Shifters

by Lee, Edward

  ««—»»

  Men are so stupid, even immortal ones. See, I dumped him. It was a long time ago, and he’s found me and brought me here. He’s got this idea in his head that when I see him again, my love will return. Stupid, stupid! Only men can conceive of stupid things like that. And when he finally realizes that my love for him is dead—

  He’ll kill me in the worst way imaginable.

  I’m not very happy right now. Can you tell? I guess I’ll go and find something to do.

  Something that will make me happy.

  (ii)

  Locke sat at his typewriter. It was 9:00 p.m. He’d been trying to write for hours, but the only payment for his efforts was the blank sheet of paper that stared back at him from the platen. It mocked him with its intractable blankness—Poet, where are your words…

  Uninvited thoughts drew him back to his many talks with Lehrling, who’d told him he considered “writer’s block” to be the excuse of the “candy-ass dilettante” and Locke had nodded, agreeing with him. That had been a lifetime ago, when he had a muse named Clare; there had been no ending of words then, he could fill volumes, but now—

  Now there was only the awful whiteness of the blank page which lolled out of the typewriter carriage, the page as empty as his life, his spirit.

  He glanced out the window, the street beckoning him.

  A long walk, a tall drink—something hard. The vision of a chimney glass of Tullamore Dew barged without welcome into his consciousness. He was drinking too much, or maybe not enough; but in any event the idea of staring any longer at the blank paper seemed abhorrent.

  Next, he was out walking into the tepid night. He looked up at the stars. So much to see, or was there? Many saw inspiration, others—writers, perhaps—often saw their muse, while still others viewed a vast and fascinating panorama of possibilities. Like that bizarre San Diego coterie who’d seen a UFO coming to take them to a better world, but only if they killed themselves. Locke wondered what Lehrling saw when he looked up at the stars. Dollar signs and women’s phone numbers? Locke looked up and saw the moon, a baleful, malformed eye staring back at him with a cold dispassionate gaze. The stars themselves seemed empty and devoid of possibilities; just a vacant gulf that made him feel trapped and twisting in a net of isolation.

  People are out there right now, he realized. Laughing, kissing, making love… But for Locke there was only the dull sensation of being utterly and completely alone. His future seemed behind him, a spot on the night’s horizon too far away now to go back to.

  Gems glimmered suddenly and he stopped. Hawberk’s Jewelers, the narrow store where, in the past, he’d often stopped to peruse their selection of engagement rings. Clare had been with him once and pointed out a beautiful band with a small diamond in a heart-shaped mount. Now, of course, the store windows were blank, the window displays stripped of their true adornments until morning, leaving only the baubles and paste and slender mannequin hands with nothing on them.

  The shit that’s worthless, Locke thought.

  Like his muse, and the way his life felt now.

  The shit that no one would bother to steal.

  Locke found himself across the street from Concannon’s, the neon sign of a leprechaun holding a martini glass winked at him as if in recognition. I’m so broke I can’t even pay attention. Maybe Lehrling would be there…

  The tavern stood quiet for mid-evening. Only a few people sat at the bar, the lone drinkers who had lingered long past happy hour. Stockbrokers and junior partners for the most part; twelve-hour days of cocaine-driven screeching intensity followed by the usual five hours of power-drinking to mellow out and hopefully snatch a few hours of dreamless sleep before climbing back on the Sisyphean economic treadmill. A lone man stood at the dartboard, playing a solitary game; and there at one of the tables, Lehrling, and a companion…

  Someone’s getting lucky.

  The blonde seated with Lehrling was almost a stereotype of Aryan beauty—reminding Locke of one of the girls from the beer commercial featuring “the Swedish Bikini Team”—she sat pressed against Lehrling, his arm around her and her body-language leaving no doubt that some rapport was growing which would eventually lead them both to bed later. It astounded Locke—this girl was drop-dead gorgeous, and Lehrling, though a witty enough conversationalist, was certainly no one’s idea of a movie star, unless of course the movie star in question were like, maybe, Charles Grodin . Locke glanced at the mis-matched couple again and Lehrling met his gaze and nodded toward the bar making a writing motion which indicated that Locke should charge his drinks to Lehrling’s tab.

  What a man.

  Locke returned the nod, took a seat at the table nearest the dart board to watch the solitary practitioner of the ancient game.

  Carl wasn’t behind the bar tonight and the waitress who took his order for a Tullamore Dew and water seemed exasperated when directed to charge his drink to Lehrling’s tab. Locke sat and watched the dart player; a tall man of indeterminate middle age, dressed in a fine charcoal gray suit. He played as though the remarkable precision of the game came as naturally as breathing. Locke had played casually before counting down from 301 to hit zero exactly on a “double” got on his nerves; he’d thought it the most frustrating game he’d ever been exposed to: hit a target a quarter of an inch wide to start the game, the “double” ring and then finish by hitting the appropriate “double” to bring one’s score to zero… The precision involved was maddening; that’s why Locke had quit.

