The Cleanup

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  "Pieces of meat," he said.

  Then he headed for home.

  To wait for the night.

  And his date.

  On the screen . . .

  They were dancing again. The boys and girls. Tight curves in tight, tight denim, grinding and churning. Ocean behind them. Sand at their feet. Pouting lips and primal teeth.

  As always, he watched the girls. He could feel their pulse.

  In the room . . .

  A plush, comfy chair with a skin of green vinyl, right in front of the flickering tube. A fist-sized hole in the bulky right arm, showing fluffs of white padding and deep gouges in the wood. A big-assed indentation where the seat had conformed to his sedentary weight.

  To the left, a coffee table strewn with paper bags and white deli napkins, empty TV dinner trays that glistened blue in the phosphor-dot light. More of the same, scattered on the dull, stained carpeting around it. Beyond, against the wall, a ratty Colonial-style sofa. A stinking, rumpled trench coat and fedora, slung haphazardly across it.

  On the wall, above the sofa . . .

  A pair of grainy black-and-white photographs. Press clippings, festooned with lurid, blaring headlines. All suspended by fresh cellophane-tape tatters, asymmetrically applied.

  They were his bestest girls. He had made them famous.

  He had made them smile.

  At the door . . .

  Demon light, blinking in through the keyhole. The doorknob, twisting. With no earthly hand upon it.

  They were calling him. Impatiently. Hungrily.

  Calling.

  He moved around the coffee table, past the chair, toward the door. The knob stopped turning as his hand fell upon it. But it was warm.

  As warm as flesh.

  On the screen . . .

  The dancing stopped. The light flickered out.

  In the room . . .

  Little things were moving.

  They brought him his hat and coat.

  There were demons in his head, and they made him do things. He wasn't sure whether he liked the things they made him do or not, but that was entirely beside the point. They took him to work, and they brought him home. They made sure that his bills got paid on time. They kept him quiet, and when he did speak they put words in his mouth that kept people at a distance. They protected him from anyone who strayed too close, who interfered with the plan.

  They led him down the stairs and into the night. They caught a cab for him at the corner of Fourteenth and Avenue A. They took him sufficiently far afield, as they always did for his dates.

  And, as always, they made the driver forget his face.

  The demon voice came unbidden.

  Not a voice at all, really. More a certainty, that telltale prickle at the base of the skull, telling him that

  (this is the place)

  it wouldn't be long; any minute now. He fidgeted and cast about nervously, actually stepping off the sidewalk to cross the street, and

  (WRONG)

  the tickle was instantly a hot needle, poking bleeding holes in his brain. He wheeled around to face the mouth of the doorway beside him. The needle softened, became a tickle again, and he felt

  (much better)

  like he'd better get a move on. He didn't want to be late, be

  (a disappointment?)

  accused of standing her up. He'd never do that. He'd

  (done it before)

  find a place to hide and surprise her. Maybe she'd

  (like that)

  smile for him.

  He picked his spot carefully: within easy reach, yet safely obscured in the blackened mouth of the doorway. He fished a grubby handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow daintily, and shoved it back in.

  He thought about his date for a minute. He'd never seen her. He never did. At least not beforehand. That was one of the rules.

  But he knew how to make them smile. You just had to look

  (SHARP!)

  good and you had to be

  (SHARP!)

  strong and you had to bring them

  (SHARP!)

  surprises. Then they'd smile for you.

  They always did.

  There was a song in his heart, as there often was. He began, very quietly, to sing along:

  "You got the look

  I want to know bet-ter . . ."

  Listening to the footsteps, clicking up the street.

  "You got the look

  That's all to-ge-ther"

  He peeked out. Someone was coming. He wondered if it was her, and

  (!!!!!!)

  the cluster became a white-hot bolt of molten pain that burned like a headful of boiling oil. He fell back against the wall and clutched himself, trying trying trying not to cry out.

