The Animals stood in a semicircle, beers in hand, on a playground off Grant Street. The deceased was being honored in absentia—in her place was a half-eaten pair of edible panties. From a distance, they looked like a bunch of wastrels mourning a Fruit Roll-Up.
"I'd like to start, if I may," said Drew. He wore a long overcoat and his hair was tied back with a black ribbon, revealing the target-shaped bruise on his forehead where Jody had hit him with the wine bottle. Out of his coat he pulled a bong the size of a tenor sax, and using a long lighter designed for lighting fireplaces, he sparked that magnificent mama-jama up and bubbled away like a scuba diver having an asthma attack. When he could hold no more, he raised the bong, poured some water on the ground, and croaked, "To Blue," which came out in a perfect smoke ring, the sight of which brought tears to everyone's eyes.
"To Blue," everyone repeated as they placed one hand on the bong and tipped a bit out of their beers.
"To Broo, my nigga," said Troy Lee's grandma, who had insisted upon joining the ceremony once she realized there would be firecrackers.
"She will be avenged," said Lash.
"And we'll get our fucking money back," said Jeff, the big jock.
"Amen," the Animals said.
They had decided on a nondenominational ceremony, as Barry was a Jew, Troy Lee was a Buddhist, Clint was an Evangelical, Drew was a Rastafarian, Gustavo was a Catholic, and Lash and Jeff were heathen stoners. Gustavo had been called in to work that day because someone had to be in the store as long as the front was only boarded up with plywood, so in deference to his beliefs, they had bought some incense and holders and placed a picket fence of smoldering joss sticks around the edible panty. The incense also worked within Troy and Grandma's Buddhist tradition, and Lash pointed out during the ceremony that although they have their differences otherwise, all gods like a good-smellin' ho.
"Amen!" said the Animals again.
"And they're handy for lightin' firecrackers off of," added Jeff as he bent over an incense stick and set a string cracking.
"Hallelujah!" said the Animals.
Each offered to share some kind of memory of Blue, but all of their stories quickly degenerated to orifices and squishiness, and no one wanted to go there in front of Troy's grandma, so instead they threw firecrackers at Clint while he read from the Twenty-third Psalm.
Before they cracked the second case of beer, it was decided that after dark, three of them—Lash, Troy Lee, and Barry—would take Blue from Lash's apartment, load her into the back of Barry's station wagon, and take her out in the middle of the Bay in Barry's Zodiac. (Barry was the diver of the bunch, and had all the cool aquatic stuff. They'd used his spearguns to help take down the old vampire.)
Lash braced himself as he opened the apartment door, but to his surprise, there was no smell. He led Barry and Troy into the bedroom, and together they wrestled the rolled-up rug out of the closet.
"It's not heavy enough," Barry said.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Troy said, trying furiously to unroll the rug.
Finally Lash reached down, grabbed the edge of the rug, and whipped it up over his head. There was a thudding sound against the far wall, followed by the jingle of metal, like coins settling.
The three Animals stood and stared.
"What are those?" Asked Barry.
"Earrings," answered Troy. Indeed, there were seven earrings settling on the hardwood floor.
"Not those. Those!" Barry nodded toward two clear, cantaloupe-sized, gelatinous lozenges that quivered on the floor like stranded jellyfish.
Lash shivered. "I've seen them before. My brother used to work in a plant in Santa Barbara that made them."
"What the fuck are they?" Said Troy, squinting through a drunken haze.
"Those are breast implants," Lash said.
"What are those wormy things?" asked Barry. There were two translucent sluglike blobs of something stuck to the rug near the edge.
"Looks like window caulk," said Lash. He noticed that there was a fine blue powder near the edge of the rug. He ran his hand over it, pinched some on his fingers, and sniffed it. Nothing.
"Where'd she go?" asked Barry.
"No idea," said Lash.
