John Shirley - Wetbones

by Unknown

  Lonny didn't want to even acknowledge the memories with a yes. But he nodded, once. Forced out: "You got any coffee?"

  The hippie stopped rocking and leaned forwards so suddenly toward him Lonny thought he was going to bite

  him in rage. But the old dude grinned and cackled, "Hell fucking yes! It's the only thing I go into town for, that an' aspirin. I go in twice a year, regular as the bad wind! Sure, Hell yeah, I got some coffee that'll make your hair stand up on your head and go, Holy shit!"

  Turned out his name was Drax. Mike Drax. The coffee was everything he'd said it would be and, though Lonny'd knocked back two cups only after drinking three pints of water and eating beans and tortillas, he was buzzing so intensely he was barely able to hold himself quiet on the edge of the foul-smelling bunk. He tried to relax and asked, "How'd you come to be out here?"

  Drax looked at him with a bald suspicion. "I like it out here, is all."

  "Look - I told you what happened to me. Come on. Straight up. You know all about the Ranch. Why didn't you tell the cops?"

  "Now what the hell would the pigs do? Some of them over there at the Cocksucker Ranch is cops. They in it up to their old piggy snouts." He sniggered and muttered, "It's all there, I seen it all." He waved toward the newspaper clippings. "I got the proof right there. You can check 'er out. That Mideast oil thing, it's there too. They suck on that just the same. Yeah, brother. Dobbs knows and Jerry here knows and I know." He turned to the cluttered, paint-spattered work bench that served for all the table the shack had, and sorted through a mound of tarry, golden marijuana, began to crush pot-buds between his thumb and forefinger with practiced exactitude, winnowing out the seeds.

  The old dude smokes too much fucking pot, Lonny thought. No wonder he's half cracked.

  "Your friends might still be alive," Drax said. "Sometimes the Cocksuckers save 'em for a long time." Abruptly he shot a narrow eyed look at Lonny and said, conspiratorially, "I will tell ya." His lingers kept crushing and winnowing the pot as he looked at Lonny, and went on, "It was my dad. He was a singer. Well he started out a rancher - we had a real ranch I mean, down in New Mexico. Worked it ourselves too. My mama was long dead. My dad, he was a real singin' cowboy. Not much of a rancher. About the time I was ten somebody heard him in a honky-tonk, signed him to records, two years later he was singin in big concerts. That led to movies. He was in two westerns. Then he was in television. Well sure, he was a good looking fella.

  "I was a boy, I thought he was a god. Goodest-hearted man you ever want to meet. Took me everywhere with him, right to the nightclub concerts, near everywhere he went. Never left me somewhere so he could play with those pretty-pussy girls. He loved me! And then, when I was fourteen, bang, he forgot I was alive! He left me to knock around by myself. He knew I was alone in that big old house and he . . ."

  The anger shook its way out through Drax's voice; showed in his white knuckled grip on the armrest of his rocking chair. The dog whined and put a paw on his lap. Lonny sat very still. The old fuck was crazy and he might grab one of the oily tools on the desk and brain him on a whim, for all Lonny knew.

  Drax's shoulders slumped. He went on, a little subdued. ". . . they did it to him. Sam Denver, he took my old man up to that place and they played with his head and made him one of them and started soaking up

  his money and his talent and everything he had. They wanted me, too. They came to get me one day and I went over to that ranch and I saw what they were doin' to them kids and I went over the fuckin wall, brother, you bet your fuckin' ass! Got myself up to San Francisco. Got myself a ticket to the other world, from Mr. Owsley himself, who I knew personally. Hell, I fucked his old lady and with his blessing, too. It wasn't no perverted thing, either. And then I drifted down to Santa Cruz. And I read about they found my old man dead in a car, all wasted up. I think he was trying to get away and they crashed his fuckin' car is what they did . . . Well, I knew a few things by then, I seen that other world and I knew some Peyote eaters, they showed me a few things . . ." He gestured toward the fetish dolls hanging from the shelves.