  The demons didn't like it when he cried out.

  It spoiled the surprise.

  He sank back into the shadows and waited for the delicate footsteps to recede, to stop ripping meaty holes in his brain. They did both, moving toward and past him, each step gouging across, then receding into the empty expanse of his head.

  Finally, she was gone. The bolt was a tickle again. And he was very very happy.

  Because in the midst of the pain, They had shown him.

  This was a first. Why They'd chosen to reveal her face was a mystery that diminished in light of the fact that he'd seen her: a flickering image as clear as the reflection off of still, clean water. . .

  . . . and she was sleek and slender, with lots of leg and lots of darkdark hair. . .

  He could hardly wait.

  She was going to be his bestest girl.

  The music in his head was much louder now, a regular Super Bowl of voices, jeering and cheering by the millions and billions. Peeking out from the shadows, he could almost see her coming, hear the click-click-clicking of her heels.

  Stanley Peckard was excited. She was

  (SHARP!)

  practically smiling already.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE WAR, IN EXTREME CLOSE-UP

  Paula Levin's apartment was a hole in a wall on the corner of Sixteenth and Ninth, but she'd managed to stuff it quite admirably. Every inch of wall space not covered by bookshelves was smothered in photo murals of the most prurient sort imaginable: kiddie-porn, dogs and ponies, hog-tied women being raped by men in leather masks, and so on.

  Lisa was stunned.

  "Disgusting, isn't it?" Diane said. She was grinning.

  "That's the whole point," Susan continued. "If we're going to fight them, we have to be able to face them unflinchingly."

  "But—" Lisa began.

  "No buts," Paula intoned, stepping out of the kitchen, a gallon of wine and four glasses in her hands. "It's a fact that you'll simply have to face."

  Not necessarily, Lisa thought, but she kept it to herself. She was looking at a picture of a beautiful blonde woman, blindfolded and in chains. The woman was giving Technicolor head to the barrel of a .357 Magnum.

  It was an infuriating photograph, no doubt about it. Lisa had seethed while seeing such exploitative displays over the years. But something even weirder than that was going on here.

  And it had to do with these women.

  They'd gotten together this evening for a pre-production meeting for Pieces of Meat, the next Paula Levin film. As the script had not actually been written yet, this was a combination brainstorming session and process of unification. Paula had stressed the importance of "being of one mind" on this project; Lisa had seen the sense of that, been more than happy to oblige.

  Now she wasn't so sure.

  "Have a seat," Susan Silver said. She was Paula's producer and co-writer. They'd met less than five minutes ago, but already Lisa had the impression that talking to Susan was a lot like using a nail file on one's teeth. She was serious and shrill and utterly sexless, despite the fact that her features were not at all unattractive. The offer, potentially sisterly and caring, had the ring of a Nazi inquisitor.

  "Just a minute," Lisa said. She
had dragged her attention back to the wall-smothering murals. Two prepubescent girls were licking an ugly man's dick, right next to a triple-penetration shot of porn star Ginger Lynn. A full page of bondage titles like Beat The Bitch and Cheerleader Gang Bang were neatly centered within a potpourri of ads for sweaters and liquor and cars, all featuring large-breasted goddess/models.

  Lisa could understand what was going on, could even appreciate the artistry behind it. The problem wasn't with the feminist transmogrification of the imagery at all. It was the notion of using the shit as wallpaper that disturbed Lisa. It was like a Jew, papering his room with outtakes from Auschwitz. There was something unhealthily obsessive about it.

  "Try the wine," Diane said. "It helps. Believe me." She winked at Lisa as she spoke, playful and sly.

  Diane was a complete mystery to Lisa. She was cute, she was funny, she was not dogmatic, and she was not involved in the film. She said that she was just in town for a few days, and wouldn't say why . . . the closest she would come was "to cause all kinds of trouble" . . . which did nothing to explain why she was hanging out with Paula and Susan. From the looks of it, they didn't even like each other all that much.

