Wanted: Single Rose

by Skye, Mav

  She knew him. How was that possible?

  Sure enough, his answer was in the mail Monday.

  * * *

  He had rushed home to read it, tearing open the envelope as soon as he was inside the door of his apartment.

  The note contained erotic scents of jasmine and amber, white and naked as skin. Excitement pounded through Sir Sun’s skull like a tiny hammer from the inside out. He strode down the hallway from the front door, dumping his keys on a small shelf, and walked straight into the kitchen. He filled a glass of water from the tap, drank the whole thing down in three gulps, then rushed to his dark bedroom, tapping his jaw. He didn’t even bother to check the apartment for boogeymen hiding in dark corners.

  On the way home, he’d considered that the whole thing could have been a set up by the men in dark trench coats. They wanted to catch him red-handed in murder—though it wasn’t murder. It was mercy. But if it was a setup, why hadn’t they arrested him? What was their play?

  Those questions had been in his mind for weeks. Other matters beat his mind. Thoughts hit him fast and hard like a boxer. He had no desire to dodge them. First up: Velva was there in the park. He had known it in his heart, but for her to admit it was… jarring.

  She’d watched him watch the man dance himself into the great beyond, but had she seen him murd—help—the man?

  He didn’t think so; she’d have said it. However, the stark realization that Velva implied he enjoyed Dancing Man’s show haunted him.

  Had he?

  His heart beat like a drum within his chest. Inside his mind, Sir Sun saw the blue suede shoes tap and dance as if Elvis wore them.

  He didn’t want to answer that question.

  He didn’t wish death upon anyone, but a nagging thought lingered in his mind. Velva saw something in him, something dark… even darker than the secret he’d kept for twenty years.

  Sir Sun frowned, then he let that thought go and went to the next thought with anticipation—the sexual implications of pseudocopulation. Velva knew what flipped his switch. Smart girl. Very smart girl. The hammer pounding in his mind became a jackhammer throb echoing down his neck, his heart, gurgling through his stomach, lower… he was as hard and stiff as a trillium’s stamen in the spring. He licked his lips.

  Thirdly, she wrote “dinner.” But no directions, no restaurant. Perhaps a picnic at the park? He didn’t think so.

  He strolled between the bedroom and the living room, back and forth, back and forth, tapping his jaw.

  Did she know where he lived? Perhaps she had stalked him. Followed him. He felt creeped out. Exhilarated.

  Would she know where his apartment was? Only the apartments numbers, not the names, were beside the entry system’s intercom. The building was secured, locked unless a resident buzzed one in.

  The scent of jasmine stirred him as Sir Sun read over the letter again. His eyes catching at pseudocopulation and decided she’d know.

  She’d know.

  And he’d be ready.

  3

  Pseudocopulation

  He stressed over dinner.

  Pseudocopulation

  How to set the mood for seduction?

  He glanced at the boney white orchid above the fireplace. It was simple, quiet—alluring. Forbidden. That’s how the evening needed to be.

  He thought about Velva. What would she like: Wine and music? She wasn’t your average woman, and he was sure she had something in mind for tonight. The thought both thrilled and chilled him. He thought of the pigeon with the red, beady eyes in the park. He thought of Dancing Man, his blue suede shoe lying on the dirt, filled with piss.

  What, exactly, would she consider foreplay?

  The very word foreplay distracted him from his morbid thoughts. He felt tingly, hard. Flushed.

  He walked to the orchid, touched the lavender clay pot. He’d keep tonight simple and classic. Sir Sun grabbed his wallet off the counter and rushed off to the market for a bottle of cabernet and a good slice of steak.

  It was pouring rain by the time he made it home. He hoped it wouldn’t change Velva’s evening plans. Perhaps the gentle tap, tap, tap of raindrops would help set the mood. Instead of music, he slid open the living room window. It was unusually quiet and gray outside on Main Street. Rain pounded the pavement. He put a few drops of sandalwood and jasmine essential oils in a glass diffuser and lit a candle beneath it. Sir Sun had read in the latest issue of LEAF ME how certain essential oils acted as pheromones. A chemical, when emitted, caused sexual attraction between two species of the same variety—plant or animal. He smiled and breathed in the spicy scent.