  There was only one window, with a wooden, padlocked shutter over it. Drax got up, crossed to the window - only three paces, his every step seeming to bring out a creak in each board of the little one-room shack. He took a thickly clustered ring of keys from his pocket and opened the padlock on the shutter, tilted it back and propped it up with a stick. Lonny blessed the infusion of clean air coming through the broken-out window panes, as Drax pointed through the window at the ground in front of the shack It was all packed earth, enclosed in a circle of waist-high wooden posts. Hanging from each post was a trio of the fetish dolls - made from bright pieces of radio wire, bits of transistors, feathers and dried seeds and strips of cloth; they seemed to glow golden-red in the light of the setting sun. "You see that? They guard us! They guard us here. The More Man is scareda me, brother, you know he is. I know some things and I got some friends. He knows I'm going to get him

  sometime soon. The solstices swing around: with the stars you can see and the stars you can't, they tell the story. I'm going to get the son of a bitch, and I'm here practically on his front porch, waiting for the chance . . ."

  Lonny was intrigued. But the coffee having worked its way through him, he had more urgent concerns. "You got a bathroom here?"

  Tongue trapped mischievously between his snaggled teeth, Drax whirled on him, sniggering. "Well, I guess I sure as hell do! I got a bathroom maybe forty square miles wide! Just be careful there ain't no snakes laughin at the pimples on your butt."

  East Los Angeles

  Garner got off the bus a few blocks from Blume's apartment building. The city was supposedly trying to cut back on air pollution but the buses gouted black smoke and this one blew a toxic cloud directly onto Garner as he looked around the street corner. Choking, stomach bucking with nausea, he hurried across the street. On the other side was a liquor store and a row of tenements, most of them draped in the evening shadow; the streetlights had been shot out at both ends of the block. In front of the tenements the Set roiled with men and women, blacks and cholos mostly, and a few skinny white girls. Most of the steady customers for crack were white, middle-class men, Garner knew, and he watched them drive up in their Camrys and Ford Tauruses and buy crack through the car windows.

  Garner had been to the Western Union; he had some money on him now, himself . . .

  And he realized he had crossed to this corner only because he'd glimpsed the drug-dealing Set happening

  down here. This wasn't the way to Blume's place. He should've turned down the Boulevard.

  Goddamn, he thought, it's got me already. Two lousy runs and it's got me.

  Well, it asked him, so what? I mean, what's the use? Constance probably isn't really alive. The guy probably had some other girl call and say she was okay so we'd stop looking for him. But that didn't make sense - they'd expect someone on the other line to know her voice. Okay - so she was alive that day. His birthday . . . He's probably killed her by now . . .

  But it didn't seem as if he planned to. Not right away.

  Suppose she is alive? What of it? You'll never find her. He can torture her to his sick heart's content - might be cutting off more of her fingers right now - and you could be within a block of her and never know and probably never see her.

  So you might as well give up. You give that money to Blume to continue the investigation, it'll be thrown away. He's a waste of time. He's hopeless. It's all hopeless. Might as well use the money to get loaded . . .

  Thinking all this, he'd drifted into the Set.

  No one crowded around him, as they would a white guy who looked like he had money, because, instead, he was bandaged and dirty and dishevelled. And he thought for a moment he might get through without buying. He was walking a razor edge; horror on one side and drug lust on the other. He wanted to buy; his bowels felt like they'd let go with the excitement of it. And he very much didn't want to but his hands were clammy, his heart thumpe
d with fear.

  Are you crazy, man? What happened last time? Beat to shit in a basement!

  But the addict in him superimposed images of the

  pipe over that, and soothed him: Don't worry. Not this time. This time you'll do it differently. You won't get hurt. You won't get ripped off. This time . . .

  "You lookin' for something, man?" A hispanic guy with wrap-around sunglasses and a red kerchief head-band. It was so dark out here, how did the guy see with sunglasses on?

  "What you got?" Garner heard himself say.

  "Doves. Choo want it or not, this ain't cool we stan' around an' chit."

  Constance . . .

  But Garner nodded and fished four twenties out of his pocket. The guy swept them from his hand and with the other dropped four irregular white pellets in his palm. Drifted quickly into the Set.

  Garner turned around, walked back toward the liquor store, frowning. Something about that exchange . . .

