back into the living room and stared at the answering machine, sipping my drink. I listened to the hum as the tape rolled on empty, empty.

“I just want you to talk to me, Marianne.”

It was a man's voice. A man's voice on the tape. A man's voice was inside my apartment. He was panting, out of breath, but from tension, not exercise. You could hear him sweating. I punched the button and rewound it back.

“I just want you to talk to me, Marianne. Talk to me or I'll kill you.”

“I know who you are.”

Oh God, it was Punkette's voice.

“I know who you are and you're in big trouble.”

Right on, Punkette. What a doll. Look at the way she stood up to that bully. Who was it, Punkette? Who?

But the tape finished.

All that was left of Punkette was her comeback.

Outside, the church bells tolled eight. I could hear the noises again, the cars and the drug dealers and people saying all kinds of bullshit. I was shaking with the memory of Punkette and the voice of her killer. A killer who wasn't a dope-fiend actress. Charlotte was just a run-of-the-mill liar in a standard fucked-up relationship. She didn't murder women. She loved and hurt them. That's all. She didn't kill Punkette. It was a man. A man did it. Of that, I was sure.

26

“HI, CHARLOTTE,” I
said, when she answered my knock on her door.

Something about seeing her again made me happy, like I was the person I was supposed to be because Charlotte was in the same place as me. I rocked back and forth on my heels, shyly like a little boy in short pants and suspenders. I was smiling, feeling peaceful because Charlotte was as close to innocent as she could be while still being Charlotte.