I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1) (7 page)

Santa Anna scoffed.

Jay was the shortest man in the van at barely
five and a half feet, a dark skinned Hispanic with a Caesar
haircut. He continued, “Listen, Bowie—
your
footsteps
will
always
fall
here
along
England’s
greenest
hills
? How the fuck does
that compare to your candle burning out before your legend did?
Mierda
! What kind of bullshit is that?”

“You know who you’re talking about here,
right?” asked Santa Anna.

“Princess Di?” Jay shook his head. “Fuckin’
Brit intelligence whacked her. You watch. It’ll come out, mark my
words.”

“No, Elton John.”

“Elton John killed Di?” Jay looked puzzled.
He lit a Moore and inhaled. “
De
que
estas
hablando
?”

“No, man,” Bowie shook his head. “You’re
bashing my boy E.”

“Who gives a flying fuck about Elton
John?”

“
Sir
Elton John,” corrected Bowie.
“
Sir
.”

“This guy, Santa Anna,” Bowie looked to Santa
Anna and feigned indignation. “No taste. ‘Who gives a fuck about
Elton John’?”

“He’s queer, ain’t he?” asked Jay. “And you
know what, Bow, quite honestly, your own little infatuation with
‘Sir’ Elton here is a little fruity if you ask me.”

Santa Anna nodded his head, “True that, but
what’s even weirder is you analyzing the lyrics man…”

“Oh, you never analyzed lyrics before
then?”

“Not Elton John’s.”

“
Lo
que
sea
.”

A thin line of drool connected Boone’s mouth
to the floor.

“
Sir
Elton John,” said Bowie. Then,
trying his best to open a can of worms, he asked Jay, “Speaking of
infatuation. What’s with this new lady in your life, Jay?”

“
Mierda
.” Jay took a long drag on his
Moore and held the smoke. When he let it out he spoke. “She’s…she’s
nothing like any other woman I ever met before.”

“Sounds like someone’s in L-O-V-E,” Santa
Anna said to Bowie.

“I can’t put it in words, man,” admitted Jay.
“She’s…she’s just, I don’t know,
different
than all the
others, right?”

“Different how? She got three tits?” asked
Bowie.

“Now you’re the one being disrespectful,”
noted Santa Anna. “We talkin’ wifey material here, Jay?”

“Nah, she’s not…I mean, maybe one day,
but—”

“We all been there, man,” nodded Santa Anna,
thinking of Tanji at home. “You enjoy it, now, you hear?”

“No, it ain’t like that—I been in love
before. This is…she ain’t like other women.”

“What?” Boone was awake. “She put her finger
up your ass or something?”

“Sleeping beauty arises from her slumber,”
greeted Bowie.

“But she ain’t lookin’ any prettier,” added
Santa Anna.

“Nah, it ain’t like that Boone…” Jay didn’t
look like he liked Boone kidding around about his woman.

“Well then, you ain’t felt shit
yet
,
Jay,” Boone yawned. “Not till you got yourself in there balls deep,
and she digs in with that index finger, right up to the second
digit, tickle your prostate. Shit becomes clear then, like the
meaning of life and—”

“What were you dreaming about?” asked Santa
Anna.

Boone cocked an eyebrow.

“In your sleep,” said Santa Anna. “You were
making a lot of noise. Fidgeting around.”

“Ah, that was nothin’,” Boone waved it away,
then coughed. “Jay, you gotta smoke those shits in here? Can’t you
at least smoke a man’s cigarette?”

Jay offered Boone a middle finger.

“That’s what I’m talking about, Jay,” Boone
grinned. “Right up to the second knuckle. By the way, what the fuck
are we listening to?”

“Madison’s fucking with us,” said Bowie.

Boone punched the wall that separated them
from the driver’s compartment. The music got louder.

“Fuck,” he put his hand on his forehead.

“Hey, Boone,” Bowie thought he’d have some
fun with the kid. “I bought my ma and her friend tickets to go see
Johnny Mathis at Westbury. Now her girlfriend can’t go.”

Boone had a look on his face like he didn’t
know what Bowie was talking about.

“Ma needs a date in two weeks. Think you can
do me a favor?”

“Johnny Mathis? Why would I want to go see
that fag? And would they turn
this
fag the fuck off!” Boone
punched the wall again.

“Must be nice to be in love,” Bowie remarked
to Jay.