  In the light of a neon beer sign in the store window, he examined his purchase. It looked a little too white and crumbly. He tasted it. Aspirin and baking soda.

  He stared into his palm. He'd been gaffel'd. Ripped off.

  He tossed the white pellets into the gutter. A weight slipped from his heart.

  "You look pretty happy about it," said a deep voice, just in front of him. He looked up and saw a tall black man in a turtleneck sweater. Gold watch on his wrist. He was somewhere between forty and sixty. Hard to say in this light . . .

  But somehow Garner knew the guy was a minister.

  "They gaffel you?" the man asked. When Garner nodded the man said, "You were smiling. How much money you lose?"

  "Eighty bucks." He noticed two women standing a

  little behind the man. They had stacks of leaflets in their hands. Smiling black ladies. They seemed amused. The man they worked with just stood there, rocking slightly on his loafers, hands in his pockets, looking at Garner casually but with an irritating knowingness.

  ''You a minister?" Garner asked.

  "Pastor Ray Brick, First Congregational." They shook hands.

  I was a Methodist pastor, if you can believe that. Still am officially, I guess."

  "I can believe it. Man, we lose 'em all the time. You used to be a drug counsellor - in recovery yourself?"

  "You guessed it."

  "Uh huh. That's a pattern. One in four long term addicts-in-recovery relapse years later. Most of 'em don't make it back. What was your excuse?"

  "My daughter was kidnapped. Probably murdered."

  He looked impressed. "That's a pretty good one. You had enough, out here?"

  Garner stared. His guts knotted.

  Don't waste your time, the addict said. You can be more careful next time you buy.

  "Let me ask you something," Brick said, seeing his hesitation. "You think it was a coincidence, you getting ripped off and me coming along like that? Well, it was. But ydu should know - God's the only one can arrange coincidences. You were happy you hadn't got real crack. You don't really want it."

  Garner nodded, slowly. "I - was on my way to meet a man . . . might help me find my daughter."

  "That's pretty important. How about we walk you a ways in that direction - till you get out of this neighbourhood. Can we do that?"

  Garner nodded, enormously relieved. "I'd appreciate it." He felt tears welling. "I really would."

  Blume's door was open about two inches. Typical of a drunk to space out something basic like closing your door behind you. The guy was probably useless as a detective, this far into alcoholism. But then, Garner thought, I've been pretty useless as a pastor lately.

  He knocked and waited. No reply. No sound of movement from inside. A little lamplight spilled through the door and the angry mutter of a TV set.

  The agency had said Blume hadn't been in for three days; hadn't been answering his phone. "He goes on these drunks from time to time," his supervisor said. "I don't know why we never get around to firing him"

  Garner pushed the door open and went in. It was a cluttered studio apartment, smelling powerfully of a catbox and some hidden rot. The cabinets and drawers had been opened, their junky contents dumped on the floor. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor beside him, Blume sat facing Garner in a green cloth easy chair in the very centre of the room. He was in his underwear, sitting in front of an old black and white TV set currently showing a wonky double image of Barbara Walters interviewing another "reclusive" movie star. Blume was staring at it, motionlessly, unblinking. Garner could see the gray and white TV screen reflected in both Blume's eyes in nearly perfect miniature. Beyond him, above the crap-lumpy cat box, was a half open window onto a fire escape. No sign of the cat. The cat had abandoned ship.

  There was a book held in Blume's hands. A bio-

  graphy. There was something about the way it was set up in his hands that made Garner feel sure it had been put there by someone else, set up like a prop. The title of the book was Remembering Trotsky

  Garner didn't bother saying anything. He took a moment to decide if he wanted to walk around behind Blume. He hated to give them the satisfaction. But in the end, he did it. He stepped behind Blume and saw the ice pick stuck to the handle in the back of Blume's skull. Just one small trickle of blood dried on the bald scalp beneath the handle.

  Garner turned away, grimacing, thinking it would have been a better effect if they'd turned off the TV. He caught a tiny blinking red light in a far corner, next to a huge heap of old Los Angeles Times. It was a call-recorded light on a Sears answering machine, the phone on top of it.

  He circled Blume widely and went to the phone, hit the answering machine's play button. There was a message from the agency, telling Blume if he didn't at least call in before midnight he was fired. And then there was a message from another of Blume's clients.

