Dark Star

by Paul Alexander

  Ink was the first to admit that he did not know how he had produced the horror from only Deacon’s description. Once, about a week after he created it, Ink asked to see it again. He examined the image closely. “It’s like the snake is alive,” he marveled, sounding angry. “And the cross, it looks like it’s dyin’. He gingerly touched the image, and jerked his hand away as though he had been shocked, then vomited in the bathroom.

  *****

  Two nondescript envelopes were securely zippered away in a side pocket of her snakeskin purse. Each contained thirty one-hundred-dollar bills. It was early Saturday afternoon, and Star had already turned two tricks. Shit, she remembered, it’s my birthday; I deserve to celebrate. She patted the side of her purse thinking about the money inside. I’ll do two more, and then make it a club night, she promised herself. Hell, maybe I’ll even drive out and spit on my bitch-of-a-mother’s grave.

  By midnight, Star was sick of the pawing, desperate men vying to buy her a drink. She looked disgustedly at their faces. Like I’m gonna fuck any of you for free, she thought.

  In the club’s momentarily empty bathroom the pale, skinny woman applied red lipstick with the skill of an artist.

  “Hi, I’m Star.” Without waiting for the woman to respond, she dragged her painted nails, sensuously, down the brunette’s emaciated right arm. She admired the girl’s reflection in the spotless mirror, and leaned in until they were cheek to cheek. Star’s come-hither brown eyes sparkled.

  The girl shuddered at Star’s touch, and answered in a faint voice. “Hi.”

  Inside the locked stall, Star put both hands on the girl’s shoulders, and forced her to her knees. She pulled her own skirt up, slid her panties to one side, clutched the girl’s hair, and pressed hard. “That’s it, baby, get it all!” She purred.

  With one hand, from a plastic bag in her purse, Star retrieved a miniature chocolate and deftly removed the individual wrapping. The room was warm and the chocolate was sticky soft. She slid the candy under her tongue and examined her hand in the light. Dark traces of gooey chocolate melted and clung to her fingers. Only the top of the girl’s head showed from between Star’s thighs. Perfect, she thought as she wiped the chocolate in the girl’s hair. This cunt doesn’t know she’s mining gold for free, she smiled, remembering the twelve thousand, newly earned, dollars hidden in her purse.

  Every eye traced every sensuous step as Star returned from the ladies’ room. She surveyed the faces, assigning a numerical score to each. She checked the plastic bag in her purse; it was empty. Assholes, she thought. “Barkeep, call me a cab.” She ordered.

  The bedside clock showed midnight; she pulled the covers up and closed her eyes. Gotta get some rest, she thought.

  An excruciating pain shot through her naked left bicep. “What the hell!” She exclaimed to the empty room. She checked the clock. “Shit, I’ve barely slept an hour. This sucks.” She closed her eyes again; the effects of the alcohol were nearly gone. She cleared her mind and tried to sleep.

  She heard the electric-mechanical buzz clearly, as though it was in the room. The phantom pain of a non-existent needle on her sensitive skin seemed real. A profoundly frightening image flashed across her mind like a shooting star. I understand, she told herself with clarity of vision. I know what I must do.

  By ten o’clock Sunday morning, Star had begun to put her plan in motion. Star del Rio took the first step toward that which she knew at her core was the fulfillment of her true destiny.

  *****

  Grace Jones skillfully traced the distinct lines of her tightly braided hair. Her fingers followed each painstakingly wrapped cord confirming the bun on the back of her head was perfect. I don’t need a mirror to remind me. She thought, remembering the last time she had seen her reflection. From behind tightly closed eyes, she saw her own sad image of a woman barely past fifty, prematurely gray, ever deepening wrinkles, and worst of all, faded blue eyes. I don’t need a piece of glass to remind me of what I’ve done. She pried open her eyes and hurried out of the dusty house.

