Kiss Me, Judas

by Will Christopher Baer

  Then a year ago I fucked up. One of my rabbits had himself a seizure and almost perished. I had to take him to the emergency room and he was all bruised and cut up. The cops came to sort it out and I got charged with excessive force, illegal weapons, assault on a cop and contempt of court and a pile of other shit. The judge didn’t much care for me and managed to hit me with the maximum for everything. I got out two months ago and found out I had bench warrants in California and Tennessee for a handful of failure charges.

  I stare into the dark and wonder what color the moon will be tonight.

  What kind of charges?

  Failure charges, he says. Failure to pay, failure to appear, failure to comply. Moon took care of them for me and here I am. It’s like a little vacation, really.

  You used to be a fed, huh? That’s funny. It seems like everybody wants to be a secret agent.

  Who do you mean?

  Jude, I say. She gave me some smoke about being in the CIA.

  That’s horseshit, he says. As a former agent, that offends me. Besides. I checked her out. She was in the army for a while, special forces. But she didn’t last. She received a dishonorable discharge five years ago, for nonspecific fucked-up reasons. Then she became a ghost.

  Or a shape-shifter, I say.

  Henry grins. In those five years, there have been twelve other cases of some poor fucker just like you. They wake up in a bathtub full of ice, with staples in their guts. They all describe a different woman, but it’s her. Each guy had just been released from jail or the nuthouse.

  Thirteen human kidneys, I say. And you’ve got enough blood pudding for the queen.

  Relax, brother.

  I’m fucking relaxed. I’m like butter. Where did you get this information?

  I still have a friend or two up at Quantico. They have some really big computers, you know.

  Henry slows the car as we approach a decayed roadhouse on the left. A blinking neon sign: THE BROKEN HEART. A wide gravel lot, with a dozen cars and trucks.

  Beautiful, says Henry. I would kill my granny for a beer right now.

  What do you want? I say. Everybody wants something.

  I told you. Moon asked me to look out for you, that’s all. And it wasn’t hard. I took a liking to you right away, in that bathroom. You were like a dying saint or something. The way you handed over your wedding ring for a hat.

  Oh, yeah. Then why didn’t you state your true purpose?

  Because I wasn’t sure how deep you were in with her.

  You were sniffing around like a pure grifter. Looking for a crack to wiggle through.

  That was an unfortunate tactic, he says. I apologize. But I wanted to see how you reacted to various stimuli. Then you got a mighty bug up your ass and hopped off the train. Which was irritating, by the way.

  Stimuli, I say. Like you fucking my wife.

  Your wife?

  Yeah. My dead wife, Lucy. You couldn’t help yourself, I guess.

  Listen to yourself, brother.

  Get the fuck out of the car, I say. Just get out.

  Phineas.

  No weapons, I say.

  Henry laughs. You don’t want to fight me, Phineas.

  thirty-three.

  The hum and buzz of music and dogs and people.

  Our boots crunch in the gravel. The sky is black. Henry wobbles before me and I feel like I’m on a boat. I swing at him, my arm suddenly ten feet long. He ducks under it easily and punches me in the stomach and I am on my knees, trying to breathe. I see Lucy, naked and coiled around him. His hands gripped her soft ass like a piece of dough. I stand up, slowly. Henry watches me, his hands loose and relaxed at his sides. He has a small, sad smile on his face.

  You know those fat houseflies that drift around in the winter? he says.

  Like cows with wings, I say.

  Exactly. You have the reflexes of a cow.

  I push off the car and spin, sending a wild high kick at his head. He steps out of the way and hits me in the side of the neck, then brings his forearm up to crush my nose.

  Are you finished? he says. Because this is embarrassing.

  I’m finished.

  Henry pulls me up. What’s wrong with you? he says.

  I’m so tired. And I want to hurt somebody.

  Sure, he says. But I haven’t done anything to you. That girl on the train was Isabel. And Moon told me your wife is dead and buried, anyhow.

  I know it was Isabel on the train. But she was Lucy’s shadow.

  Okay, he says. It’s okay. I understand.

  Henry does something amazing, baffling. He hugs me. I lock my jaw to stop from weeping. He pulls away and sticks his ring finger in his mouth, tugging my wedding ring off with his teeth. He drops it in my hand and it feels warm to my skin.

