by Sandy DeLuca
Awhile later, when Sammy and I made our way out of Dagger’s on that first day, we passed the bartender and I noticed the bartender again looking at Sammy disapprovingly. But this time there was fierceness behind the look, intensity I hadn’t seen before.
The door behind him was ajar. As Sammy and I passed the bar and headed out I heard people speaking in hushed tones but could see only darkness.
* * *
I drive to the city, park my car and leave the keys with a bored-looking, overweight attendant. “You all alone?” he asks. “Be careful, bad part of the city.”
“I know my way around.”
“How long you gonna be, couple hours?”
“I’m not sure.”
He nods, hands me a ticket. “I lock the gate around eight at night—when it starts to get dark. If you’re not back, then I charge by the day. Twenty-four bucks.”
It’s not a long walk, but it seems as if I have so far to go. I begin a slow stroll along gritty pavement stained and cracked. Garbage is strewn against buildings and the stink of poverty and desperation fills the air like a fog. Hispanic youths shoot basketball in a deserted parking lot and make kissing noises at me as Ipass.
I don’t look my age…at least from a distance.
I pass a storefront. The young proprietor is washing away dust and city grime from the window. He smiles at me.
“Like fresh flowers, lady? Just delivered. Take your time, look all you want.”
I ignore him as images begin to form in the storefront window. The glass sparkles in the bright sun. I stop and pretend to gaze at fresh fruits displayed inside.
Astaroth stands behind me, his reflection alongside mine in the glass. He taps my shoulder, waves a crooked finger. I wish him away and he fades. I study my reflection.
I’m so thin and my face is gaunt. I lean closer to the window and notice that my eyes are bloodshot. I’ve forgotten my dark glasses. Perhaps I can buy a pair at one of the sidewalk displays. He once told me that my eyes were nice. The dark circles beneath them make me look like hell. I’m not pretty like I used to be.
I shouldn’t have come. Everything is wrong. I’m so out of place here, everything is so alien and unreal. I smooth down my hair. At least it’s still long and thick. At least the clothes I’m wearing fit me pretty well.
I wish the image of myself away. I don’t want to look at the reflection of a woman who is falling apart, who is a sad remnant of what she once was. Now I see my aunt embroidering the blouse I’m wearing. Her hair is wild and free, she’s telling me that there’s magic in every stitch. Her fingers are moving quickly. Fifteen stones. Fifteen stars. Fifteen herbs and fifteen secrets.
CHAPTER 46
The sounds of traffic seem far away, blending with the voices of passersby. I reach into my purse, make sure my vial of coke is still there.
The proprietor says something to me, hands me a rose. I think about the flowers in my aunt’s coffin. There were roses everywhere. I accept the flower, notice that the petals are turning brown. Are those tiny insects crawling on the leaves? The proprietor laughs.
I return my gaze to the scene I see in his store window. It’s something that happened when I was a child, something that seems important now.
My Aunt Lil is a vision in a white robe, sweat drenched hair falling in ringlets around her face. She is flushed from too much wine but her eyes sparkle with wisdom and mischief alike. She rocks back and forth in her chair while three cats sleep at her feet. An empty bottle of Pino Grigio rests in the folds of her skirt. A breeze gushes into her room and cards tumble from the Tarot deck on a table by her side. Six cards in all. Only one lands face up.
The Magician.
Something slithers across the wall behind her, an angel, maybe a dragon.
Lil looks startled.
The cats open emerald eyes. Ears prick and whiskers twitch as moonlight spills into the room, mingles with flickering candles. Aunt Lil shakes her head. “Buona Sera, Astaroth.” She smiles at me, and her thimble and needle sparkles. “Astaroth enhances the power of divination. He is one who shows the past, the present and the future in vivid detail. Tonight he visits. He has a tale to tell me.” She puts her finger to her lips. “Be silent now, Stata Zita. You’ll know his gifts one day too.”
She removes her thimble, allowing the needle’s point to prick tender skin. Blood seeps into thread and stitch as she holds the thimble beneath her wound.
Fifteen drops of blood within a silver chalice.
For you, Astaroth.
Wind rushes into the room, catching the edges of my aunt’s hair, ruffling her skirt.
She holds the thimble high above her head then stands and places it on the window ledge. Her chair continues to rock—as if still occupied by a ghost.
Another flurry of wind scoops up Lil’s offering, and it sails away, tumbling into the night landscape, swirling with brown October leaves.
Lil spins on her heels, kneels down beside a little girl. Me. She gazes deep into my eyes and speaks with slurred speech. “Julia, Astaroth has showed me the future. I saw your descent. I’ll do all I can to change the times to come—But I fear I’ll never do enough—” She takes my hand. “Come watch me bind the threads together. Fifteen stones, fifteen stars—fifteen tears for the dead—”
The image fades. I’m staring into an ordinary store window, looking at flowers, fresh fruit and vegetables. The proprietor moves close to me. “You all right, lady?” He still seems to be laughing at me.
A radio blares from within the store, news about the unsolved murder, another reference to the mysterious nametag.
“Lady, you—”
I drop the rose and hurry away.
