The act has taken no more than ten minutes, yet the man glistens with sweat, his fat hairy belly covered with slick. Elise feels soiled, but scoops up the damp money from her breasts and sits up.
She struggles into her clothes; zippers catch, nylons run, her shirt gets stuck as she pulls it over her head. Sheepishly, she grins at the man, her lover, her partner in sin and crime.
He glares at her.
“That was nice,” she says with little emotion and even less veracity.
“Just get the fuck out.”
Elise scrambles backward, like an animal out of a hole, from the van. The night surrounds her. Cold. Forty bucks.
*
The three lie together on the bed. The carcass lies alone, by the fire. It has been almost completely drained of blood and much of its flesh has been ripped from the bone. It is barely recognizable as human. In the early morning, before day’s cruel light intrudes, they will rip the carcass further apart and will feed it to the fire. The smell of roasting meat will send them off to sweet dreams.
Edward moves close to Terence and snuggles against him. When he encounters no resistance, he puts his head on Terence’s chest.
Terence turns away. “Get the fuck off, fancy man.”
“Sorry,” Edward whispers into the darkness, turning his back away from Terence.
“You should know by now I’m not into that.”
But you once were. At least when you wanted me. Edward thinks about the night they met and the promise. He didn’t know how quickly the promise would be met.
And then reneged on.
Chapter Two
1954
The Tiger’s Eye was on Eighth Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, in the heart of Greenwich Village. It was a little bar, scarcely more than a long, dark hallway, almost a basement tunnel. Passersby would completely miss it, unless they were among the few who frequented the place. Those wise to its existence entered it through a heavy oak door, veneered with a drab coat of chipped and peeling paint. They’d take a few steps down a small flight of stairs—and be assaulted by the smell of beer, cigarette smoke, and a faint ammonia tang, which the discerning knew better than to think too much about.
And then there was the interior of The Tiger’s Eye. Along one brick and mortar wall, there was a row of high tables and stools; along the other was the bar itself, an ancient, heavy wooden affair that rose almost organically up out of the creaking floorboards. How anyone might have ever been able to maneuver the massive thing inside these narrow confines to begin with would forever remain an unsolvable mystery. That no one would ever be able to maneuver it out again was a certainty. The bar had no stools along its length; for comfort, patrons could lift a foot to the brass rail that ran the length of the bar. Cobwebs hung heavy in the corners of a peeling painted black tin ceiling. Music came from a Wurlitzer juke, the only bright spot in an ocean of gloom. The selections on the Wurlitzer were all jazz: Art Blakey, Miles Davis, Sam Rivers, Anita O’Day, Dinah Washington, and Cannonball Adderley.
A grimy mirror that was losing its grasp on reflection hung above the rows of third-rate bottles of bourbon, vodka, and gin. More exotic liquors found a home elsewhere. There was a tap with three choices of beer (Black Label, Genesee, and Hamms), and a cooler with chilled brown bottles of Budweiser and green ones of Rolling Rock. Nothing fancy.
The bar had become a sort of home to Greenwich Village artists, poets, and writers. If you came into The Tiger’s Eye’s dank interior, you might hear a lively conversation going on about the worth of painters such as Lee Krasner or Philip Guston. You might hear a withering disagreement of critical assessments made by Clement Greenberg in The Nation. Beat poetry, the future of American art…. You might also hear the husky music of men propositioning men, or sighs and moans coming from within the red-painted stall of the restroom at the rear of the bar.
The Tiger’s Eye was not a place where established artists and writers hung out. Jackson Pollock or Willem de Kooning would not have been glimpsed there, although they may have been nearby, perhaps in a cab with Peggy Guggenheim heading up to her Art of This Century Gallery on West Fifty-Seventh.
But those who aspired to be the next Pollock or de Kooning took advantage of the cheap price of spirits and the “starving artist” ambiance afforded by The Tiger’s Eye.