  During the first few years, after James David left, Grace looked for him every day. Some days she stood in the doorway of the house watching the street, hoping he would walk in to view. Her resources were very limited, but she called the police every week. It was the same with all the public agencies. “Sorry, ma’am, your son was eighteen; he left of his own free will. If he doesn’t want to be found, chances are, he won’t be.”

  “I cannot accept that.” Her adamant response was always the same. “I will not accept that—I will find my son. With or without your help, I will find him.”

  She fervently wished to see again his shy, handsome face. She wished, but she never prayed. For Grace, God had failed. She had asked for His help, repeatedly, but it never came; God never answered. She knew that the messages from God, which the Reverend interpreted for her, came from the Reverend. “These are your words; you do not speak for God!”

  *****

  During those same years, the Reverend experienced his own contempt-laced memories of James David. If he had followed my instructions, he would have stayed on the path of righteousness, he reminded himself. I did all I could. With each passing year, John Jones went full circle through every possible emotional stage: regret, anger, remorse, then began again with all consuming regret.

  Mrs. Jones was right, he admitted to himself. Without her, the congregation will feel slighted; I need her and she needs me. Without me, she can’t survive, and without her, I cannot minister. I am tired of the transfers; I am tired of this life. He cringed with the knowledge of his own reality.

  SIX

  For the first time, Deacon Jones was truly happy. His life was as he had always dreamed. The members of the Sons treated him with respect, and Doc was the older brother he never had. They talked about everything, drunk or sober. Eventually, Deacon told him every sordid detail of his first eighteen years.

  For nearly a year, following Deacon’s twenty-first birthday, they worked almost every night on his motorcycle. The scattered parts from the big wooden crate began to take shape.

  Deacon threw his leg across the tan-leather solo saddle, and rested his right hand on the throttle; the reach and drop were perfect. He lowered his head, and with one eye, aligned the center of the tachometer with the centerline of the front tire. Extended forks, raked thirty degrees, made the nineteen-inch, hand-laced wheel seem far away. He smiled a dreamy smile. “Doc, this is so damn cool.”

  Doc sat, low to the floor, on a mechanic’s stool drinking beer from a long-necked bottle. “Yep, exactly what you said you wanted.” Doc answered, obviously pleased with the work. “This wasn’t a project; it was a fuckin’ mission!”

  “Yeah, but it’s worth every minute, every dollar.” Deacon proudly proclaimed.

  “Last thing we gotta do is get her painted,” Doc noted. “You got somethin’ in mind?”

  “Absolutely, I wanna make her dark blue with gold accents. The paint’s gonna be the icin’ on the cake.”

  “What about decals or airbrushin’, some kinda art?”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about that, but you won’t like it,” Deacon said nervously.

  “Great, what the fuck ya thinkin’?”

  “I wanna ask Ink to airbrush the tattoo on the tank.”

  Doc gave a kick and shot backward across the floor. “No fuckin’ way!” The stool’s casters carried his weight smoothly. He rolled to a stop ten feet from Deacon and the bike. “Ink won’t do it. He already told me. He can’t stand to look at the fuckin’ thing.”

  “Well,” Deacon persisted, “I’ll just get him to paint the snake and the dagger. He’ll do that. Without the cross it’s no big deal.”

  “Yeah, maybe, I doubt it.”

  “Widowmaker’s gotta have a look. I’ll convince Ink, you’ll see.”

  “What’s Widowmaker?”

  “It’s her name.” Deacon beamed, white teeth flashed, and brown eyes sparkled. He smoothly flipped his long hair away f
rom his face. “A cool bike’s gotta have an awesome name. She’s Widowmaker ’cause she’s gonna be a badass motherfucker. Let’s have a few more of those beers and celebrate.” He slid effortlessly off his creation, and crossed the room to the dented refrigerator.

  *****

  Doc, with a highly practiced hand, painstakingly painted the tank and fenders a deep translucent blue over a gold undercoat.

  Ink protested with every stroke. When he finished, the snake pierced by the dagger or anlace, as Deacon had first called it, was a perfect partial-reproduction of the menacing tattoo.