  A petulant, phone-fuzzed voice said, "Blume? You there? No? Okay. This is Jeff Teitelbaum. I get this cryptic phone message from you saying that Sam Denver was seen at the sites of three Wetbones murders - if I'm hearing this slurred-up mumbling of yours right it says 'not long after killings' . . . What the fuck? You trying to give me a heart attack with this cryptic shit? If you think my brother is one of those Wetbones victims just fucking come out and say so and get your ass over here. You can't leave me messages like this and just . . . Shit! I'm at the Culver City hospital right now but I'll be home in a half hour or so . . . I want you over here personally.

  My address in case you're too blitzed to find your fucking rolodex is . . ."

  Garner dug through Blume's things for a pen, finally located a stub of a pencil and scribbled the address down on the back of a tract for Brick's drug recovery program. He folded it up and carefully put it in his pocket, then looked around for notes or tape recordings or photos - anything pertaining to Blume's investigation.

  He found nothing relevant. They'd have taken anything like that, of course.

  He made a quick, anonymous call to the LAPD to report the body, then hurried out, keeping his mind focused on his errand so as not to think about crack. Hurrying to find a bus that would take him to Jeff Teitelbaum's part of town.

  Los Angeles

  "You're really not going to that party?" Jeff asked again, as they walked into the overlit, almost empty lobby of the hospital. The one Mitch had run away from. "I mean, Christ, you got a deal trembling on the verge with Arthwright. Not a good time to snub his party."

  "Arthwright." Prentice grimaced. "I don't think I want to know Arthwright all that well."

  "It's your career."

  Prentice shrugged. What was he supposed to tell Jeff? That he kept hearing Amy in his head warning him away from Arthwright and Lissa? That he was afraid of Lisa - for no clear reason at all? That he didn't quite believe there was a party to go to - and he wasn't sure why? And he hadn't yet told Jeff where the party was. The Doublekey Ranch. After what the old lady with the parrot had told him about her niece's death, he

  didn't much want to go out t
o the ranch . . .

  Jeff went on, "So, did the doctor tell you what he wanted?"

  "You can ask him yourself," Prentice said, nodding toward the small white-coated brown-skinned man coming through the double doors into the lobby. Doctor Drandhu.

  Drandhu advanced, one hand extended for shaking, smiling nervously. "Mr. Prentice! Mr. Teitelbaum! Correct?" His accent was native Indian, but his English was otherwise controlled with a brittle formality as he shook both their hands with fingers that felt like they were made of bird-bones, and said, "I am thankful you were able to come. Oh you have hurt yourself, Mr. Prentice?" He was looking at the bandage on Prentice's left hand. The cut still smarted dully.

  "Yeah. On a busted bottle in the tub." He still felt strange after the dream in the tub. He wanted to run out and get a drink

  "Not a very professional bandage, Mr. Prentice, would you like me to . . . ?"

  "No, no thanks. What's up? You said it was something about Mitch?"

  "It is related, yes, yes. Please. There is someone I must show to you." He led the way through the double doors, down the antiseptic-reeking halls. "I asked you to come because your brother, Mr. Teitelbaum, was one of my first ES patients . . ."

  "ES?" Jeff asked. "You've got a name for it?"

  Drandhu smiled shyly. "Emaciation Syndrome. This is my term. When I find out more about it I will write a paper. But there is so little I understand now, I am sad to say. So very little. I am a little frightened, to be frank, and feeling very much alone. When I try to interest

  my colleagues they say I am mistaking AIDS or drug-induced for something distinct. But I don't think so, no. The patients are negative for AIDS and . . . no, there are no drug indications. But the wasting and the self mutilation . . ."

  "My ex-wife had the same thing. If it is a disease," Prentice said.

  Drandhu looked at him with interest. "Oh yes really? That is very interesting. They knew each other, the boy and your wife?"

  "A little. But . . ." He shrugged. He didn't want to get into it that far, yet. "Anyway, yeah: it occurred to me and Jeff that it's just too big a coincidence, Mitch and Amy having the same kind of sickness. Mitch had just started to lose weight but the rest of it was there."