  He trimmed and placed white roses (the same color as his white orchid) in a vase. The roses had been long cut and posed no more threat to him than his innocent orchid. He placed the vase on his dinette, and then retrieved a stainless steel wine cooler from his cupboard. He dusted it and filled it with ice from the freezer. He put the cabernet in to chill, and got busy with dinner.

  He mixed a green salad with all the goods, careful to place the tomatoes just so against the shaved carrots. He sizzled steaks medium rare, not too red, not too pink.

  He began to set the table with his bachelor set of mixed plates and silverware, scolding himself for not having something newer—fresher, when the intercom buzzed.

  His heart stopped in chest. He stared at the blank wall leading to the hallway, frozen in anticipation. As if Velva was going to walk right out of thin air into his apartment.

  Pseudocopulation

  The intercom buzzed again.

  He clambered around the dinette, knocking off a fork, leaped down the hall to the front door, pressing the intercom’s button. “Yes?” he asked in a deep, sophisticated voice that didn’t sound like his at all.

  “May I?” asked a feminine voice flowing with milk and honey.

  Pseudocopulation

  “Please, do,” said Sir Sun and buzzed her in. He sprinted to his bathroom, swished with mint Listerine, examined his teeth for bits of leftover lunch, patted aftershave on his cheeks, felt his chin—it was still smooth. He checked his sideburns—trim and short. He sighed at the bald U shape around his hairline. There was nothing he could do about that.

  He marched back to the front door, confident, and peeked out the peephole. He saw nothing but the mangy orange carpeting with its ominous triple X pattern lining the hall past the elevator to the stairwell.

  He leaned against the door, anticipating her delicate steps up the stairs. He glanced around his tiny place. Everything was dusted and in its spot. He stood by the door and suddenly had an overwhelming urge to pee. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  He gazed out the peephole again.

  He straightened his black dress shirt, checked the buttons. Fiddled with the cuffs on his sleeve. Waited.

  Glimpsed out the peephole.

  He practiced saying, “Why, hello there.” in a deep voice, checked the peephole once more, then scratched at his teeth wishing he had brushed them a second time. Plus, he still had to pee.

  What was taking her so long? He looked out the peephole again. No one. Nothing.

  What if she was stuck in the elevator? No, there had been an out of service sign on both. Perhaps she slipped on the stairs in her heels?

  He opened the door and listening for footsteps on the stairs.

  Silent.

  No, she had probably stopped for a moment to check her lipstick, adjust her coat or shake off her umbrella. How ridiculous for him to go running down the stairs looking for her. What would he say when she asked about it? He’d look like a complete imbecile.

  He sighed and waited, letting the door fall shut. He walked over to the kitchen counter and threw a stray piece of lettuce in the sink, then walked back to the door and looked back through the peeper.

  And then, it hit him. The men in sunglasses and trench coats—he’d been so anticipating dinner with Velva, so overwhelmed with Dancing Man’s death, that he’d completely forgotten about them. What if they’d kidnapped her
on the stairs?

  That was it. He knew it. They had her right now. Velva.

  He’d have to use his brain, be cautious. They had a game plan, he didn’t.

  Sir Sun opened his front door and stepped out, glancing both ways down the hall. He took a step toward the stairwell, and his apartment door slammed shut behind him.

  He felt his pocket for keys, turned back to his door, wiggled the handle. “Oh for crying out loud!” He pounded a fist on his door.

  A noise in the stairwell drew Sir Sun’s attention. He snapped his head towards it. Velva? But, the noise didn’t come from a person. It sounded like water dripping. It hadn’t been there before.

  Sir Sun’s heart sped up. He licked his lips. He knew she wouldn’t respond, but he asked anyway. “Velva?”

  He walked, almost tiptoeing, down the hall toward the stair, opened the stairwell door and rounded the corner. Hanging from a French fifties chandelier (quite possibly the classiest piece of furniture in Spindler’s Roost) was a piece of gardening twine. Attached to the twine was a mangy black cat. Its throat slit in a wide grin.

  The cord snuggled up high into the razor cut, almost decapitating the creature. Blood dripped all the way down to the ground floor.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit, you poor pussy.” He leaned over the rails and examined the strung creature, went to touch it. Then drew back, what if it was a setup? No, he better not touch it.

