by Unknown
“It’s easy enough to recruit,” I said.
Jessome stared at me.
He let the conversation grow cold.
The two of us stood there, alone in the office.
Finally, he spoke. “This isn’t going to stop with the police, is it?”
Another shrug.
“The military?” he asked.
“For starters,” I said. “We need more men in Congress, as well. The oval office would make a dandy mausoleum.”
“You’re ambitious.”
“Vampirism is a little like religion. It’s as catchy as small pox.”
I looked out the window. I could see the lights of the city sparkling like so many distant stars. I dreamed of holding them all in the palm of my hand and squeezing down hard.
When I turned, Jessome was holding a very large crucifix in his extended hand. Silver, of course. He wasn’t taking any chances on cheap alloy.
“I can’t let this go any further,” he said.
“You’re in bed already,” I told him. “In flagrante delicto.”
I stepped closer.
He pushed the cross towards me.
“It’s funny. After all these years of letting the world believe that we were only fairy tales, of letting the world believe that we turned into bats and lived in coffins, after all these centuries of letting people believe that a holy symbol really had some kind of power over us…”
I stepped a little closer.
“A lie can last a very long time.” I stepped even closer. “Looking at the cross, even now, I almost want to flinch.”
I reached out and crumpled the crucifix as if it were made of tin foil.
I crumpled his hand with it.
From this close up, I could see the wet glint of Jessome’s thrice-blessed contact lenses. I wondered just how much he had paid for them on the open market. I wondered if he had a patent and whether or not I should buy stock in the company.
I kept hold of his fist all the while, crushing the bones as if they were a fistful of impotent wafers.
As he screamed, I made a peace sign out of my index and middle finger.
I leaned in a little closer.
“Hey Moe,” I whispered, driving my two extended fingers directly through Jessome’s thrice-blessed contact lenses and the salty jelly of his eyes, deep into the truth and knowledge that hid behind the mask of vision.
Soulfinger
By Rio Youers
“He plays the blues.”
“Yes he does. Better than anyone.”
“So why is he called Soulfinger?”
“You want the quick answer, or the not-so-quick answer?”
“The quick answer.”
“Because when he plays, he touches your soul.”
“Cute, but is he really that good?”
“No. Whatever you have in your mind, however you determine what is good — it might be fine wine or the memory of your first true love — take that and multiply it by a number you can’t imagine. Only then will you be anywhere close to what Soulfinger can do. He is the moon, brother. He is the ocean. The sky can rain fire and the mountains can fall, but Soulfinger will always be playing the blues.”
The bar was called The Smokestack — a rumbling blues joint on Whispering Avenue. Blacked-out windows and heartache on the walls. The doors didn’t open until ten P.M., and they opened on a long room that was tapered at the far end, like the world’s biggest coffin. The air tasted of cigarette smoke and sweat, heavy with woe, something that could tip a scale.
“What time does he go on stage?”
“When he’s ready. Soulfinger doesn’t concern himself with hours and minutes, with clocks…” The bartender ticked off seconds with his index finger: tick-tock-tick. “He has his own agenda.”
“A luxury. I can’t stay here all night, though.”
“The door is right there, brother. No one is stopping you from easing on down the road. Not yet, at least.”
“Not yet? That sounds almost … threatening.” Peter Hale smiled. Twenty-two years in journalism, the last six freelance. He was used to threats, subtle or otherwise. Both work and curiosity had brought him to The Smokestack; he was researching an article, but Soulfinger had long intrigued him. Stories about the man were legend, wreathed in mystery. He was here to get closer.
“Take it anyway you like,” the bartender said. The jukebox flickered into life before Peter could question him further. The sound of the mechanism engaging, of the needle touching down on old vinyl, seemed too loud in the stillness. Hiss and thump, like someone’s heart when you have your ear pressed to their chest. And then music. No — the blues. A harmonica in the key of C: the reedy push and pull of bruised emotions.
An old man at the bar started to sing along. He mumbled through down-turned lips. His eyes were the same colour as the rum in his glass.
Lord I swear I’m so beaten down,
Got nothing left to lose.
