Nightlife

by Brian Hodge

  Even before doing line one, he felt a tingling in his belly. Anticipation, nerves. The curdling in the guts of a pioneer ready to step boldly beyond the known. And venture into the unknown, past the edge of a flat earth. To confront Heaven or Hell or whatever else lay in that next realm.

  Fish, swimming, circling. Water, soothing as it bubbled. There was nothing else, no other world beyond this room. Only the ones accessed through mind and soul.

  He snorted the first two lines, and they slammed his head back against the recliner. Pain, murky green and gold, and a feeling as if he’d lit a string of firecrackers in the back of his skull. He moaned aloud. No turning back now. His nose dripped, but he held fast to purpose and lowered for the rest. The next line, and the next, and the next. And the last.

  The cigarette case clattered to the tiles. He was glad the penthouse was soundproof. Because he screamed. Oh, how he screamed. Loud enough to wake the dead and send them running for cover.

  Not out of pain.

  Not out of fear.

  But out of head-to-head confrontation with infinity. He found himself standing on the brink of stars, looking down into pits of primordial slime. And here he was, vainglorious adventurer, poised somewhere between the two. At their whim and mercy, for they would send him where they pleased. Everything he had believed, everything he had been taught, everything that had been genetically encoded within his body his bones his blood his cells his nuclei his intertwining dual strands of DNA — it had all been erased.

  He was plunging through aeons now as if they were ticks of a clock. There was still self-awareness, but self was no longer the same. Self paled within infinity. Self was scrutinized and blasted with unyielding green light and shown to be the puny thing it was. Self was laughable. Self was humbled. Self was reduced to knee-quaking awe.

  No wonder this stuff had seemed to blow the minds of those he’d watched take it. Sasha, Justin, Trent Pollard. What they must have seen, experienced, there in his presence — no wonder they had freaked. They’d been expecting a coke rush. He had not. He had known so much better what to expect. Even so, it was all he could do to keep from peeling the leather off the chair arms.

  For now he was learning by more than mere observation. Now it was strictly hands-on, scoping out this wondrous new world from the inside.

  Falling, cranking back the hands of time … falling…

  And only when he hit rock bottom was he able to gather that nebula of swirling wits. And rise once again. To walk, a new being.

  Alternative evolution.

  There was pain now, deeper and more fundamental than what had come from inhaling the drug. By comparison, that had been superficial. This ran bone deep. But it was distant, could’ve been somebody else’s. That was it. Some guy named Tony Mendoza, back in a mixed ball of past and future. Both were the same, as history spun in circles. Rise and fall of life-forms, birthed in an oceanic stewpot to crawl forth into mud onto dry land to scale trees to soar through skies to fall, finally, extinct. Back into the mud, to leach back to the sea. To nurture with rotting bones a new hierarchy destined to rise in its place.

  pain

  But he could cope. Rebirth should never be easy.

  He could feel the ache and pull of bones in rebellion, the hardening of the new flesh. The conical head erupting from his own. An eye on either side, huge, like dark buttons. Jaws jutting and muscular, rimmed with triangular teeth. A gullet that craved meat and blood, gulped hot and fresh and kicking, straight from the source. He breathed through his mouth, still, but bloodless wounds had opened on either side of his neck, near the ends of the silvery scaled hide.

  He lifted his hands. Unchanged, more or less. Although webbed, translucent membranes between the fingers. As if they had once been fins and had split to better serve on land. The best of both worlds.

  Tony laughed, an airy wind-gurgling sound. He scrambled from the recliner to fall before his largest tank, his pride and joy. A dozen oval shapes glided within. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass.

  He felt no terror.

  No disgust.

  No worries.

  Only the power of exultation and superiority.

  And when he rose to plunge his head and shoulders into the tank, he felt the powerful commingling of brotherhood. The piranha did not attack. Would not attack. Not one of their own.

  He breathed, not through mouth but through gills, sifting oxygen along blood-gorged membranes. And he felt the rhythm and flow of the water, this time from their viewpoint. Sensations like tiny electric currents from receptors within his hide, alert to splashes, temperatures, irregularities, anything that would home him in on prey. He felt the mental singularity linking them all, capable of turning the group into an eating machine. Noise and taste and odor became tactile sensations, something between solid and liquid.