  Velva? Had she seen it and run away?

  “Of course,” he whispered to himself. “Of course.” It made more sense than abduction. She was clever, and whatever the men in black wanted, their beef was with him, not her.

  Mr. Fiddler lived on the first floor, he’d tell him about the situation, and get the Super’s key to his place.

  Sir Sun moved down the stairs, avoiding the blood splatter and fled to the first floor.

  He pounded on Mr. Fiddler’s door. “Mr. Fiddler! Mr. Fiddler, this is urgent!”

  Double locks creaked from the inside, and the door cracked open just a sliver, enough to see a red beret hovering over fuzzy gray eyebrows. Mr. Fiddler’s sea green eyes and long beaked nose greeted Sir Sun behind the door. When he recognized Sir Sun, Mr. Fiddler opened the door wider.

  “Eh? What’s wrong, Sonny? You the one clattering up and down that staircase? Sonny, how many times have I told you young people to—”

  Sir Sun rolled his eyes. Mr. Fiddler always called him Sonny. “Yes, Mr. Fiddler that was me—there’s a dead cat in the stairwell! Someone has slit its throat and hung it like a criminal. Made a bloody mess, sir.”

  Mr. Fiddler opened the door further and examined the hallway. “Where? I don’t see it. What kind of joke you pullin’, Sonny?”

  “Not out here, Mr. Fiddler, up aways, on my floor. It’s awful.”

  Mr. Fiddler sighed and shook his head. “Damn kids! Well, I’ll get a box and mop. Poor thing.”

  “Well, don’t you think we ought to call the police or something?” Sir Sun felt near to hysteria. It wasn’t as much because of the cat, but because he didn’t know where Velva was, if she was hurt or abducted. She was waiting for him to rescue her.

  Mr. Fiddler squinted his eyes. “Why didn’t you call the police, Sonny?”

  “Mr. Fiddler, I…”

  Mr. Fiddler closed the door from its wide-open swing leaving only an inch crack. “I know why you didn’t call the coppers—you’ve been hanky panky-ing around with the wrong crowd. Troublemakers. The ones that’s been coming around asking about you. Did you do it to send a message? Did ya hurt that poor pussy?”

  Exasperated, Sir Sun grabbed the doorframe. “No, Mr. Fiddler! No. It’s a long story. I’m waiting for a lady friend. I buzzed her in and she never came up. I got worried and went to look for her and locked myself out of my apartment because of those damn auto-locking doorknobs you have and—”

  “Careful there, Sonny.” Mr. Fiddler squinted more, his nose beaked down further. “Those doors are like that to keep people that are in safe, and the people that are out—out!”

  Sir Sun ignored him. “And that is when I discovered the stray cat.”

  Mr. Fiddler raised his eyebrow. “A stray, huh?”

  Sir Sun nodded, “I think so.”

  Mr. Fiddler paused, thinking a moment. “Well, now, do you reckon your lady friend is okay? Don’t think the killer got her do you?” Mr. Fiddler raised his fuzzy gray unibrows suspiciously.

  Sir Sun squirmed. “No.” He gulped. “I think she got scared and ran away.”

  Mr. Fiddler’s face relaxed, and he opened the door wider. “I see. Well, I’ll clean up the mess. I’ll get your key for you, too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fiddler.” Sir Sun went to step inside, when Mr. Fiddler turned and put a hand on his chest. “You can wait here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned and left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Sir Sun waited. Waited. Waited. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear the cat’s blood dripping from the stairwell, he imagined the blood was growing thick and sticky like caramel from a candy apple.

  “Mr. Fiddler? Have you found that key?” Sir Sun leaned into the door. “Mr. Fiddler?”

  Quiet.

  Sir Sun pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. “Mr. Fiddler?”

  And that is when he heard a good old-fashioned blood-curdling scream.

  It came from upstairs.

  4

  The Key Is the Scream

  As Sir Sun reached the second floor, he stopped and listened at the boarded over stairwell door. He wasn’t sure which floor the scream had come from. He didn’t know if the woman’s scream was Velva’s, but his gut told him it was. He couldn’t think clearly, his mind swirled and whirled like a spin top.