  *****

  “Listen to me now, Brothas and Sistas,” he climbed upon a wooden box in the middle of the showroom floor next to Widowmaker. The club members drew close. “Raise yo hands and say AMEN if you hear me.”

  Beer bottles lifted in a mock salute. “AMEN,” the crowd called out in unison.

  “AMEN,” Deacon returned, emulating a zealous preacher calling his flock. “Widowmaker is ready for the street.”

  “AMEN!”

  *****

  Deacon rented an apartment, bought furniture, household goods, and even a car for the Missouri winters. I’m a fuckin’ cager. He told himself when he slid behind the wheel for the first time. Hell, I’m like a real person.

  *****

  Every head turned as Star strutted down Rodeo Drive. Precise, deliberate clicks from spiked heels gave audible rhythm to her movements. She tossed her long blonde hair back nonchalantly. See how they look at us. She told Bridget and Estrella with pride. Look at those faces; they’re all dying with envy. A white-leather miniskirt accented unbelievably long, tanned, and toned legs.

  Bridget Luna rented an elegant, furnished apartment, and filled the closets with beautiful dresses.

  Italian marble, in the exquisite bathroom, was cold beneath her bare feet. She admired her reflection in the slick black floor. She laughed aloud. “I—have arrived.” Her words echoed against the imported stone wall.

  The massive, far-away, king-size bed beckoned. She charged the width of the sitting and bedroom combined; nine long steps were required to reach the four-poster. Her last became a leap, then a twist. She landed on her back and slid, with a bounce, across the silk comforter. “This is the fucking life!”

  Star never spoke of her real business, or her true private life, to anyone. The apartment was her sanctuary; there she continued her self-education and planned preparations. The spare bedroom, with its door always closed, was a grim addition to the finely appointed apartment. Its only furnishings were an old wooden table, a four-drawer metal file cabinet, and an exercise machine. She covered the only window with thick black paper. On one wall, she hung a large blackboard. The opposite wall supported an equally sized cork bulletin board. The remaining surface she covered with mirrors, which bordered the always locked door.

  The new chalk screeched as it marked the green surface. Star cringed. A miniature puff of white dust rolled out in front of the soft eraser as she removed her first attempt. The board did not resist the softened edge of the chalk, and she silently printed: To Do. Beneath the heading, she began, thoughtfully, to make her list.

  She wrote and rewrote the items until she was sure they were chronological and comprehensive. The first three were:

  1) Improve me

  2) Respectable image

  3) Find the family

  Down around item twenty was get high school and college degrees. That part was easy; Benny’s reputation for forgery was impeccable, and he even framed the certificates. As she accomplished each item on the list, Star drew a diagonal line through the corresponding number.

  Respectable image meant a profession through which Star could meet people, wealthy people, and the LA real estate market was burgeoning. The school for real estate brokers was too easy, and practically overnight, Star was respectable.

  Star was self-aware; she knew that it would be fruitless to try to judge her essence and true character. Her mother’s lessons had long since wiped all emotion from her countenance. Life, Star’s life, supported by Estrella and Bridget, had become a series of premeditated, carefully orchestrated events designed to achieve one end. Every time she entered her war room and read the list, thoughts of revenge and the settling of scores overwhelmed her. Her focus was on three far-away people, whom she blamed for stealing her happiness.

  She had never actually met, or even seen them. In spite of this, she had put it all together from the bits and pieces pried from her mother. Time and cocaine had gradually unsealed the tomb of her mother’s bought and paid silence.

  When I do face them, she promised herself, I will make everything right. I’ll settle the score just as I did with my own bitch of a mother.

  *****

  “Good afternoon, Doctor, I’m Bridget Luna.” Star firmly shook his hand, and then settled comfortably in a muted-yellow leather chair in front of the plastic surgeon’s massive glass desk.

  “How can I possibly make you more beautiful, Miss Luna?” He smiled. His face filled with a familiar look of wanting.