The bar was long, subtly curved inward, like a shoreline, endlessly subjected to waves of hardship. Bottles and glasses glittered, a solar system of promises, miracles, and painkillers. There were refrigerators loaded with beer, the usual brands, and one Peter had never seen before: red label on a brown bottle. A home brew, perhaps. Peter was about to ask about it when the bartender threw his towel over one shoulder, held up his index finger again, and said, “One tick, brother. I’ll be back.”
He walked away to serve another customer, leaving Peter to sip his drink, make some notes, and gaze around the bar. The walls were clustered with dusty instruments — guitars with missing strings; bass skins beaten like planished metal — and pictures of blues legends, some of them signed: Thanks for taking care of me. We’ll roll again … Big Joe Turner. For everyone at The Smokestack, best damn blues joint in America … Muddy Waters. There was another photograph of a young man dressed in cheap, ill-fitting garments, playing guitar in the moonlight while a mosaic of black, timeless faces looked on.
Empty chairs and tables, with only a few old timers making waves at the bar.
Pour me another shot of heartache, Lord,
Got nothing left to lose.
A waitress stood with her back to him, a short jean skirt and slender arms, her skin as dark as her hair. She turned her face and he saw her in profile. His heart was stretched — pulled against his ribcage with a succession of cymbal crashes. He slipped off the barstool and took a helpless step toward her, and when she turned away it was as if some taut line between them had broken. Peter stumbled backward, knocking his glass, spilling S. Pellegrino on his notepad. Words ran across the page, stretched like his heart. Words that were crying.
“Jesus.” He wiped his eyes, used a napkin to dab water from his notepad, and another to dab sweat from the bridge of his nose. The jukebox whirred, clicked, and scratched. Slide guitar snaked from the speakers. The old man at the bar nodded and looked at his glass of rum.
“Are you here to see Soulfinger?” Peter asked him, but he didn’t really care. He was making conversation, hoping to ease the jitters that had suddenly come over him. He glanced at the waitress again. She still had her back to him, and that was a good thing, he thought.
The old man turned to him, his head rolling loosely on his thin neck. His skin was grey. He seemed as dusty as the instruments on the wall.
“Boy,” he said. “I’m always here.”
The bartender returned, towel still on one shoulder. He was a tall man with sleepy, hound-dog eyes. Those eyes regarded Peter, and then dropped to the words running like blood across his notepad.
“Need another drink?”
Peter nodded. “Something harder.”
“Yeah … look like you need it.”
Peter pointed at the refrigerator. “What’s that? Bottom shelf … red label.”
“You ain’t ready for that, brother.”
“What is it?”
The bartender smiled. “Something special. A house brew.”
“I thought so.” He balled another napkin
and wiped a mist of sweat from beneath his eyes. “Hot in here. I’ll take a Jim Beam on the rocks.”
“You got it.”
“Who’s in the picture?” Peter pointed at the man playing guitar in the moonlight. “I don’t recognize him.”
The bartender measured a generous shot. Ice rattled in the glass. He looked to where Peter pointed. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s the man.”
“Soulfinger?”
“The man.”
He was leaning over the guitar, head down, fingers dancing on the strings. The people behind him, watching him, were dressed in the same cheap clothes. Slave rags, Peter thought. Their eyes were painted white by flash powder, or the moon. Peter had seen enough photographs during his career to be able to date this one to the mid-nineteenth century. The subject — Soulfinger — looked to be about twenty years old.
Peter sipped his drink. His heart eased. “I don’t think so,” he said.
The bartender smiled. “It don’t matter what you think.”
“That photograph was taken well over a hundred years ago.”
“One hundred and fifty years ago. Taken in 1860 by Mr. William F. Pearsall of the Sipsey River Plantation. Massa William F. Pearsall — Soulfinger’s owner.”
Peter raised one eyebrow. His felt his mouth become a firm line and his eyes glisten with contempt. “Do I look like a fool?”
The bartender’s upper lip flickered. Almost a smile. Almost a sneer.