  "Wine sounds good," Lisa said. "Don't mind if I do."

  "Fine," Susan said. "Then perhaps we can get down to business." No expression whatsoever played across her face.

  Paula, equally brick-faced, poured the wine.

  "Alright," Diane said, pulling out a chair at the table for Lisa. She was a wild little pixie, and that was a fact; big gray eyes in her little round face, shaggy chestnut pageboy; and perpetual elfin grin. As she was the only friendly element in the room, Lisa couldn't help but respond.

  "Thanks," Lisa said, smiling back. Diane winked. Lisa sat. Diane took the seat beside her, pushed it just close enough to be obvious.

  "I propose a toast," Paula said, holding her glass aloft. The others echoed her gesture. "To the end of male supremacy, and male atrocity. By whatever means necessary. Once and for all."

  Paula and Susan were two of a kind. They had the same cold, piercing eyes. And as they lifted their glasses, both of them silently stared at Lisa. Diane was staring, too, but she was beaming as she did it.

  Lisa felt very much like a paramecium, under microscopic scrutiny. It was not a pleasant experience. It reminded her horribly of being alone with the guys in the dispatch office, outnumbered by aliens that she didn't even want to understand.

  Do I want to do this film? she asked herself: Do I want to work with these people?

  Do I want, refining the question, to hang around a little longer, and let the next half an hour decide?

  Lisa nodded, forced a smile, and raised her glass.

  They clinked their glasses together. Diane drained her glass in one gulp. Paula and Susan merely sipped. Lisa felt compelled to fill the middle ground.

  The glasses went down.

  And Paula began the meeting.

  "You all know," she commenced, "that Pieces Of Meat is concerned with the violation of women, and that we intend to go all-out in its description. Over a hundred recent case histories have been compiled by Susan and myself in the last six months: over a hundred instances of torture, rape, and murder, in New York City alone.

  "The problem is this: we've had a hard time finding a story extraordinary enough to win us over. A hundred-odd corroborations are wonderful, of course; but the budget we require cannot be generated by that kind of patchwork product."

  "We need a story," Susan added. "One story that will serve as an illuminating metaphor for all of the others."

  "Something sensational," Lisa said, nodding. She felt she understood.

  "NO!" Paula and Susan shouted simultaneously. They stared at each other, then, and Susan deferred. "Sensationalism is the male perspective. It's a usury mode, devoid of human feelings. Poignancy is what we're after, and they are two entirely different animals."

  "Sorry," Lisa said. She would debate the truth of that later, in private.

  "There have been a few cases that came terribly close," Susan said. "But there were always problems. Dead women, for example, are extremely hard to interview. And the people they were close to have shown an unfortunate reticence to talk about it."

  "Which is why," Paula added, staring directly at Lisa, "we are looking for people within our personal circle of contacts. Someone whose people will be willing to talk." Pause. "Have you known anybody like that?"

  "Not right offhand," Lisa countered. "I know people who have had bad experiences, but I'm afraid that they'd fall under the more mediocre, less poignant jurisdiction."

  "And Linda Lovelace has already been done," Diane quipped, grinning.

  Paula and Susan glared at her for a second. She shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine. Again, Lisa found herself wondering what these people were doing in the same room together.

  But Diane's statement had triggered a thought in her mind.

  "Why not use someone from the actual porn industry?" Lisa asked. "If you could find the star of Beat The Bitch, for example . . ."

  "The women in pornography don't like to speak with us," Susan said, and the tiniest whisp of a smile played across her features. "They've been completely brainwashed by the men who enslave them. Many of them actually think that they're providing a valuable service."

  "Just like your friend," Paula said, "the dancer."

  Lisa fought down a surge of anger at the mention of Mona, instantly realized that that was what Paula's comment had intended to make her betray. For one extremely brief moment, she was tempted to shame by the weight of those eyes; then her own mind spoke up, and what it said was who the hell do these people think they are?