“I didn’t say I was in love.”

“Nothing wrong with love, man,” offered Santa
Anna. “You know what got me through the night, all those nights
Inside?”

“All those hard white dicks?” wagered
Boone.

Santa Anna looked at Boone but spoke to Jay.
“Thinking about my wife. And my kids. That’s what got me
through.”

“You tryin’ to intimidate me, lookin’ at me
like that?” Boone asked nonchalantly. “Cause it ain’t working.”

Santa Anna ignored him.

“So you coming out tonight or what, Jay?”
Bowie asked.

“Yeah, haven’t seen or heard much from you
since you shacked up with what’s-her-name,” noted Boone.

“I think we’ll be there.”

“Gotta get the old lady’s permission?” goaded
Boone. “See, Bowie, he’s already pussy whipped.”

“Boone,” stated Jay, “you’re a motherfucker,
you know that?
Pendejo
…”

“Not your mother, Jay. I seen that bitch. And
no, Bowie, I won’t be your mom’s date to see Johnny Mathis
either.”

“In case you haven’t figured it out by now,”
Bowie said it for Santa Anna but announced it nice and loud to
everyone in the back of the van. “Boone is royal ball buster.”

“And here I was,” replied Santa Anna,
“thinking he was just fucking with me.”

“When I’m fuckin’ with you,” promised Boone,
“you’ll know it.”

“Remind me again, Boone,” Jay sounded
slightly perturbed. “Why does Gossitch keep your ass around?”

“
Kosh
Amadid
!” Fakhri welcomed
them, gesturing expansively to the hookah on the low table.
“Please, friends, help yourselves. Raheem will be here
shortly.”

Santa Anna crossed his legs on the tasseled
cushions around the table with Bowie, Jay, and Gossitch. The other
men were outside with the van.

“It is good to see you,
doostam
,” gold
glittered in Fakhri’s mouth as he smiled at Santa Anna. He was only
five feet tall but he was nearly half of that wide and a red fez
adorned his shaved head.

“It’s good to be back, my friend,” replied
Santa Anna. It was true. It’d been a long time since he’d smoked
the hookah at Raheem’s.

“Much too long you were away from us.” Fakhri
bowed his head and the tassel on his fez swung back and forth..

“Well, I’m back now, Fak. And I’m planning to
stay.”

“And your presence here pleases us,
doost
.” An attendant with an official
Oasis
Smoke
Shop
staff-shirt had parted the rugs separating
their table. The man bore a cushion on which rested a blue glass
bottle. He stood there until Fakhri clapped his hands and said
something in Farsi. The man proffered the cushion reverently and
Fakhri delicately took the bottle from its resting place in both
hands.

The Persian placed the bottle on an empty
cushion across from the four seated men.

“Please,” Fakhri gestured, indicating
Gossitch, the leader of these men. “Smoke.”

Gossitch, in turn, nodded to Santa Anna, who
thanked him.

Santa Anna took a long, slow pull off one of
the four synthetic leather hoses attached to the hookah. The water
in the glass vase bubbled and his lungs filled with the sweet
shisha smoke. He held it and exhaled.

Fakhri was looking expectantly at him.

“Delicious my friend.”

Gold flashed in the Persians mouth again. He
uncorked the bottle on the cushion and bowed to it.

“Raheem will be with you momentarily.” Fakhri
held out an empty palm to the bottle and backed away. He turned
around, clapped his hands and he and the attendant walked off
elsewhere.

The table the men sat around was curtained
off from the rest of the establishment by elaborately detailed
Persian rugs hung around them. They sat on an enormous rug with a
red field and scrolling golden vine ornaments. The rugs muted the
sound of the other men in the Oasis, men who drank tea, smoked the
shisha and played narde.

Jay, Bowie and Gossitch took turns drawing
tobacco smoke from the pipe.

“I missed this,” noted Santa Anna after his
second inhalation. “Nothing like the Oasis.”

“This has class,” said Bowie. “Should bring
my ma here sometime.”

“Raheem done this place right.” Gossitch
approved.

Santa Anna inhaled, closing his eyes and
holding the smoke. When he’d exhaled he opened his eyes and Raheem
was there, seated across from them on the cushion.

“
Sobh
Be
Kheyr
,” the
genie wished them a good morning. “It is truly good to see you
again, my friends.” Raheem beamed as he placed his bottle on the
table next to the hookah.