“I have an M.A. from the Missouri School of Journalism; I’ve written articles for the New Yorker and Rolling Stone; I’ve won several awards, including the Livingstone. I am nobody’s fool, brother. Facts are my trade, and I have no time or patience for tall tales. You want to tell me about Soulfinger? That’s fine. I’ll listen. I’ll report. But keep the fiction in check.”
The bartender gestured with his index finger. Tick-tock-tick. He smiled, moved along the bar, and served the old man. Boy, I’m always here. Shot of something gold. It disappeared between verses. Another shot. The old man nodded, mumbled. The bartender returned.
“Facts,” he said, nodding, and the bar lights cast mauve tones on his skin. “I’ll give you a fact right now, Mr. Rolling Stone: there are things in this world that lie beyond explanation. Magic and miracles. God’s work … or the devil’s.”
“God doesn’t exist,” Peter said. “Neither does the devil. When you get that into your head, you’ll realize that everything has an explanation.”
“Then explain love at first sight.”
“Like God, it doesn’t exist; it’s a weak, false emotion attached to perception.” But Peter faltered, and he looked at the waitress, her back to him, her raven hair falling to the small of her back, and his heart moved again, almost volcanic.
“You need to open your eyes, brother,” the bartender said, then shook his head, corrected himself. “No … you need to open your soul.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
The bartender smiled.
“Tell me about Soulfinger.”
“He plays the blues.”
“Right. Better than anyone.” Peter looked at the old photograph again. “And he’s what … one hundred and seventy years old?”
“One hundred and seventy-two.”
There was a small stage at the far end of the bar, little more than a step, where the ‘coffin’ tapered. An empty stool sat in the middle, next to a mic stand and amp. More photographs on the wall. Robert Johnson. Blind Willie McTell. And a simple poster — black lettering on a white background:
TONITE: SOULFINGER
There were more people in The Smokestack now. The empty chairs and tables were being filled. Peter frowned; he hadn’t seen anybody walk in. They bustled, laughed, drank: red labels on brown bottles. The jukebox hissed and thumped. “Bad Train Down.”
The old man grumbled, mumbled, drooled.
All my people get on board,
We don’t stop ’til we die.
Peter swirled the Jim Beam in his glass. Ice chattered like teeth.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me the not-so-quick answer.”
He plays in 4/4 time, barely touching the strings, easing into those familiar, worn places on the fretboard. The sound that vibrates from the hollow is all pain and feeling. It is his lover’s touch, her words and kindnesses. Tears paint his brown skin. The music reassures him.
He cradles his guitar. This is love.
She comes to him, as if responding to the music, to his pain. Her fingers find the tears on his face — silver lines — and as she touches them, breaks through them, he plays the appropriate note. The final tear, the clearest line, is F#.
“Did yo see him?” she asks.
He opens his mouth to reply but his lips tremble and his throat closes. He nods, vaguely, and lets the music answer for him: A-minor to C, and she understands. She touches his hair and kisses his brow, tasting his sweat, feeling his heat. There is a bucket of cold water at her feet, and the softest cloth she can find.
“Tek off’n yo shirt,” she says. “I’s see to yo a-hurtin’.”
He nods and more tears spill down his cheeks. A# and D. He plays the notes, then sets aside his guitar and unbuttons his shirt. His thin brown body is exposed, every rib, the sinews of muscles worked hard, the darker skin of his nipples. His back is red, hashed with more than a hundred fresh whip marks. Blood has soaked his hemp pants. It drips off the stool he is sitting on. He lowers his head and cries the blues.
His name is Abram Wallace. In years to come he will be known only as Soulfinger. He will play his music and gather his audience, searching for what he has lost. But now, hurting and human, bleeding and mortal, his name is Abram Wallace.
“Oh, Lawd,” she says. Her name is Charity, his wife and his love. She understands him, like the music. “Deah, Lawd…” Soft cloth, dripping icy water fresh from the well, applied to his wounds. “Oh, Lawd.” Her touch is as soft as it has ever been, even in moments of intimacy, but Abram still groans and closes his eyes. The pain is the reverse of love, but her touch, and his expression, are the same.
“No mo’ a-hurtin’, Lawd,” he says. “I’s so tired.”