  Tony pushed himself up and out, slinging silvery arcs of water to spatter walls and floor. He roared, his throat retaining vestigial traces of human vocalization, his mouth incapable of manipulating them. No matter. Words were of no consequence. Only sensations.

  hunger

  He fell to his knees, head dripping water to chest and tiles. He reached for a shelf beneath the aquarium adjacent to the piranha tank. Seized the box punched with small round holes. Felt with delight, in an entirely new way, the tiny scramblings within. Smelled wisps of mortal fear emanating from the box — smelled as never before.

  Tony ripped the lid away, and the high-pitched squeaking was a packet of exquisite needles to his receded ears. He held the box aloft. Opened his jaws wide, his mouth a vast tooth-rimmed pit, all sharp points. Tipped the box…

  carnivore ecstasy

  … and let the mice fall.

  Chapter 15

  PROFESSIONAL COURTESIES

  The Weatherman hit Tampa on Friday afternoon, and Lupo was there to receive him. They knew each other by sight from a previous meeting, which made matters simpler. They exchanged nods, and that was about it for interpersonal warmth as they traveled to Baggage and then out to the Lincoln. Just a couple of professionals, doing their jobs. No need for trivial chatter.

  Once this weekend was over, Lupo was going to breathe one huge sigh of relief. Things would be returning to their boxes, nailed up safe and secure. Two down in one fell swoop.

  Leaving one, blonde and riskier by the day.

  Not that he wouldn’t miss Sasha. Tony’s generous offer of a few nights ago had done wonders for bringing them closer. Loads of fun, making her writhe and squeal and kick her stilettos against the back-door glass. It had gotten her scorching hot to think about slipping Tony the sexual backstab in the Lincoln’s rear seat. Parked at curbside in the heart of downtown, no less. Reflective glass — it didn’t matter. The whole scenario hadn’t dampened his own ardor, either.

  He’d miss her, whenever Tony decided that enough was enough. Couldn’t let feelings get in the way though. The cyanide cocktail of vital business mixed with the wrong pleasure had brought down more than its share of great men. He would not join their ranks.

  Lupo was a pro, took care of business. He would just as soon Tony delegated to him the responsibility for Justin and April. No sweat, they were anything but hardcases. Just a couple of grief-stricken newfound lovers. Bang-bang, bye-bye. But Tony’s logic for subcontracting was hard to argue with. It was going to look mighty suspicious — two of Erik Webber’s closest friends turning up dead a week after his own murder. Might lend credence to any possible accusatory fingers Justin could have pointed Tony’s way. Best, then, to have rock-solid alibis when it went down. They would have one, 125 miles away. It was Fort Myers this weekend.

  While the Weatherman brought back the sunshine.

  He looked like a real geek, this guy. Every native’s tourist of nightmares come true. He wore Bermudas and some yellow short-sleeve shirt with hideous paisley splotches. And some goofy narrow-brimmed hat that might have looked more at home on a fishing charter. He had skinny white legs and a junk-food belly an
d a roundish face. Very muscular hands and forearms, though, with a gaudy turquoise ring on one finger. He was one of those peculiarities of oddly indeterminate age. Could have been twenty and could have been forty. You took one look at this guy, thought for sure he was some virginal data-processing operator out of Dubuque down for his first vacation.

  Until you heard him speak.

  Then you thought maybe he was CIA, a murderous bureaucrat. A voice like that, with its attendant chill, belonged to someone whose eyes miss little, if anything. Whose brain whirs even in sleep. And whose libido has more twists than a phone cord.

  This guy was walking Death.

  Tony knew how to pick them, and that was to his credit. Stress might have been weighing a bit too heavily on Tony lately. Yesterday morning’s wee hours, for example. Still the previous night as far as he and Sasha were concerned. They had found Tony sprawled asleep in the aquarium-room floor. Nothing too serious, he’d had a smile on his face.