  Thank you, I say.

  How do you feel?

  I’m not bad. A little dizzy and my nose hurts.

  Let’s get a drink, he says. And maybe say hello to Jude.

  How do you know she’s here?

  He winks at me. I’m psychic.

  Two of the buildings are skeletal and empty, ruined by fire. The third is alive and thumping. The music growls, thick and menacing and distorted, as if it’s coming from under ground. Henry and I approach the front steps. A man sits on a stool beside the door, he looks sleepy and fat with muscle. A baseball bat rests between his legs. Beside him is a shiny new shotgun. He regards me with the eyes of a polar bear at the zoo. His arms are crossed, and his hands are moving slightly, fluttering and mothlike. As if he’s stroking his armpits.

  Don’t believe I know you boys, he says.

  Not to worry, says Henry.

  His elbow brushes mine and I can feel a tingle like static electricity. He’s itching to hit someone, after tasting a little blood with me. I pull out a wad of cash.

  What’s your name, I say.

  Junior, he says.

  I pass him a fifty.

  You a cop, he says. He examines the bill, suspiciously.

  I laugh softly, and a splash of blood bubbles from my nose. He stares at it.

  Henry smiles fiercely. Open the door, Junior.

  Smoke. The sound of a piano and a woman singing. The only light comes from behind the bar, a long low slab of unfinished wood. There is a ragged crowd of white men and a few very young girls. The girls have black hair and skin that ranges from yellow to chocolate. They are beautiful and bright with despair. Henry drifts away and comes back with two glass jars of uncertain liquid.

  This smells of death, I say.

  Drink it slow.

  She isn’t here, I say.

  Downstairs, he says. I believe the real action is in the basement.

  A long, narrow room with a dirt floor and a very low ceiling. Every table is crowded with men and women hunched on plastic chairs. The women are older than the sad whores upstairs, and most of them are white. There is no music now, only the crackle and static of voices. The thick noise of impatience. At one end of the room is a shallow pit surrounded by thick chicken wire. The wire is a dull reddish color like rust. Now a murmur snakes through the crowd. A man with thick red hair and dark glasses approaches the pit. He wears a three-piece suit the color of lead. He surveys the crowd, a crooked smile on his face. Two men enter from a rear door, dressed in blue jeans and sleeveless shirts, leather gloves. One of them leads a brindle pit bull on a short chain. The dog is muzzled, silent and lunging. Another man appears leading a mottled blue dog with powerful legs and a square, wolflike head. The dog appears wild, nervous and high-strung. He wears no muzzle and doesn’t make a sound.

  Their vocal cords are removed, Henry says. It’s creepy, isn’t it?

  The man with red hair begins to speak. He introduces the first dog as Spider, three years old and weighing fifty-five pounds; sired by the infamous Diablo and the winner of thirteen blood matches. The crowd howls with love and pride. The challenger is the Blue Ghost, two years old and sixty pounds. Fathered by a nameless, chicken-killing coyote. This will be his fi
rst match. The crowd whistles and jeers. The Blue Ghost is trembling now, with fear or rage. The announcer waves his arms for silence. The Ghost’s mother, he says, was Bloody Mary. She was the Australian cattle dog that killed a mountain lion in the summer of ’92. The crowd is pleased and soon begins to whisper and sign, placing bets.

  Henry squints at me through cigarette smoke. Are you a fucking monk or something?

  What do you mean?

  You want to tell me what happened back there, at the Seventh Son?

  Well, I say. Isabel was getting ready to gut me.

  That’s just pitiful, says Henry.

  She was eager to take my last kidney.

  How long can a young man live with no kidney at all?

  Not fucking long, brother.

  Henry laughs.

  Jude came out of nowhere, I say. She saved my ass.

  Maybe the sky is falling, he says.

  Maybe she loves me, I say.

  Henry turns to a burly man at the next table. A hundred on the Ghost, he says.

  The man laughs. Easy money. You never seen the Spider, have you?