Chapter Twenty
It's a Wonderful Life
Gustavo Chavez had been born the seventh child of a brick maker in a small village in the state of Michoacan, Mexico. At eighteen he married a local girl, the daughter of a farmer, herself a seventh child, and at twenty, with his second child on the way, he crossed the border into the United States, where he lived with a cousin in Oakland, along with a score of other relatives, and worked grueling, twelve-hour days as a laborer, making enough to feed himself and send more money home to his family than he could possibly have made in his father's brickyard. He did this because it was the responsible and right thing to do, and because he had been raised a good Catholic man who, like his father, would provide for his family and no more than two or three mistresses. Each year, about a month before Christmas, he would sneak back across the border to celebrate Christmas with his family, meet any new children that might been born, and make love with his wife, Maria, until they were both so sore it hurt to walk. In fact, the vision of Maria's inviting thighs would often begin haunting him around Halloween and the hapless night porter would find himself in a state of semiarousal as he swung his soapy mop, to and fro, across fifteen thousand square feet of linoleum every night.
Tonight he was in the store alone, and he was feeling far from aroused, for it was Christmas night, and he could not go to mass or take Communion until he confessed. He was feeling deeply ashamed. Christmas night and he hadn't even called Maria—hadn't spoken to her for weeks, because like the rest of the Animals, he had gone to Las Vegas, and had given all his money to the blue whore.
He had called, of course, after they'd first taken the vampire's art and sold it for so much money, but since then, his life had been a fog of tequila and marijuana and the evil attentions of the blue one. He, a good man, who cared for his family, had never hit his wife, had only cheated with a second cousin and never with a white woman, had been undone by the curse of the blue devil's pussy. La maldición de la cocha del diablo azul.
This is the saddest, loneliest Christmas ever, thought Gustavo as he dragged his mop past the canvas doors leading into the produce-department cooler. I am like the poor cabrón in that book The Pearl, where by simply trying to take advantage of some good fortune, I have lost all that I care about. Okay, I did get drunk for a week and my pearl was a blue whore who fucked the chimichangas out of me, but still, pretty sad. He thought these things in Spanish, so they sounded infinitely more tragic and romantic.
Then there came a noise from the cooler, and he was startled for a second. He wrung out his mop, so as to be ready for anything. He didn't like being in the store by himself, but with the front windows broken out, someone had to be here, and because he was far from home, had nowhere else to go, and the union would see that he was paid double time, Gustavo had volunteered. Perhaps if he sent home a little extra, Maria might forget the hundred thousand dollars he'd promised.
There, something was moving behind the plastic doors of the cooler, which were waving slightly. The stout Mexican crossed himself and backed out of the produce department, swinging his mop now in quick swaths, leaving barely a hint of dampness on the linoleum. He was by the dairy case now, and a stack of yogurts fell over inside the glass doors, as if someone had shoved them out of the way to look through.
Gustavo dropped the mop and ran to the back of the store, saying a Hail Mary peppered with swearwords as he went, wondering if those were footsteps he heard behind him, or the echoes of his own footfalls resounding through the deserted store.
Out the front door and away, he chanted in his head. Out the front door and away. He nearly fell rounding the turn at the meat case, his shoes still wet from the mop water. He caught himself on one hand and came up like a sprinter, while reaching back on his belt for his k
eys as he went.
There were footfalls behind him—light, slapping—bare feet on linoleum, but fast, and close. He couldn't stop to unlock the door when he got there, he couldn't look back, he couldn't turn to look—a second of hesitation and he would be lost. He exhaled a long wail and ran right through a rack of candy and gum by the registers. He tumbled over the first register in an avalanche of candy bars and magazines, many of which displayed headlines like I MARRIED BIGFOOT, or SPACE ALIEN CULT TAKES OVER HOLLYWOOD, or vampires hunt our streets, and other such nonsense.