  Again, a Hollywood scream ripped across Spindler’s Roost Apartments. He jumped back to the stairs and leaped up by two’s. He dodged the bloody mess and rounded the corner to the third-story stairwell door, when he realized the screams were coming from this floor—possibly from his apartment.

  He scurried down the grunge carpeted hall toward the scream, surprised Ah Lam or her mother, Mrs. Chow, hadn’t come out to investigate. Ah Lam was probably at school or working, but Mrs. Chow always seemed to be in and out of the complex either yelling at or ignoring someone. Of course, the one time he’d need her around she was gone, perhaps she was scared and hiding in their apartment.

  The scream belted out again. It was definitely coming from his place.

  “Velva?” He reached for his door handle. Locked. “Velva!” He slammed his shoulder against his door as the woman screamed on and on in torturous agony. “Velva? Open the door if you can hear me!” But he wasn’t convinced it was Velva anymore. The scream had a familiar sound, sometimes Mrs. Chow and Ah Lam fought loud and heavy. Mrs. Chow’s voice had a particular high-pitched lilt when she got fired up, but this didn’t sound like anger—it was pain.

  An idea struck him, if Mrs. Chow were home, she’d have a phone. He sprinted to apartment #327 and knocked like a lunatic on the door. “Mrs. Chow? It’s me, Sir Sun. I need your phone! Someone is hurt!”

  Nobody responded.

  A long, agonizing scream rifled down the hall, this time with a “Help me!” attached to it.

  Sir Sun hurtled back down the hall, charging his door like a bull. He slammed his shoulder into the wood over and over again, hoping to loosen it enough to jar the lock. When that didn’t work, he stepped back and kicked at the handle. The woman’s screams blasted on and on.

  Sir Sun had done everything he could think of, but the thick door wouldn’t budge. Suddenly as the screaming started, it stopped.

  Sir Sun put his ear against the door to listen. “Velva? Whoever you are? Talk to me!”

  Silence was the only answer.

  He needed a key.

  The spare key! It was in Mr. Fiddler’s apartment. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have grabbed it earlier when he had first heard the screams.

  He turned, r
an back down the hall past the elevators to the stairwell, opened the door and flung himself down the stairs two at a time. He stared at the hanging cat while he descended, the gruesomeness of it chilling him to the bone. The chandelier spun; one half of it weighted down by the feline. Blood had splattered the closest steps. It had puddled like thick red jelly on others. Stepping into one of these puddles is exactly what sent him surfing down another three steps and landing on his ass.

  “Geez, Louise!” He stood, wiping bloody hands on his trousers. He took one step at a time, still mesmerized by the spinning chandelier. He told himself to stop staring, that he needed to get the spare key, but he couldn’t help it.

  How the cat’s head and body were still connected, he didn’t know. The lower body bulged and bloated; like it was about to explode. The head looked like it was ready to burst, reminding Sir Sun of the taunt he used to sing as a child while popping off dandelion blooms with his thumb. Momma had a baby and its head popped off!

  Only the words that went through his mind was: Spindler had a kitty and its head popped—

  The twine creaked, and Sir Sun realized what was about to happen. He jumped back against the wall as the furry body broke away at the neck, making a terrible wet slop! The lower half hit the edge of his step, breaking open. Intestines slipped out. Tapeworms crawled in and out of the guts and stomach, ready to eat what death had served up on the menu.

  If this wasn’t enough to make Sir Sun vomit, what he saw next was.

  Sir Sun heard a light bouncing down the steps, the cat’s crusted head rolled around the corner slowing as it hit its pile of guts, leaving a tooth. It dribbled down three more steps, then paused. Face up. Its eyes rolled back in its head as if to look up at Sir Sun, accusing him of its brutal torture and murder. Its bloody black ears flattened against its skull, tiny mouth yawned open with its pink tongue lolling out.

  It was too much.

  Sir Sun vomited on the steps, all over the dead kitty’s guts. The worms squirmed and poked around in it, which made him puke again. When his stomach was empty, he closed his eyes and stood against the wall. He took several deep breaths, and wiped the vomit on his black sleeves. When he opened his eyes, he saw the cat’s head and vomited again.