  The men are allowed to massage and prep their dogs for a few minutes. The Blue Ghost’s owner is a young kid, perhaps twenty. He whispers to his dog, stroking him and rubbing his ears. The kid is pale, biting his lip. The kid loves his dog and I feel bad for him. He should be taking his dog out to chase rabbits in the high yellow grass. The Blue Ghost is calm again. He holds his head up and stares at the Spider. The Spider’s handlers poke and jab at him with a sharpened stick. They curse and snarl at him and splash chicken’s blood on his face. He is soon in a frenzy, foaming through the muzzle. He gnaws at the leather, his teeth drawing blood from his own gums. His handlers smile and hold him back.

  That kid owes somebody money, I say. His momma is in the hospital. They need a new roof, something. He doesn’t want to fight that dog.

  Henry nods. Maybe. So what?

  I could help him, I say.

  How are you gonna help that kid?

  I could give him a couple thousand. Then he could take his dog and go home.

  No, he says. The kid is proud.

  I look at the kid, his face hard and glazed with tears. Henry is right, I’m sure. The kid would cut his wrists before he took money from a stranger.

  The dogs are placed in the pit and the crowd surges to the edge. The kid rubs his mouth and sighs. Henry finishes his whiskey and asks if I want mine. I shake my head. The one swallow I took still churns in my belly like liquid nitrogen. I was sure it would kill me.

  The dogs circle each other, slow and hypnotic, then striking in a blur of teeth and fur. The Blue Ghost is strong and unafraid. He fights well enough, using his strong legs to knock the Spider down. He opens shallow wounds on the Spider’s chest and shoulders. But the Ghost lacks the proper fury. The Spider is relentless and terribly fast, moving with strange chaos and grace.

  Henry is mesmerized, his mouth wet.

  The Ghost is in trouble, moving clumsily and bleeding from the mouth. He has a broken rib, a puncture lung. The Spider toys with him, slashing at his legs.

  The crowd is wailing like Christians in a big tent.

  I look away, at the kid. He holds his face in both hands. The Spider finally takes down the Ghost, his massive jaws closed on the throat. The Ghost is a filthy, bloody lump. His neck is broken and the Spider doesn’t let go until his handlers enter the pit and beat at him with rubber hoses. The kid is silent.

  Henry shakes his head and drops a clump of money on the burly man’s slick, wet table. He turns to me, smiling. I lean close to whisper in his ear, where the fuck is Jude.

  thirty-four.

  The moon is a fragment, disappearing behind clouds. Henry and I smoke cigarettes and throw stones into the dark. We make such a lovely pair. He is dangerously drunk and I’m trembling, a morphine addict. The stitches in my belly feel like they might be alive.

  Is your arm made of glass? he says.

  Fuck you.

  Brother, he says. You throw like a pretty boy.

  Enough of this shit, I say. Tell me where she is.

  Keep your pants on.

  What are you waiting for?

  I don’t know. I thought we might go find some action.

  Sex or violence, I say.

  He grins at me. Isabel was a hell of a girl, he says.

  She was a mad hatter, I say.

  Anyway, he says. There must be a decent whorehouse around here. This is Texas.

  Please. I’m on my last legs.

  Or we could go home.

  Home?

  Denver, he says.

  No. There’s nothing there.

  Moon asked me to bring you back.

  I shuffle away from him with the grace and ferocity of a diseased kid begging for spare change. I only need space to breathe. He watches me, amused. I mutter an apology and remove the gun from my ankle holster. Henry shakes his head.

  Are you serious?

  I probably wouldn’t shoot you.

  Thanks, he says.

  But I’m not going back to Denver. Let’s get that fucking straight.

  Think of your loved ones.

  What loved ones?

  Don’t you have a dog or a cat?

  You’re insane.

  I’m sentimental, he says.

  Do you want me to shoot you?

  Listen, he says. I’m just fucking with you.

  Do you know where Jude is?

  Of course, he says. She’s in the trunk of my car.

  The dark swallows me. I’m a dead woman with no hair.

  What did you say?

  It’s cool, he says. I grabbed her when she was coming out of the Seventh Son.

  You didn’t kill her.

  No, he says. Oh, hell no. She fights like a goddamn tiger, though. I finally poked her with one of those tranquilizer darts I mentioned earlier.

