by Sandy DeLuca
She whispered, “I want more. Give me more.”
And the stranger she’d met only hours before was happy to oblige her.
The SUV windows were tinted and people moved by on the walk unaware. Lila looked upward at tall buildings glowing with bright lights and rain coming down—like silvery streaks of glass. She imagined each sliver, each pointed edge digging into her flesh, impaling her as the man stretched her legs wider—sweat beading on his face, his eyes half-closed as his semen filled her.
A bag lady came into view when the guy slid inside Lila a second time. The woman stopped and gazed at the vehicle. Her eyes were green, like a cat’s. They seemed to meet Lila’s when climax began to build again. The woman moved closer, pressed her hands against the windows and smiled. Impossible, thought Lila, she can’t see us.
The woman licked her lips, nodded and then moved away, pushing a shopping cart filled with old clothes, bottles and a pair of tattered boots. Misty tendrils spiraled from the woman’s shoes and an orange glow surrounded her when she passed beneath Levo’s flashing sign. She turned, looked again when Lila sighed softly, and then the woman disappeared into shadow.
Lila went home alone, wondering if she’d see the guy again. Was his name Jack or Jerry? Would she remember his face? After a while they all looked the same.
Three months before a guy named Brad had been the only guy she’d slept with since the previous spring. Things moved quickly with Brad, the lovemaking was exciting and she fell deeply in love. But when Christmas lights and decorations began to fill store windows, stream over buildings and shimmer on poles and park benches, he told her he needed his freedom, so he packed his bags and split. But she heard he’d moved in with a singer he’d met in a downtown club, a girl named Ginger, with light red hair, the kind he always turned and stared at when he thought Lila wasn’t looking.
At first she cried a lot, but after a while compulsion to fill the emptiness overpowered her grief and she began to frequent downtown clubs where strangers gathered—where acts—secret and sordid—played out like surreal pornographic films—most times in seedy hotels and apartments—always in darkness—with men who did not kiss or hold her because a kiss—a soft touch creates a bond between two people—exhibits sweet emotion. Those men merely used her body—and she used them.
This time it was different because Tom kissed her and ran his fingers through her hair, whispering, “It was great.”
She watched him in semidarkness, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange, eyes dark and dreamy, a man who hunted for killers—a man who deep inside craved love. But love can hurt—it can destroy you and leave you with nothing but tears and a broken heart.
3
TOM
Lila laid her head on Tom’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t have anybody to talk to, nobody to hold in the night.”
“It’s not safe what you do—picking up men you don’t know.”
“So maybe one day one of them—maybe you—will end it.”
“Don’t say that…ever.”
He thought about a killer he’d interviewed months before, a guy who preyed on women like Lila. His name was Buddy Clemente and his eyes—his face—revealed no remorse when he spoke about what he’d done.
Buddy glared at Tom, his lips curled and he narrowed his eyes when he spoke. “Did you ever feel real fury, Detective, the kind that makes you crazy? A killer’s rage?”
Tom shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. Tell me what happened at Mora Bentley’s apartment.”
Buddy shrugged, spoke slowly, evenly. “We made it and things were going good, but something spooked her and she told me to get out. Just like that, like I was dirt.”
“You could have just left.”
“I forced myself on her and she started biting, kicking. I felt that fury, Detective.”
“That’s when you killed her?”
“I’d thrown my jacket on the bed earlier, so I grabbed the knife in my pocket. She went for the lamp on the night table when I put the knife to her neck. She tried to whack me with it, but I wrestled it away, slammed it against her head, and then I slit her throat.”
“You ran like a coward after that, right?”
“I’m not a coward, Detective. Something was wrong with this chick. She was evil—didn’t deserve to live, believe me. Anyway, I knew she was dead then. The blood was still pouring out of her and her eyes were glassy. Then it started raining harder and the thunder was so loud it felt like the room was shaking. A big bolt of lightning lit up the room. That’s when I saw it. It looked human at first—hands and legs like a man—but when lightning struck again, I saw the face of a big cat with blood dripping from its mouth. Its teeth were like daggers. It—”
“Insanity is tough to plead. Try again.”
“I’m not crazy. I thought it might be the whiskey, the fatigue, but I was wrong. It was still there when my eyes adjusted to the dark. It crawled on hands and knees, hissing. It wasn’t looking at me. I could swear it sobbed when it looked at the chick.
“I couldn’t move for a while, but I figured sooner or later it would realize I’d killed her and tear me apart. I got up real slow, backed out of the room and I ran until I got to the soup kitchen in the bowery. I called my girl from the pay phone when I got there. Told her I’d just killed somebody, to wait a half hour, and then call the cops. She argued with me, begged me to come home, but I told her to do as I asked or I’d go there and kill her, too. I guess that worked because you came for me.”
Tom figured Lila would meet somebody like Buddy Clemente sooner or later. He wanted to protect her, keep her from places like Levo’s and Moonlight.
None of my business, he thought. I need to make things right with Alice. But he knew things would never be right and the terror of Lila’s loving had him hooked. He thought he heard something under the bed, and then dismissed it as imagination—fatigue—storm sounds. He leaned over, kissed her and said softly, “Gotta go, Lila. I’ll call you.”