  And a mouse’s tail caught between a couple of teeth. Sasha hadn’t seen that; she’d already scooted off to bed. Lupo also found a dusting of green powder on the gold cigarette case, and from that point on, two plus two was easy to sum up.

  Tony, man, you psycho out on me, and I’ll have to kill you myself, he thought at the time. Not entirely serious, not entirely kidding. One thing was certain, though: Should Lupo ever go down in the proverbial flames, he wanted his own hand to have struck the match. Not someone else’s. Not even Tony’s.

  Before taking the Weatherman to check into his motel — in whose lot sat parked a drab rental car with dead-end phony ID paperwork — Lupo wheeled him by April’s apartment. Same vantage point he’d watched from earlier in the week. He parked, killed the engine. Left the power on long enough to whir down the windows. And then, nothing but traffic and birdsongs to keep them company.

  “That’s where the girl lives,” Lupo said, pointing. “Second-floor loft. She’s got the lengthwise half facing us, somebody else has the south half. Only entrance is that stairwell at the east end you see there. Goes straight up to a first door, and on the other side there’s a little landing, and then the inner door. Both sturdy, and they both got hefty locks. She’s got no intercom.”

  “Peepholes?” asked the Weatherman.

  “Yeah. Good thing about the stairway is that it’s hers alone, doesn’t serve anybody else.”

  The Weatherman nodded. “Pictures?”

  Lupo frowned. “I got one of her. Not him. He’s new in town, been here less than two weeks. I’m hoping he’ll come out sometime this afternoon so you can see what he looks like. They’re probably both up there now. So far as I know, there’s just the one car between them.” Lupo pointed to a black Fiero parked beside the building.

  “Let’s see her, at least,” said the Weatherman.

  Lupo leaned across toward the glove compartment, opened it. Pulled out a half-size manila envelope. He slid out a single glossy, slightly blurry print.

  “Meet April Kingston,” he said, and handed the picture over.

  The Weatherman regarded it with neither reaction nor emotion. Heart of stone — commendable. It was tough to remain unmoved.

  “A body like that in a shot like this,” the Weatherman finally said, “you show it to most guys, and they’d never remember the face.”

  He had a point. The nudity and the graphic sexual content were definite distractions. He frowned over the face for another ten seconds, then slid the print back inside. Replaced it in the glove compartment.

  “Don’t want to keep it?” Lupo asked.

  The Weatherman shook his head. Tapped his temple. “That picture. Looks like it was taken off a film print. Am I right?”

  Lupo nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Good lighting.”

  Nodded again. “Yeah.”

  Apparently the Weatherman had nothing more to add, so they waited in silence. Just a couple of pros. How the cops kept their sanity on stakeouts, Lupo didn’t know. Well, given how many ate their guns before retirement, maybe they lost it after all. Brains turning cartwheels onto the walls.

  Two and a half hours later…

  “Heads up,” Lupo said. “That’s him.”

  The Weatherman whipped up a compact pair of binoculars he’d long since pulled from his single flight bag. Trained them on the lone figure emerging from the stairwell, then heading for April’s Fiero. The Weatherman looked like an owl, sighting in on a chipmunk before swooping down with splayed talons. Justin paused at the car door, looking toward a stand of willows and bushes close to the opposite end of the building. Nothing to see from here in their car. Maybe nothing at all. Whatever, his attention was back on the Fiero in two shakes. When he was in, Lupo switched on the power and rolled up the mirrored windows.

  “Seen enough?” he asked.

  The Weatherman nodded. “I believe you have half the cash up front for me?”

  “In the trunk. You’ll get it at the motel.”

  Lupo started up the car. The Weatherman nodded, then turned his roundly cherubic face toward the sky.

  “I love this business,” he said.

  Chapter 16

  FLESHTONES

  Justin decided to cut out for a short while around four o’clock. Armed with April’s car keys and a general understanding of street layouts, he left the apartment and headed for her Fiero. Paused at the door to unlock it.