Gustavo scrambled out of the pile and was crawling on his belly like a desert lizard scrambling to get across hot sand, when a heavy weight came down on his back, knocking the air out of him. He gasped, trying to get his breath, but something grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head backwards. He heard crackling noises in his ear, smelled something like rotten meat, and gagged. He saw the fluorescent lights, some canned hams, and a very happy cardboard elf making cookies as he was dragged down the aisle and through the doors into the dark back room of the deli like so much lunch meat.
Feliz navidad.
"Our first Christmas together," Jody said, kissing him on the cheek—giving his butt a little squeeze through his pj bottoms. "Did you get me something cute?"
"Hi, Mom," Tommy said into the phone. "It's Tommy."
"Tommy. Sweetheart. We've been calling all day. It just rang and rang. I thought you were going to come home for Christmas."
"Well, you know, Mom, I'm in management at the store now. Responsibilities."
"Are you working hard enough?"
"Oh yeah, Mom. I'm working ten—sixteen hours a day sometimes. Exhausted."
"Well good. And you have insurance?"
"The best, Mom. The best. I'm nearly bulletproof."
"Well, I suppose that's good. You're not still working that horrible night shift, are you?"
"Well, sort of. In the grocery business, that's where the money is."
"You need to get on the day shift. You're never going to meet a nice girl working those hours, son."
It was at this point, having heard Mother Flood's admonition, that Jody lifted her shirt and rubbed her bare breasts against him while batting her eyelashes coquettishly.
"But I have met a nice girl, Mom. Her name is Jody. She's studying to be a nun—er, teacher. She helps the poor."
It was then that Jody pantsed him, then ran into the bedroom giggling. He caught himself on the counter to keep from tumbling over.
"Whoa."
"What, son? What's the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, Mom. I just had a little eggnog with the guys and started to feel it."
"You're not on the drugs, are you, honey?"
"No, no, no, nothing like that."
"Because your father has rehab benefits on you until you're twenty-one. We can have one of those interventions if you can find a cheap flight home. I know that Aunt Esther would love to see you, even if you are strung out on the crack."
"And I her, and I her, Mom. Look, I just called to say Merry Christmas, I'll let you—"
"Wait, honey, your father wants to say hi."
"— go."
"Hey, Skeeter. Frisco turned you into an ass bandit yet?"
"Hi, Dad. Merry Christmas."
"Glad you finally called. Your mother was worried sick about you."
"Well, you know, the grocery business."
"You working hard enough?"
"Trying. They're cutting back on our OT—union will only let us work sixty hours a week."
"Well, as long as you're trying. How's that old Volvo running?"
"Great. Like a top." The Volvo had burned to the wheels his first day in the City.
"Swiss sure can build some cars, can't they? Can't say much for those little red pocketknives they make, but sonsabitches can build a car."
"Swedes."
"Yeah, well, I love the little meatballs too. Look, kid, your mother's got me deep-frying a turkey out in the driveway. It's starting to smoke a little. I probably oughta should go check on it. Took an hour to get the oil up to speed—it's only about ten degrees here today."
"Yeah, it's a little chilly here, too."
"Looks like it's starting to catch the carport on fire a little. Better go."
"Okay. Love you, Dad."
"Call your mother more often, she worries. Holy cats, there goes the Oldsmobile. Bye, son."
A half hour later they were sipping coffee laced with William's blood when the doorbell rang again. "This is getting irritating," Jody said.
"Call your mom," Tommy said. "I'll get it."
"We should get some sleeping pills—knock him out so he doesn't have to drink all that booze before we bleed him."
The doorbell rang again.
"We just need to get him a key." Tommy went to the console by the door and pushed the button. There was a buzz and the click of the lock at street level. The door opened—William coming in to settle on the stairs for the night. "I don't know how he sleeps on those steps."
"He doesn't sleep. He passes out," said the undead redhead. "Do you think if we gave him peppermint schnapps the coffee would have a minty holiday flavor?"
Tommy shrugged. He went to the door, threw it open, and called down. "William, you like peppermint schnapps?"
William raised a grimy eyebrow, looking suspicious. "You got something against scotch?"