  “Doctor, please, you’re too kind.” She contracted the muscles in her face and forced a blush. “I would like for you to make my nose a little smaller, more petite, enlarge my breasts, and explain to me the ramifications of liposuction.”

  “I will be happy to help you, Miss, with whatever you want. However, I am truly surprised that a woman as stunning as you feels the need to make such changes.”

  “Doctor, oh, Doctor sounds so formal.” She leaned in, provocatively, exposing her tanned breasts. “After all, you are going to see me naked and unconscious. May I call you, Robert; it is, Robert, isn’t it?” Star looked past him to his vanity wall, papered with diplomas. “Well, yes. Yes, it is, but my friends call me, Bob.”

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer Robert. It sounds so elegant, so—so sophisticated.”

  Es muy importante siempre ser coqueta. She heard her mother’s voice repeating the words. It is always important to be a flirt.

  “By all means, call me Robert, and may I call you, Bridget? It’s such a lovely name; it fits you perfectly. Your mother must have great compassion.”

  “Thank you. Please do, and yes, my mother was a very compassionate woman.” She willed a face of sadness, and with both hands pulled her hair back behind her ears.

  “I’m sorry, you’re so young; I just assumed your mother was still living.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Star began to cry, softly. “My mother was a wonderful, loving woman, but she lost a three-year battle with lymphatic cancer just thirteen months ago, and I miss her so.”

  Doctor Robert, painstakingly, triple checked every instrument and every measurement. Star reveled in the attention, and after surgery, awoke to three-dozen red roses.

  In her bedroom, she made sure that he believed he was making love to her. Two more easy procedures, she thought as she stared at the ornate crystal chandelier, which hung above the bed. Two more visits to this room, and we will be even. She caused her mind to drift away.

  The doctor, firmly entrenched between her sculptured legs, continued to hammer her pelvis in short desperate thrusts; his moans grew to a wail.

  Star, relieved, slid the chocolate from beneath her tongue and bit it in two, matched his sound, and added to it in her own sensuous, guttural rasp. “Oh yeah, baby, that’s it, doll. Give it to me. Give Bridget what she wants.”

  In less than two weeks, the final two procedures were complete, and the corresponding payments delivered. The last of which, she decided to make special by allowing him to finish in her mouth.

  Breathless, Doctor Robert reluctantly withdrew his rapidly softening penis from her collagen-enhanced lips. Bright-red lipstick drew uneven streaks on white skin. He sighed. “In two days, we can remove your bandages and give you one last check. Sweetie, you’re finished.” He lovingly nestled between new breasts. “You have everything you wanted.”

  “Thank you, doll, you’re right.” She smiled with a predictive co
untenance. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

  “Oh, Robert,” large teardrops gathered in thick mascara, then streaked down tense cheeks, and disappeared into the hospital sheet, “it’s the guilt. I just can’t live with the guilt. I keep thinking about your wife and children crying. I know in my heart my mother would never approve.”

  “But, Bridget, darling, I love you. I’ll get a divorce; I’ll do anything. I just want to be with you.”

  “I love you, too, Robert. That’s the problem. I love you too much to allow you to give up your family. Even if we were together, I could never forget that I destroyed your marriage. No, my dear, sweet, Robert, it can never be, but I will always love you.”

  Even before the discoloration in her skin completely faded away, she had forgotten his first name. Star drew a line through the number one on her list with a flourish.

  *****

  The only other person who ever saw the inside of the war room was the telephone man. Star stood mute in the doorway, and watched him work. After he left, she plugged in a small black phone with a built-in answering device. She hummed and counted until she was convinced; the low, tonal quality of her voice was its most seductive. She pressed her lips against the tiny microphone. “Hi, this is Star. Your message means everything to me. Tell me a story, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Next to the phone, she placed a small, brown permanently bound ledger. She breathed in the primal aroma of freshly tanned leather. A single leather strap, wrapped around a solid-brass button, held the book securely closed. Diagonally across the cover, as though she was adjusting a work of art, she positioned a deep-burgundy fountain pen.