  For a moment his attention was snagged by a glimpse of someone in the clump of trees ahead. Homeless, by the looks of the guy. Road-worn clothing — olive pants and a pale brown shirt. Definitely foreign, from south of some border. Their eyes met, and Justin was the first to avert his. To have looked any longer might have been to invite panhandling, maybe worse. There was guilt, though. The this-shouldn’t-happen-here-and-why-doesn’t-somebody-do-something sentiments that fell just short of making him take responsibility himself.

  A lot of that going around these days. He wasn’t proud. So he hurriedly got in the car and moments later he was on Kennedy and rolling west.

  They’d been back a little over a day, and now, finally, it was time to set life on track again. Because life goes on. April’s career beckoned, needed tending. She had accumulated several messages on her business machine while in Ohio, was taking care of the missed days. Tonight she had a dinner meeting with the owners of the plant rental and maintenance firm to present her layouts and talk about future strategies.

  His first night alone since moving in. Distractions were sorely needed.

  So were plans for his own life. Justin had thought he’d have a little more time for gathering his wits. Erik wasn’t going to push him out the door toward employment until he was ready. April may well have been willing to grant just as many concessions, but he felt it impudent to expect her to. Because when it came down to it, he had forced himself on her as much as circumstances had.

  He needed a car. A job. His own place to live should at least be suggested, and if she honestly vetoed the idea, then fine, his conscience was clear. But the wimpy little nest egg left once belongings had been sold and Paula was given her share and lawyers’ fees were taken care of — it wasn’t going to last long. A couple months, at most.

  Then there was the whole matter of Tony Mendoza.

  So what am I doing going out to rent videos? He needed escape, yeah, that was it. A rationalization that should hold water awhile.

  With Erik’s lost membership card in his pocket, he wheeled into the lot of Mind’s Eye Video. It was a large one-story, flat-roofed place that looked as if it might have been a corner market a few dozen years ago. Saved from ruin by the video age.

  He joined the other browsers inside. Singles, pairs. Those who spoke did so with the same sort of hush usually reserved for libraries. Justin wandered the aisles, scanning the titles of empty videocassette boxes. Skirting the occasional heavy cardboard floor display. Timothy Dalton as the latest James Bond, tuxedoed and pistoleroed. John Candy, capable of blocking an aisle. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’s
Leatherface, wielding his manicure equipment.

  He found a couple of interesting titles to try tonight. Held on to the boxes to trade them for tapes at the counter. Gradually worked his way along until he got to the far side. Didn’t want to miss anything, some forgotten nugget of cinematic gold.

  On the far side, Mind’s Eye had an X-rated section, within its own alcove. Maybe twice the size of the average walk-in closet. Only one customer was in there at the moment. A real nose-picker, he looked like, wearing a T-shirt insufficient to cover his rain-gutter waist or reach the squeezed-down top of his jeans in back. Crescent moon, milky white. The top of his butt-crack periscoped above the beltline.

  Justin paused in the doorway. Hesitant. Remembering. And decided to go on in.

  Lurid boxes greeted him, row upon row of empty passion, frozen moments to tantalize the lonely, the horny, into coughing up four bucks a night for the whole flick. Women, at least eighty percent women on those covers. Every conceivable angle, pose, and orifice, with no standards of censorship imposed on most. They bared their pink souls to the camera, or attended living phallic symbols with enthusiasm bordering on worship. If this display of moist overkill wasn’t enough to frighten an impressionable young child away from sex, he didn’t know what would.

  He was no devotee of the great American fuck film. Or Swedish, or whatever else was imported in plain brown wrappers. But he remembered occasional team trips to video outlets with Erik, where they would pop into alcoves like this to simply check out the titles. The titles were always good for a laugh. Especially when they had taken the title of a perfectly innocent, mainstream movie and warped it into perversion.

  Hannah Does Her Sisters. Backside to the Future. Great Sexpectations. Beverly Hills Clit. Everywhere you looked, bad puns. Which didn’t seem quite so funny, alone. He needed the other half of the team. This was like Abbott without Costello. Justin smiled when he remembered Erik’s suggestion a few years back that they collaborate on a Japanese horror porno film called Debbie Does Godzilla.