"No, no, I don't want to mess up your discipline. I was just thinking of a more balanced diet. Food groups, you know."
"I had some soup and some beer today," William said.
"Okay then."
"Schnapps gives me mint farts. They scare the hell out of Chet."
Tommy turned to Jody and shook his head. "Sorry, no way, minty farts." Then to William again: "Okay then, William. I gotta get back to the little woman. You need anything? Food, blanket, toothbrush, a damp towelette to freshen up?"
"Nah, I'm good," William said. He held up a fifth of Johnny Walker Black.
"How's Chet doing?"
"Stressed. We just found out our friend Sammy got murdered in the hotel on Eleventh." Chet looked up the stairwell with sad kitty eyes, which he sort of always seemed to have since he'd been shaved.
"Sorry to hear that," Tommy said.
"Yeah, on Christmas, too," William said. "Hooker got killed across the street last night, same way. Neck was snapped. Sammy has been sick for a while, so he splurged on a room for the holiday. Fuckers killed him right there in bed. Just goes to show you."
Tommy had no idea what it went to show you. "Sad," Tommy said. "So how come Chet's stressed but you're not?"
"Chet doesn't drink."
"Of course. Well then, Merry Christmas to you guys."
"You, too," said William, toasting with his bottle. "Any chance of a Christmas bonus, now that I'm a full-time employee?"
"What'd you have in mind?"
"I'd sure like a gander at Red's bare knockers."
Tommy turned to Jody, who was shaking her head, looking pretty determined.
"Sorry," Tommy said. "How about a new sweater for Chet?"
William scowled. "You just can't bargain with The Man." He took a drink from his bottle and turned away from Tommy as if he had something important to discuss with his huge shaved cat and couldn't be bothered with management.
"Okay then," Tommy said. He closed the door and returned to the counter. "I'm The Man," he said with a big grin.
"Your mom would be so proud," Jody said. "We need to go see about Elijah."
"Not until you call your mom. Besides, he's waited this long, it's not like he's going anywhere."
Jody got up and came around the breakfast bar and took Tommy's hand. "Sweetie, I need you to play what William just said back in your mind, really slowly."
"I know, I'm The Man!"
"No, the part about his friend being killed by a broken neck, and how he has been sick, and how someone else was killed the night before, also by broken neck. I'll bet she was sick, to
o. Sound like a pattern you've heard before?"
"Oh my God," Tommy said.
"Uh-huh," Jody said. She held his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "I'll get my jacket while you fluff up your little brain for traveling, 'kay?"
"Oh my God, you'll do anything to get out of calling your mom."
Chapter Twenty-one
Ladies and Gentlemen, Presenting the Disappointments
He was the best one-handed free-throw shooter in the Bay Area, and that Christmas night he had sunk sixty-four in a row in his driveway hoop, shooting the new leather Spauldingball his dad had left under the tree for him. Sixty-seven in a row, without ever setting down or spilling his beer. His record was seventy-two, and he would have broken it, had he not been dragged off into the bushes to be slaughtered.
Jeff Murray was not the smartest of the Animals, nor the most well-born, but when it came to squandering potential, he was the hands-down winner. Jeff had been a star power forward through his sophomore, junior, and senior years in high school, and he had been offered a full-boat ride to Cal, Berkeley—there had even been talk of his going pro after a couple of years in college, but Jeff had decided to impress his prom date by showing her he had enough vertical leap to clear a moving car.
It was a minor misjudgment, and he would have cleared the car had he not drunk most of a case of beer before the attempt, and had the car's height not been eight inches enhanced by the light bar on the roof. The light bar just caught Jeff's left sneaker, and somersaulted him four times in the air before he landed upright in a James Brown split on the tarmac. He was pretty sure that his knee wasn't supposed to bend that way, and a team of doctors would later agree. He'd wear a brace forever and he'd never play competitive basketball again. Although he was a smokin' one-handed H.O.R.S.E. player, and he might have even been a champion if it weren't for that slaughtered-in-the-bushes thing.
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