“Rah,” Santa Anna smiled back, “you don’t
look a day over two thousand years.”

The genie laughed, a hearty echoing
reverberation that belied his diminutive size. Raheem, Santa Anna
knew, could appear to different people as different things and in
different guises. This morning his appearance was that of some
westerner’s vision of a sultan, decked out in black baggy pants, a
crimson sash under his vest, and a plumed turban. Santa Anna
wondered if the genie appeared this way to play it up for the
customers or if he really liked the fashion.

“You look well, Carter,” said Raheem.
“
Allah
akhbar
.”

“God is great,” agreed Santa Anna.
“Seriously, Rah, you look like you haven’t aged at all.”

“You are too kind to this humble
Ifrit
.” Santa Anna knew there were different types of genies
and that the
Ifrit
were known for their strength and
guile.

“Frank,” the genie turned his attention to
Gossitch. “Your people, always how you say? Buttering me up? But I
must admit, the bottle has been good to me.”

They all laughed.

“And how are you my friend, how are you?”
Raheem asked Gossitch.

“I am well.”

“And this is good,” Raheem noted, his voice
lowering. “For there is trouble about this city.”

“What have you heard?” asked Gossitch.

“Something kills,” noted the genie.
“Something kills with vehemence.”

“That body in the water?”

“Was but one…”

“The bloodsuckers maybe?”

“Unlikely,” the genie shook his head, his
whole body shimmering. Santa Anna knew if he reached out to touch
Raheem his hand would go right through the being. “Such moves draw
attention, and it is not attention the children of the night
seek.”

“True Rah,” conceded Bowie, “but there’s
always warring factions within their ranks, no?”

“In the past, yes. However, there has been a
general truce for the last year.”

“Then what?” Gossitch asked, referring to the
murders.

The genie held up his palms to the ceiling.
“I am a simple proprietor of a smoke shop. I have no inside
knowledge of these events.”

The attendant returned with a tray of fruit
juices, placing one before each man.

“No-no-no, not that one for him,” Raheem
waved away the glass the attendant went to place before Santa Anna.
“Try the pomegranate, trust me. Anti-oxidants. A cancer
fighter.”

Santa Anna sipped the juice he was given and
nodded his approval. “Delicious.”

“Splendid!.” The attendant had disappeared
with the tray. “May I ask you about your stay as a ward of the
state?”

“Shoot,” invited Santa Anna, wondering what
kinds of questions a genie would have for him about prison.

“Was it like this HBO program I see,
Oz
?”

“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen it.”

“Your quarters were a dayroom with cells and
guards inside the unit?”

“No,” said Santa Anna. “Guards would come and
go, up and down the halls.”

“Many terrible things could happen between
these staff patrols, yes?”

“Could and did,” acknowledged Santa Anna,
sipping his juice.

“Have you ever witnessed a man being anally
violated?” there was genuine curiosity in the genie’s voice.

“Seen? No, but I’d
hear
it, at night.”
Santa Anna remembered, though he didn’t want to. There were a lot
of things he would prefer to forget about his time in prison. The
indignities, big and small. The isolation. The thing that called
itself Enfermo.

Raheem was asking him if he had a boyfriend
in prison. Bowie elbowed Jay and the later choked on his smoke.

“I didn’t ride with no man inside,” answered
Santa Anna. If anyone else had asked it, it would have been a
fight, but he knew the genie was merely inquisitive.

“You were no punk, yes? Not a
prag
?”

“Definitely not,” Santa Anna smiled, imaging
the genie watching his television shows. He wondered if Fakhri
placed the bottle on the cushion in front of the TV or if Raheem
assumed human form to sit and watch.

“And what do you do if someone wishes to
violate you?”

“You gotta be ready to kill ‘em or die,” said
Santa Anna. “It’s that simple.”

“I see. There was a time, in the royal court
of Isfahan, when I myself was imprisoned and my neck threatened by
the Shamshir itself—”

“Shamshir?” asked Jay.

“You call it scimitar. These were the days of
Shah Abbas the First, the greatest ruler of the Safavid. A time of
merriment, joyous days,” a wistful look came over the genie’s face.
“I was a mere page in the court. And then prince Muhammed was
murdered by Behbud Beg in the hamman.
Khoda
rahm
kone
,” Raheem asked god to have mercy.