Edward Tanguy was one of those artists. For Edward, The Tiger’s Eye afforded an escape from his tiny studio apartment (and workspace) on Horatio Street. He could walk there, nurse a beer or two all evening, engage in conversation with other patrons, which might or might not inspire him to work, and perhaps catch the eye of a handsome stranger. This last was a rare occurrence, usually accompanied by racking guilt the morning after and a determination to “throw himself completely” into his art.
Edward was tired. He had worked all day trying to create something that would move him from being the “crazy guy who fancies himself an artist” who lived at the back of a four-story walk-up inhabited mostly by drunks, heroin addicts, women of easy virtue, rats, and cockroaches to being “that crazy artist who fancies himself alive.” Edward still had primary colored paint under his fingernails. A smear of green on his forehead was partially obscured by his blondish brown hair, which hung like dirty corn silk. His skin was pasty from too many long nights at The Tiger’s Eye and too many days spent inside his one-room apartment, whose only light—save for the 60-watt bulb that hung from an uncovered ceiling socket—emerged from a gritty window that faced the side of another building. But the ashen pallor of his skin lit up his eyes, a shockingly pale green, flecked with yellow. Edward’s wide set eyes, ringed in black, gave his face a startling beauty and magnetism. Without those eyes, Edward might have simply melted into the crowds of similarly dressed poor New Yorkers, culturally aware young men who dressed themselves in worn berets, tattered jeans, and cotton print shirts. Edward wore paint-spattered jeans, ripped at the knees, black Converse sneakers, and a rumpled plaid cotton shirt. He forewent the beret; he didn’t want to look that affected.
Edward was actually sipping whiskey that cool September night, a rarity. He couldn’t usually afford anything more than beer, and tonight was no exception. But it had been such a hard day. His body ached from his efforts to distinguish himself, to transform himself from someone who aspired to being a painter, to one who actually was. He wanted to free himself from the bondage of necessities such as short-order cooking, selling encyclopedias, cab driving, apartment cleaning, or message delivering. The aches along his rib cage and the bruises on his limbs came from Edward’s style of painting, which was to smear his entire body with various colors and fling himself at over-sized canvases, contorting, rolling, and turning his body to create—he hoped—an electric fusion of color and movement, a way to record something important about himself at that moment that no one had ever seen.
Today, his work had littered the floor of his apartment (a wooden plank floor almost black from neglect and from not having seen the underside of a mop in generations): three canvases, all of them riots of color that traced the movements of a small man, ambitious and a dreamer. There were only small paths from his front door to his bed (a mattress on the floor), his bathroom (a toilet and small claw-footed tub occupying one corner of his kitchen), and to the grimy window, which would never close all the way.
When evening came, and the apartment grew dim, and the sounds outside of cab horns, newspaper vendors hawking that day’s news, and the cries of passersby became intolerable, Edward dressed himself, stopped at the newsstand on the corner for a pack of Luckies, and headed over to The Tiger’s Eye.
Alcohol and maybe—if he was lucky—the warmth of another man’s arms might act as a balm to the soreness in his muscles and the drain of his hard day’s work. If he could procure that balm, Edward thought, it would be worth losing the little bit of money he still had left from his last temporary job working as a clerk in a paint store on West 14th.
He leaned against the bar, smoking, listening to Charli
e Parker’s plaintive sax, and watching a guy at the end of the bar. The guy was dressed all in black, wearing sunglasses in spite of the gloom of The Tiger’s Eye. Little, tiny, round gold-rimmed sunglasses that made it look like he had holes where his eyes should be. The effect was chilling, scary…and it drew Edward in a dangerous way, repellent and gripping at the same time. His face, like Edward’s own, was pale, but defined by sharp angles, good jaw line, and strong chin. Blond hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders. There was something stirring, strange, and beautiful about this character, something that made him stand apart from the other men and the few women in the bar, all roughly the same age as Edward, all sporting the same look of studied bohemian dishevelment.