  She glanced at Diane, and something came clear. Diane handles those two just by being herself. She doesn't let them rattle her. She doesn't let them intimidate her. Why should I?

  "Yep," Lisa said, just a tad sardonic. "Just like poor old Mona."

  Then she smiled and turned her gaze back to the walls. The blonde was still sucking on the gun barrel. Lisa wondered if the woman had been forced to take that picture; if she was one of the handful of beautiful women who actually like to suck on gun barrels; or, most likely of all, if she was just like everybody else, doing unsavory things because sometimes you need to if you want to stay alive.

  Right now, Lisa was leaning toward that answer herself.

  "May I have some more wine?" she said.

  The next picture showed her screaming through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth, while a huge stud plowed into her from behind. There was no question as to the authenticity of the photograph.

  The blood was real.

  The stud was Rex.

  And Rickie had taken the picture himself.

  It was the brunette that they'd done the other night. She wasn't as sweet as Saturday's blonde, but then who the hell was? She'd been good enough to fuck. And she had a little screechy voice that made her a pleasure to hit and cut . . .

  Rickie was getting quite a collection together: five bitches in the last two weeks, for a grand total of eighty-seven decent photos. Most of them occupied the back of his socks-and-underwear drawer, but the very best were enshrined in the plastic pockets of his wallet.

  There was a time when he'd enjoyed looking at other people's mass-produced fictions: movies, videos, peep shows, magazines, live sex performances at Show World. But they had never been enough, not really; they had never really involved him, in the way that his adventures were involving him now.

  "HEY, PENDEJO!" Rex yelled from the next room. "YOU GONNA JACK OFF TO DAT SHIT ALL NIGHT, OR ARE WE GONNA GO OUT AND PARTY!"

  It wasn't a question. Rickie grinned and slid shut his drawer. The wallet was already in his pocket.

  The camera was already around his neck.

  And the night was just beginning.

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE CHOICE

  The lighting was soft in the Chelsea Commons. Warm shadows filled the room, snug against the darkly-
burnished woodwork and brick. A few of the regulars were lined up at the bar, laughing and drinking and giving each other the business. Very few of the tables were occupied at eleven on a Wednesday night.

  Mona and Dave shared one of them.

  "This is a nice place," Dave said. "It feels comfortable."

  "It is comfortable. Lisa and I come down here all the time. It's great to have a neighborhood hangout, where the men don't hit on you and the bartender knows how you like your drinks."

  "Hear, hear!" Dave trumpeted, holding up his glass: Dos Equis on ice, with a wedge of lime. Mona clinked her shot of tequila against it. "The waitress didn't even give me a funny look when I ordered."

  "They usually do?"

  "All the time. Somehow, I survive it." He shrugged, winked, and took a defiant swig of beer with ice and lime. "Anyone doesn't like it, they can complain to God. See how much good it does 'em."

  Mona downed her shot, and they were silent for a moment. The comfort of the Commons notwithstanding, she was anything but relaxed. The tequila was for drowning all those little butterflies in her stomach. It was doing okay, but they weren't dead yet.

  I want to have a good time, she told herself, it's ridiculous to get this uptight. Dave's a good guy. I've been working with him, off and on, for months. We've had a great time. Why should this be any exception?

  Because he wants you. Another voice, inside her mind.

  Yeah, but he's always wanted me.

  Yeah, but now you've let him in once. That changes everything, and you know it.

  But can't I just have a regular evening with him, like friends?

  Surprise! Not for a long, long time. And what about Billy. . .

  She shut herself up. Dave was looking at her curiously.

  Am I that transparent?

  Yes. Shut up.

  "What's the matter?" Dave asked.

  "It's nothing."

  "Of course. And so is the Berlin Wall."

  Mona sighed and said nothing. Dave sighed and reached across the table for her hand. She almost jerked away, then abandoned herself to his touch.