“Promise.”
“We’ll see each other when we can. I have to get some things straight first.” He grabbed his jacket, kissed her quickly again and headed for the door without looking back, into the rainstorm, knowing the dead were not far behind.
4
LILA
She listened to Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, to sounds of night and the relentless storm.
“Come back,” she whispered, knowing somewhere in the city there’d be another murder—another body torn and mutilated.
She tried to stop it with the rituals and magical techniques she’d learned as a kid—trying to help women who met the wrong men and had their lives snuffed out because of dark obsession, dependence or sheer desperation. Once she’d believed semen and blood would satiate the demon within—a thing she sometimes saw on city streets, in the bars she frequented—inside her mystical etchings.
From an early age Lila had been unusual—seemingly older because she saw things—felt things unlike other kids. Girls her age preferred colorful wardrobes, donning bright pink sweaters, jeans adorned with vibrant embellishments and pretty headbands. They listened to popular music and dated boys who drove nice cars. Lila was more comfortable in black, from her collection of miniskirts to the high boots she’d found at a secondhand store in the village. She lined her eyes with black kohl and sprayed her light blonde hair with dark streaks. She listened to Sun Ra and hung with downtown tattooed guys.
And her mother would shuffle cards behind beaded curtains, eyes half-closed as though she peered into a shadow world. She’d pluck a card from the deck, study it carefully and tears would trickle down her cheek—shimmering in candlelight as she spoke softly.
“It’ll happen sooner or later, Lila. You’ll hate being alone and you’ll go to dark places to find love—that’s when the demon will come for you.”
5
DEATH
A lone figure waited beneath a canopy, watching as people streamed through Moonlight’s door, their feet splashing
on the rain-covered walk. Men walked close together, frail with long-fingered hands, the promise of love in their eyes. Women draped their arms around guys with muscled bodies, going to walk-ups deep in the city, drinking from dark-colored bottles, knowing that in the morning there would be no kiss good-bye—only the scent of sex would remain and no promises would be made.
A girl stepped onto pavement, dressed in garish clothing, her hair loose and long, young eyes searching the crowd—perhaps looking for one last trick before finding refuge in sleep. The sadness in her eyes evident as colored lights flashed and as she watched lovers pass by her.
She walked farther down the avenue, hands tucked inside thin coat pockets, shivering when rain and wind assaulted her—unsteady, falling against brick tattooed with graffiti when her legs buckled and black stockings slipped down.
The figure left its shelter, moving quickly toward the girl, suddenly beside her and asking, “Are you all right?”
She smiled weakly, white face gazing at raindrops, eyes tearing. “I haven’t eaten. That’s what it is. I’ll be okay in a while.”
“Come on then. Some coffee, a bit of food and if you’re feeling better…”
She nodded, grasping a strong hand, wet with rain, one that led her down the walk, stopping to lift the edges of a winter coat and wrapping it around her, shielding her from wind and the storm—taking her to a place of death.
6
TOM
The MO was the same, but this time the victim’s head rested on her ruined chest, the eyes and lips cut out. She’d been a working girl—donned in a purple mini and a gold halter. Her green faux fur splattered with red and soaked with mud. Tom watched as blood and water mixed, swirling on pavement, spiraling into a gutter.
“Girl’s only eighteen. Worked the strip for two weeks according to her friends,” a young plainclothes guy spoke, his brimmed hat pulled low.
“Probably came here from a small town and probably scared and cold.” Tom lifted the girl’s hand; slash wounds covered her palm and a thumb was missing.
“They stay with you?” The plainclothesman tugged the hat brim, looked into Tom’s eyes as though seeking reassurance.
“Yeah, Stan, it happens. I swear sometimes they follow me home…all of them.” Tom thought about Lila, wondered if she was safe inside her apartment, painting circles on the floor.
He made his report and headed home—footsteps sounded behind him and no one was there when he looked over his shoulder—expecting to see the hooker, headless, sauntering down Broadway, blood dripping from her faux fur.
A shadow stretched atop a tall building—sultry—twining with the setting sun—moving inside that glowing circle—like Lila on her hands and knees—coming to his side—casting off the warmth of that sun—with something wicked in her eyes.
He reached his building, unlocked the front door and scanned the street. Nothing there but an empty walk and relentless rain. He slammed the door, took the stairs two at a time.
Alice greeted him, face flush, hands shaking, her coat and boots wet from the rain.
“You go out?”
“Was with a couple of girlfriends.”
The subtle smells of sex and shaving lotion wafted in the air when she brushed by him. She slipped off her sweater, bra and jeans—moved into the bathroom. The shower splashed on aqua tile and steam floated through the open door. She’d wash away her act—her betrayal. But he’d leave before she returned—before she donned fresh clothes—her hair wet, dripping on pale skin.
Continual rainfall and fog seemed more pleasurable than reminders of broken promises—of the lie he lived with Alice. He told himself he needed to walk—needed to think, but before long he was standing on Lila’s front stairs, ringing her buzzer—wanting her body, craving to be inside her iniquitous circle.