Edward had been watching him for the past hour or so, his stare growing more obvious as the beer and whiskey emboldened him. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the bar, however, to provide Edward with enough courage to actually approach the man and initiate a conversation. Trolling for men, his method was always the same: watch and wait. If his pointed eye contact yielded no results, Edward would go home alone. Since the bar was dark and smoke-obscured, not allowing the casual observer to take in the allure of Edward’s emerald eyes, he often traveled back to his Horatio Street walkup by himself, accompanied only by the stench of stale beer and smoke on his clothes.
But tonight, Edward wasn’t sure he would be making that walk alone. Even though it was impossible to tell what the man was thinking behind those odd, old-fashioned glasses, there was an almost palpable connection. Edward could feel it. The sensation was akin to the prickle he got when he knew someone was watching him, even if his back was turned. The stranger’s face was turned toward him, and Edward was positive their gazes were engaged, even if a shield of black glass prevented him from confirming it.
Almost. He was almost to the point where impatience and desire collided, at the point where he would disregard his own fear and let hunger usurp it. He was almost there: where he’d break his own rule and approach the man. What would he say? What would be clever enough to amuse this stranger?
Unfortunately, Edward’s expressiveness was confined to canvas and oil paint. He sipped his whiskey and lit another Lucky. What was the point? As acute as his desire was, there was no arguing with his shyness. He would never have the courage to drop a line as simple as, “Hey there, what brings you out tonight?” Edward figured no matter what he said, it would come out sounding stupid. He could already feel the hot flush of shame on his face as he imagined the stranger looking at him with amusement and then distaste, his glance withering enough to send Edward away, stumbling, self-confidence knocked down another notch.
“So what brings you out on this rainy night?”
Edward swallowed and didn’t turn for a moment. He looked to the place where the stranger had been standing and saw it was vacant, which could lead to only one conclusion….
Edward turned, and there he was, close enough to touch. Edward looked the man up and down, taking in the thin frame that seemed anything but frail: a coiled-up energy (again, the danger) seemed to pulse within him. His body had a steeliness not apparent from across the room. Edward took another sip of his whiskey and lit another cigarette, ploys to give him time to think.
Fuck it, though, there was no clever answer to a question like what brought him out this night. The idea, Edward supposed, was not to act as a prelude to witty banter, but to initiate conversation so the two of them could meet. God, Edward, you’re stupid. Just answer the man before he walks away, questioning his taste.
“Just needed a little drink.” Edward smiled and raised his glass, which was empty. He felt a line of sweat trickle down his spine. “A little drink never hurt anyone, right?”
The man edged closer. There was a faint, bitter aroma to his person, like old smoke, but not from cigarettes. It took a moment for Edward to place the smell: marijuana. He’d been to enough East Village parties to recognize the scent that made Edward think of the incense priests burned at Mass (his altar boy days from Summitville, Pennsylvania rushed back).
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” The man smiled. “It depends on a little drink of what and who’s doing the drinking to determine if there’s harm, or at least the potential of it.”
The guy was as strange as he looked. His voice had a mellow, deep timbre to it, drawing Edward further in, making the music in the background (was it Anita O’Day?) fade, along with the voices in the bar. What the hell was he talking about?
Edward ran a hand through his hair. “Not sure what you mean.”
And then the man touched him, which surprised Edward. Just reached out and ran a hand across his cheek, almost a corporeal whisper. In that instant, Edward felt the network of bones and cartilage in the hand; the dry, leathery skin was oddly cool. Again, Edward felt a bizarre marriage of repulsion and lust in his gut.
“I just mean that, no matter what decisions we make, once made, they’re fraught with danger or delight, or both. So, is it simply the need for a drink that brings you out tonight? I presume a bottle could be purchased for home consumption just as easily, and probably much more affordably, on a cost-per-drink basis.”