“No mo’,” Charity agrees. She is crying, too. Her tears are a different music: waterfall of cymbals; raincloud of cellos, a sonorous and labouring sound — the great bow of misery drawn across strings as thick as the lash marks on his back.
“I seen him,” Abram says. “He fount me, honeychile. Came a-walking from da darkness. Da ghostie. Da Hoodoo Man.”
“Yo stay away from him,” Charity says, dipping the cloth in the bucket. The water turns red, but it is still cold, and Abram sighs when she lays it on his back. “He da devil.”
Abram nods. “He sets and a-plays his gitta, and dat music sing to me. It’s so sweet-soundin’, and I’s…” His body shudders, sweat gleaming on his brow. “I’s so tempted to go to him. I thinkin’ dere be no mo’ pain wit da Hoodoo Man.”
“No pain. No love. Ain’t nuthin’ in da darkness. Yo git dat thinkin’ from yo head.” She squeezes the cloth in her fist. Blood drips into the bucket. It is beneath her fingernails. On her wrists.
The Hoodoo Man knows his name, and knows where to find him. He comes when the pain is overwhelming: an orchestra of red; crescendo of hurt … and when life feels that it should slip away, the Hoodoo Man is there, pale and naked, carrying his guitar.
“He dead,” Abram says. “Jus’ a ghostie. Dat’s all. ”
Dead … has to be dead. Abram can’t read or write — can barely count his fingers and toes — but he knows the difference between living and dead. The Hoodoo Man is whip-thin and shimmering white. His face is a terrible window. No eyes or mouth, only a misty void, and sometimes the mist will clear and Abram will see the night sky there, or fire. His guitar is sublime, though, and he uses it to communicate, strumming and plucking. Abram is drawn to him. Abram understands.
“He da devil,” Charity says again, and Abram nods, wincing as the cold water runs over his bleeding b
ack.
“We should stop right now,” Peter said. He made a few notes while the bartender talked, but scratched them out and flipped closed the book. “I told you … I’m nobody’s fool. I’ve been commissioned to write an article on the progression of the blues throughout North America. From Hart Wand to Shemekia Copeland. I don’t want a goddam ghost story. This is bullshit.”
“You asked me about Soulfinger, so I’m telling you.” The bartender held his arms wide and shrugged. His palms were creamy-white. “Like I said, brother … some things exist on the other side of explanation.”
“Like faceless, guitar-plucking phantoms?”
“All manner of wickedness.” He held up one finger. “I’ll be back in—”
“One tick?”
The bartender nodded and moved away. Peter put the cap on his pen and clipped it inside his shirt pocket. He swirled the ice in his glass and finished his drink. It was time to “ease on down the road,” as the bartender put it. From The Wiz. Cute, but it was just more bullshit. The whole night had been bullshit. A waste of time. Peter was beginning to wonder if Soulfinger existed at all.
His gaze was drawn to the picture of the slave playing guitar in the moonlight. He imagined the man tied to a whipping post, an overseer cracking rawhide across his naked back, punishing him until the pain gave way to cloudy patches of delirium and hallucination.
“Ghosties,” Peter said. He closed his eyes for a moment. Abram Wallace floated into his mind, sitting in the gloom of his cabin while his wife soothed his wounds with icy water.
He fount me, honeychile. Came a-walking from da darkness. Da ghostie. Da Hoodoo Man.
Poor Boy Cleon on the jukebox. “Stormy Woman Blues.”
The empty stool on stage. TONITE: SOULFINGER. And the joint was full, every table ringed with people. They lined the walls and crowded the floors. Peter shook his head. Where did they all come from? The door was behind him; he’d get a blast of cold air every time it opened, and he hadn’t felt that but three or four times all night. So where did…?
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
Peter swiveled on his stool and came face to face with the waitress. Her eyes were like highways, dark and endless, reaching some distant, perfect horizon. He took to the wheel and drove, pedal hard to the floor, giving himself to her landscape. She was not, he thought, so attractive; her cheekbones were too pronounced, almost vulpine, and her mouth too heavy. But there was something — some glimmer — about her that was captivating … enticing, like a perilous height, or broken glass.