* * *
We went back to Dagger’s the following day. Sammy said he wanted to stay tight with Jericho and Johnny. He wanted to be sure he could score dope when he needed it.
The two men welcomed us, bought us drinks and food.
Jericho seemed to be studying me. I’d caught him staring at me when no one else was looking several times, as if he were trying to tell me something without actually voicing it. I let it lie, reminded of how Sammy was a time bomb, always ticking toward certain destruction, always one step ahead of me, bringing with him blood and death and mayhem.
Sammy and I spent a few hours with Jericho and Johnny. They told us where to find grocery stores, laundromats and more places like Daggers.
“Brentwood’s is on the south side of the boulevard and Devlin’s is across the street.” Johnny told us. “You guys will dig both clubs. Good tunes. Good atmosphere and the drinks ain’t watered down.”
“Sometimes I need time away from the lady,”
Sammy said flatly, as if I weren’t even there. “You know what I mean?”
Silence answered.
Jericho and Johnny looked at each other then at me.
“Well, I think our meeting was fate,” Jericho finally said. “I think good things will come from it.” His eyes bore into mine.
“Good dope and good times, how’s that for fate?” Sammy laughed. “Take me higher, man.”
“And to places only fallen angels have seen,” Jericho said, his voice suddenly somber.
“Yeah, man, straight on to fucking oblivion.” Sammy laughed again, oblivious.
“I know that place.” Jericho took our address and promised to come by in a few days. “Two sisters run it, right?”
“I like them a lot. They—”
Sammy reached over and literally slid his hand over my mouth. “Julia, I’m rapping with the guys, ya mind?”
Jericho’s eyes darkened, but only for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “It’s cool, Sammy. I’ll come by in a night or two, take you to a friend’s house. He’s my man. Got some good shit, just like you’re craving.”
The men shook hands and Jericho nodded his head at me. “See you, Julia. Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” I said quietly.
* * *
That night Sammy and I
took a drive and ate dinner at a restaurant by the ocean. My appetite was back. I was on my second dish of fried rice and Chow Mien when, through mouthfuls of Chinese food Sammy said, “Jericho’s a pretty cool guy.”
“Yeah, he’s okay.” I didn’t want to give away what I was feeling. I couldn’t risk letting him know what happened to me, what I felt, whenever Jericho looked into my eyes.
“I’ve been thinking—I’m not waiting around for him to come by about the dope. I’m going back to Dagger’s again tomorrow. I’ll shoot some pool with him; see if I can speed up that meeting with his connection.”
“We’ve got plenty of drugs. We should dump what we have. More will only make things bad again.”
“Shut-up, Julia, what the fuck you know about it?”
Despite what he’d said, for him, he still seemed conversational, still seemed like he was in a good enough mood that I might be able to reach him. “Sammy, are the rifles still in the trunk?”
“Yeah. So what?”
He was smiling, like everything was no big deal, so I risked pushing it a bit farther. “Please get rid of them?”
He stopped chewing a moment, and my heart fell.
For a moment I couldn’t be sure what he’d do or say, he just sat there as if he were weighing the value of what I’d said. “I will,” he finally said, and it seemed he’d remain calm. “Just give me some time to get my shit together, OK?” He took a long drink of beer and his mood seemed to worsen right before my eyes. Even his physical posture changed, became more aggressive. “Besides, I know what the fuck I’m doing. Don’t go questioning what I do all the time.” He pointed his fork at me; waved it inches from my face. “You don’t get involved in nothing that concerns me unless I fucking tell you to. Nothing. Remember that.”
People were looking at us and I realized then I’d been focusing on him so strongly I hadn’t realized the extent to which he’d raised his voice. I wanted to cry, but didn’t.
I held back the tears until I got into bed that night, until he went out on the balcony to smoke a joint and I could cry without him hearing me.
How could he think about shooting pool when he’d done the things he’d done? How could he sleep at night after all that killing? Didn’t he worry that the cops were looking for him—for us? I wanted to ask him what had happened to his plea for help, but that was no longer an option, not then. Maybe never again.
I listened for the train, hoped it was near.
* * *
On this morning I hope the stitches have not lost their strength, or my aunt’s essence.
I pass a small newsstand. The proprietor chews on a stubby cigar while totally absorbed by a copy of Hustler Magazine. The Providence Journal is stacked in front of his stand. Copies of wrestling magazines, Hollywood gossip publications and items wrapped in brown paper are clipped behind him.
He looks up when I walk by, smiles. Drool trickles from his lips. “I’ve got fresh coffee just for you,” he says, his gaze returning to the X-rated rag in his hands.
I ignore him.
A bit drained from last night’s indulgences, I remember drinking an entire bottle of homemade Italian wine. I also remember smoking two joints. I’ve got a slight headache, but it’ll pass. They always do eventually. I decide to rub some coke on my gums before I get to my destination. I tell myself it’ll help me get through the shit that’s most likely going to go down. But at this moment I need some coffee, maybe a muffin. Even if I can’t hold it down, I know I should try to eat.
There’s still time, more than an hour to spare.
I spot a small restaurant next to the old Shepard’s building, a defunct specialty store where my aunt and I spend many Saturday afternoons. Now it’s crumbling and decaying—just as I am.