“You have a point there.” Edward scratched his head. “What brought me out?” Edward took a deep breath. “Maybe it was the need to meet someone like you.” Edward was immediately grateful for the bar’s darkness, concealing the blush that radiated upward from his chest, completely enveloping his face. He knew if he couldn’t find more intelligent things to say, he would be spending yet another night alone.
The man laughed, a husky chuckle that made Edward shiver. He squeezed Edward’s shoulder. “Well, then, it appears you made the right decision.”
“Yeah…meeting someone and getting a break from my work.”
“Which is?”
“I paint.”
“Ah. An artist. I love artists. I could eat up an artist’s soul.” Again, the chuckle.
“Well, I hope I’m an artist. All I can say for sure is that I’m a painter. Anyone can be a painter. It takes something more to be an artist.”
“What are you looking for, then? Outside validation? Don’t you know you’re an artist? How else can you go on working unless you have confidence in yourself?”
Edward stared at the bar, uncertain how to respond. He knew he was an artist. He was just attempting to be pithy with the wordplay and the meanings behind painter and artist. He should have just told the guy he was a house painter. It would have been easier. “I don’t know. I guess I was stupid saying that.”
“Not stupid. Realistic. I like that.” The man took off his glasses and Edward felt a dizzying sensation. Romantic and over-the-top as it sounded, he felt like he was falling into an abyss. The stranger’s irises, if possible, were even blacker than the glass which moments ago had sheathed them. “My name is Terence.”
“Edward.”
Terence squeezed Edward’s hand. His touch was like ice. It was off-putting and at the same time, alluring. “Your hand is so cold. Did you just come inside?”
“I did not. I’m just a cool cat.” Terence laughed.
“Now who’s the one saying stupid things?”
“Barkeep? Can you bring us another round?” Terence waved a five-dollar bill in the air, reaching over Edward, who could smell something sweet and cloying beneath the bitter aroma of grass. “You’d like another one, wouldn’t you? Or am I being presumptuous?”
“If you’re buying, I’m drinking. A boy has to take his pleasures where he finds them.”
“Indeed.”
Once the bartender, a handsome blond man whose features were marred by the addition of too much mascara ringing his blue eyes, had set their new drinks before them, Terence squeezed Edward’s shoulder. “So, tell me about your art.”
“Do you really want to know?” Edward sipped. He didn’t want to sound pretentious. He hated artists that were all the time talking, talking, talking. Art should speak for itself. And if the two of them ever made it back to h
is apartment, maybe his art would speak for him.
“You need a dose of self-confidence, young man. Artists have to be self-promoters, if they want to get anywhere. It’s a hard reality. So, what do you paint? What medium? What are you trying to get across?”
“You ask too many questions.” With trembling hands, Edward lit yet another cigarette. He knew that, soon, his throat would feel sore and scorched. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I paint myself.” Edward chuckled. “In more ways than one.”
Terence raised his eyebrows.
“Y’see, I smear paint on myself and then I apply myself to the canvas. I move. I apply more color, different color…and move. I roll. I twist. I wave my arms around, swing my legs.”
“So, you’re your own brush.”
“I suppose you could think of it that way. But I’m my own subject, you know? I’m hoping to say something about myself with my work, to capture something essential about me that people can see and connect with.”
Terence nodded, his dark gaze never moving from Edward’s face. “You know Mark Rothko’s work?”
Edward’s eyes lit up. His shyness continued to ebb. “I love Rothko! There’s something he said that sticks with me; it sums up what my work is all about. He said…”
Terence cut in. “He said something like, ‘Art is not about experience. It is itself the experience.’”
Edward was awed. The statement, slightly paraphrased, had been his credo since he had moved to New York five years ago, after making the decision that he would do whatever it took to live his life as a painter. “That’s exactly right. I’m shocked that you know that.”
And at that moment, the combination of Terence’s fine-boned, yet strong, features and his passion for art sparked something in Edward. Some would call it love. At least for the rest of the night, and for perhaps much longer, Edward knew he would do whatever this man asked.
Blood Sacrifice Page 4