  Oh, you dumb motherfucker. Let her out and pray she doesn’t kill you.

  Henry fumbles with his keys and I hold my breath. He mutters that the icebox is also in the trunk, in case I still want it. I’m afraid I might start laughing and I won’t be able to stop. He bends over the trunk of his car and he’s too casual. He doesn’t exactly have groceries in there. The key turns with the sound of a hammer against metal and I pull him away from the car.

  You want to stand clear, I say.

  The trunk swings open and Jude bursts free. She breathes slowly, through her teeth.

  Jude, I say.

  She regards Henry with a long, piteous stare.

  Jude.

  I’m gonna take a walk, says Henry.

  My heart uncoils in my chest. Jude relaxes, and I see that her legs are trembling. I grip her thin, hard body as if I might hurt her. She whispers to me and I bite her hair, her neck.

  Henry drifts back to us and he appears sober, dangerous. I wonder if he’s been faking it.

  I thought you two would be snuggling like rabbits. He doesn’t smile.

  It’s time to go, I say.

  Is she coming with us?

  Yes, I say.

  He frowns. Let’s put her back in the trunk.

  Forget it.

  The bitch could stab me in the neck.

  I trust her, I say.

  You are a fucking fool.

  Didn’t you take her weapons when you tranquilized her?

  Yeah, he says. But I could have missed something.

  Do you want me to frisk her?

  Please.

  Of course, she could kill you with her fingernails.

  Fuck you. Just do it.

  I tell her I’m sorry and she shrugs. Jude turns lazily and spreads her hands on the hood. I kick her feet apart and gently slap her down. She trembles when I touch her thigh, as if it tickles. I slide my hands over her ass and crotch, suddenly shy.

  This is hopeless, I say.

  Jude looks at me, her green eyes unblinking.

  Do you have any weapons? I say.

  No, sh
e says.

  I can barely look at Henry.

  Oh, he says. I feel much better.

  Jude kisses my left eye. Don’t worry.

  Where are we going? says Henry. And what do you want?

  I stare out the dark window and wonder about that. Henry drives, muttering. He has found nothing but gospel on the radio. It reminds him of his childhood, he says. Jude sits beside him, silent. Her head is bent, waiting for the sun. The green icebox sits beside me on the backseat. I still have the little key in my pocket and soon I slip it into the lock. I open the icebox, oddly nervous. Part of me still expects to find my kidney inside. It only holds the Blister’s clothes, now torn and cut to shreds. His clothes were whole when I last touched them. I smile at the back of Jude’s head. I don’t know what I want.

  Time disappears. I recite the laws of inertia. A body placed in motion will not rest until acted up by another body. It’s bullshit, I know. But I want to keep moving. I want Jude to stop me.

  I lean over the seat and breathe against Jude’s throat. Where is Luscious Gore?

  She shrugs. I think he has a summer house around here somewhere.

  I’m serious.

  Phineas, she says. What are you thinking?

  Do you know where he is?

  Of course.

  The miles pass and the sun rises behind us, as if we are running from it.

  I tell Henry to stop the car. He ignores me.

  Humor me, I say.

  He pulls to the shoulder and grunts about needing to piss anyway. There is a fine mist in the air, cool against our skin. Henry and I stand side by side, peeing noisily against rocks as the sky changes colors around us. Jude refuses to get out of the car. I tell her it could be hours before she has another chance, but she doesn’t answer. I feel better now, having seen the sunrise. The landscape is barren and deathly quiet, stretching into the distance without pause. The silent, jagged beauty like a map of the moon.

  This isn’t quite over, I say.

  What do you mean? says Henry.

  Luscious Gore is waiting for us, I say.

  No, he says. I don’t really like this idea.

  You don’t have to come with us.

  Shit, brother. I have nowhere else to be.

  Then indulge me.

  I get in the car and tell Jude to give him directions. She asks if I have a pen and Henry turns to give her a heavy dose of his face. Henry’s face is not ugly, exactly. It’s fearsome though, and deeply textured. The eyes are hard, and disturbing in their contrast. The blue one is bright as a knife blade, the brown one a hole in the earth. His beard is thick and speckled with gray. And his blunt, ragged hair is still mostly white.