Young girls sit on the curb, cigarette smoke swirling around the dark glasses they wear as they gaze at passersby. As if life depended on attention from strangers. I know it does when I see a man step out of a doorway. He waves his index finger angrily at them and says something in Spanish. The girls stand and move away slowly, their heels clicking pavement. Feet stomp out cigarette butts. Blouses are unbuttoned. Cleavage is revealed. The man grins and disappears into the doorway from which he came.
Sad how some men seek out women who are vulnerable. These men are predators on the prowl. They can sniff out girls who will gladly follow them into Hell. They know all our secrets, all our weaknesses. They are control freaks, capable of breaking a woman, capable of destroying her. Sad how the wrong man can turn an innocent young girl into a whore and an addict, sad that a loving God allows it to happen.
CHAPTER 47
I wonder if he’s aged well. I wonder if he’ll feel the same when he sees me after all this time.
I want to turn around, get back in my car and forget this shit, but he’ll keep calling. He won’t let this go.
He won’t let me go.
* * *
As I drifted to sleep the scent of pot floated into the shabby room on Biscayne. I heard the Cuban sisters laughing, Sammy’s voice blended with their laughter. Other people spoke, a dog barked, doors opened and closed.
I dreamed of my Aunt Lil and Jericho. They were drinking wine, sitting on my parent’s porch. Lil didn’t look at him when she spoke. “I never could see past the Carolinas. I never knew what happened after that. Astaroth was adamant each time I asked.”
Jericho looked at the moon, hanging low, and spinning like a silver quarter. “It’s better that way. Not even I can predict the ending—”
Jericho and Lil faded away slowly. The porch darkened and the dead floated up to the moon.
I heard Jericho’s voice, powerful and sexy…
It’s getting too hot…things will begin to happen soon.
* * *
The next couple of weeks were hot and stifling. I was sure Aunt Lil had received my package and couldn’t understand why no one had come for me.
My money had been wired to a bank in Miami. Each Monday Sammy would drive me there and I’d make a withdrawal to cover weekly expenses. Then he’d be gone for hours; sometimes he didn’t come home at all. More often than not, the money I gave him for groceries was spent instead at Dagger’s or on new shirts for himself.
I paid the board myself each week. Estrella and Maria fed me when Sammy left me alone, and they let me use their washer and dryer.
“You look weary,” Maria said, pouring detergent into the washer. “Your man, he leaves you alone too much, no?”
“I’d call home, but I think my parents have disowned me. I think my aunt has too. She never wrote. She never…”
A man who lived two doors down from us was folding towels and placing them in a laundry basket. His hair was black and stringy. His hands moved quickly, his eyes had no expression. The faint smell of sulfur filled the laundry room.
Maria patted me on the back. “Don’t fret. We’ll be your new family. Right, Salvatore?”
The strange man nodded at me and smiled. His teeth were yellow. “We’re all around you. We watch when you’re alone.” He brushed stray hair from his forehead. Along red scar was revealed. “There comes a time in life when you got to cut loose, be yourself, follow the path you were chosen to follow. Most times it isn’t the path your parents want to see you walking—or what the priests and nuns want for you.”
His comment made me feel uncomfortable, as though he could read my thoughts, as though he knew me well.
“I’ve seen plenty of young girls like you. You have dreams, you fall in love. You want to be happy, but there’s always that gnawing sense of discomfort. It’s the way you were raised.” He took a step towards me. “They made you go to church every Sunday, no? The priests filled your head with so much mumbo jumbo—so much guilt.”
He turned and bent down to pick up his basket. He hesitated and then quickly turned to face me. His eyes were pale blue, bloodshot. “I don’t mean to scare ya, girl, but life is too fucking short, ya know.”
Maria patted my hand, leaned close. �
�He drinks a bit too much sometimes, but he’s a good person. Don’t pay him no mind when he rambles like this.”
Salvatore turned again, picked up his laundry basket. “We watch you, ya know—”
* * *
I close my eyes and see my aunt sipping wine, gazing at the night sky. Her words still ring in my head.
All things have a rhythm—adding subtle beats to the dance of life. Even the most insignificant moments have meaning—every stranger who crosses your path—learn to see, Cara mia. You’ll find many songs—many are sad...
I step inside the restaurant. Sadness saturates the room, and the air is polluted with spiritual decay. Visions flash before me.
Astaroth taps my shoulder.
Wicked deals and encounters have taken place here. People have cried, hearts have been broken and someone once died in a restroom stall. I wonder if the murderer was someone like Sammy, if he held a young girl’s hand to the victim’s throat and laughed as the knife she held cut into flesh and bone?
Have I wandered into a place where demons prey on the weak? I hear the voices of despair. Is this place a purgatory for the desperate, lonely and the obsessed?
A thin dark-skinned man stands behind the counter. He’s staring into the street. He’s waiting for someone who has no intention of keeping a promise and who does not have a single thought about this doleful hash-house worker. He glances at the payphone by the door. He shakes his head, looks at his watch, and then begins to wipe the counter down with slow cheerless movements. I am reminded of nights I waited for phantom lovers, of nights they never came.