She was breathless, holding a pan—smelling of copper. There was a streak of crimson on her cheek, and her mascara had smeared, making dark circles under her eyes.
“You kill somebody?” he asked, noticing her bloodstained hands.
“I use the blood for magic. Friend of mine gets it from the meatpacking plant he works at. It’s not illegal or anything.”
“It’s disgusting. You crazy witch. I’m outta here. I—”
“Tom, no. It’s not what you think. Passed down from my family.”
“That’s what the Santeria priest told me when we found the guy he killed nailed to his kitchen floor.”
She sighed. “We make magic circles—most times with chalk or paint. On the night of the Death Moon we use blood. Nobody in my family ever had the guts to kill an animal, so we’ve always relied on friends down at West Fourteenth—in the meatpacking district—or sometimes a butcher.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Son of a guy my mother knew. His parents read fortunes downtown back in the day. We’re still tight, you know?”
“Gypsies, huh? You people are all loony.”
“Maybe, but it is part of my heritage—and it makes me feel good…safe…even if it’s crazy to you…one of the only things I have left of my Ma—my grandmother.”
He thought about his grandmother raising pigs in her backyard upstate, slaughtering them and collecting the blood in a pan to make blood pudding. And he remembered old ladies dressed in black standing around a gravestone, praying in Italian—smearing the blood of a calf on the front step to keep the Devil away. He shrugged. “So what’s it all mean?”
“Tonight is the last full moon of winter—the Death Moon. If you make love inside a circle painted with blood—when that moon is high—then you’re protected from demons all year long.”
“My demons don’t listen to anybody. They just keep coming around. Anyway, this is ridiculous.”
“Come on. Humor me.” She began to unbutton her blouse.
“You were planning on going out and finding somebody else…bringing him here for this heebie-jeebie?”
“I knew you’d be here.”
“How could you know that?”
“Because you can’t stay away from me…”
“You read my mind again?”
“Maybe,” she said, smiling coquettishly.
“Lila, I swear if I didn’t want you so bad…I’d…”
“Come on,” she whispered.
He went with her, watching as she dipped a finger inside the pan, with blood dripping on her hands and arms, slowly drawing a circle on the floor—ancient signs and mystic glyphs manifesting like ghosts appearing in the dark. He took her hand when she finished, followed her inside the ring, despite how crazy it seemed, despite the warning in his gut—and the screams inside his head.
* * *
“I never made it like this before. I mean, I see a lot of bad shit, but…” His gaze took in the bloody circle, the vermillion puddles streaming over the floor—the blood-filled pan just outside the numinous ring.
“I haven’t felt anything for anybody in a while. I mean, if I didn’t see you again, it would hurt.” Lila touched his face, leaving a dark stain on his cheek.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody, but this isn’t anything but sex—crazy sex.”
“You still love your girl?”
“Up until tonight—until I knew for sure she was with another guy.”
“Then you and I have a chance to make it. We’re both lonely—both wounded—both—”
“Lila, not now. This isn’t what I came here for.”
She slapped him hard across the face, and then she raised her arm again. He grabbed it, twisted it, fury building inside him.
“Did you ever feel real fury, Detective, the kind that makes you crazy? A killer’s rage?”
“I’ll go. This isn’t healthy—not for either of us.”
“No.” She kissed him, kicking over the pan of blood, watching as it rushed over Taurus’s glyph, smearing the symbol for Venus, touching her heel.
He pulled her hair and pushed her down. She smiled as she scraped her nails over his back, kissing him hard.
“Crazy,” Tom whispered as he returned the kiss.
7
LILA
She crouched on the floor, pail of water and soap at her side, washing the stains away with an old Rolling Stones shirt she’d bought in a downtown music store. Keith Richards’s face streaked with crimson, his guitar faded from years of wear—from bleach and strong detergent, moving over the floor like a phantom, the rocker’s eyes and mouth frozen in time.
She went to Tom when there was nothing left of that shirt but tattered cloth and nothing on that floor but the ghosts of a dozen crudely drawn patterns—crosshatched lines depicting planets and constellations scarred deep in olden wood boards. She went to him with water, towel, white lotion and washcloth in her aching hands. He looked at her with sleepy eyes as the water splashed onto white sheets and the downpour continued outside.
She ran the washcloth over his feet, his legs, his torso—listening to his heartbeat, his sigh and soft moans. She lay down when his flesh was unsoiled and moist with cream, closed her eyes and waited for the warmth—the sensation of water and soap on her skin—waited for Tom to bathe her. And she dreamed of an old school friend who’d died when her lover shot her as she slept. He hung himself above the blood-soaked bed, above a girl whose skull and brain splattered on the headboard. Her name was Belle and she liked boys bad and tough—the kind with fire in their guts—with tempers beyond control. She loved them hard and fierce, barreling to her demise, using up her years too quickly.
“Better?” Tom asked, his voice soft, breaking the reverie, taking Lila away from the death scene with the sound of soapy water splashing and the smell of musk-scented balm.
“Will you stay tonight?”
“And tomorrow night, too,” he answered and the storm subsided—just for a while—just until dawn.”