  But now he watched the man take careful aim and throw, double twenty; a lucky first dart “on,” he thought, then in rapid succession: two darts sped unerringly to the treble twenty; a “160” on…

  This guy’s real good or real lucky.

  Immediately, Locke’s interest was piqued. He watched the man retrieve his darts and quickly throw a treble seventeen, treble eighteen and then the double eighteen: a perfect game…

  Christ! Locke thought.

  Gathering up the darts, the man came over to Locke’s table and, reaching into his pocket, produced a crumpled bar napkin and placed it in front of Locke.

  “I believe you dropped this the other night, and what with the small drama that took place outside, I neglected to return it to you then. You have a rare gift for true poetry, Mr. Locke.” The man spoke in a soft voice that betrayed just a hint of accent.

  “Well, thank you. I’m afraid that this little snippet isn’t really among my more serious works, but thanks for returning it, Mr.—”

  “Lethe, my name is Lethe.” The tall man proffered his hand, long piano-player fingers, a solitary onyx ring on his index finger. Locke shook hands and gestured for the man to take a seat; he was surprised by the tensile strength in the returning grip. This was not the macho-see-how-strong-I-am handshake of one of the pathetic ex-high school jocks, but instead almost a restrained, controlled strength, as though Lethe was far, far stronger than his slender frame would indicate.

  “That’s quite a grip you have, Mr. Lethe,” Locke said smiling. “Musician or athlete?”

  Lethe chuckled, “I’m glad you didn’t guess woodworker or stone-mason. Actually I’ve a number of interests, many of which require a good deal of physical discipline, but that’s not what motivated me to stop by and chat; I hadn’t intended to discuss my frivolous hobbies like tae-kwan-do or the klavier. No, I wanted to talk to you more in my capacity of, shall we say, a patron of aesthetics. You see Mr. Locke, I’d like you to write a book.”

  Locke nearly choked on his drink. He’d heard of deals struck at upscale parties and writers’ conventions, but this had to be some kind of weird angle.

  Is this some sort of gay come-on?

  “You’re a publisher then, Mr. Lethe? Which house do you represent?”

  Lethe smiled and signaled for the waitress before replying, “No, no I’m not with one of the New York houses; I’m more of an aficionado of literature; particularly that in which the author is able to capture the true feelings within
the human psyche. Not the crass sort of popular drivel that your friend over there churns out.” He gestured dismissively towards Lehrling. “What I’d like for you to do is create a small volume of your work that I could have privately published in a suitably ornate edition for my library. There’s an old fellow out on one of the San Juans that does exquisite hand-made books, and has in fact prepared a few choice volumes for me previously.” Lethe paused and took a sip from his drink.

  “You mean a vanity press sort of thing?” Locke frowned. “Of course I’m flattered, but I really do try to focus on wider circulation, no offense intended.” Locke looked over at Lehrling’s table again. The blonde seemed to be doing her best to force her tongue down his throat. How the hell does Lehrling do it?

  Lethe followed Locke’s gaze and chuckled, “Well, crass commercialism and a gift of gab does seem to have some rewards, but I rather doubt what we’re seeing there has the same depth and power as love, loss, and the other subjects you write so well about. I’m not basing my proposition, of course, on a single poem—I’ve read your work extensively.”

  Locke turned a suspicious brow. “Is that right? Where?”

  “Calvert, Gothic Light, Mynd. Oh, and your ‘Preceptor’ piece in The Phoenix was exemplary, as was “Exit” in Cosmopolitan. Quite a lofty sale, I’d say.”

  Locke had sent back the $300 that Cosmo had paid him, but that wasn’t what grabbed him at the moment. This guy’s for real, he had no choice but to conclude. He’s read my work…

  “While I’m certainly not able to compete with Random House or Penguin,” the articulate man went on, “I am rather…ample of means. Would you consider, say, $10,000 a substantial enough fee to ignore the ‘wider circulation markets’ for this particular project? Reprint rights, of course, revert back to you. Immediately.”

  Locke was stunned—$10,000 for a privately-printed limited edition! Robert Frost and John Updike didn’t get money like that! “That’s more than generous Mr. Lethe,” he close to stammered, wondering if he should pinch himself awake. “I don’t know what to say. I, I…”

  “I know, you don’t want to make any hasty decisions, and you must talk to your agent. Not to worry; there’s no pressure—here, take this, as shall we say, an advance. If you decide you don’t want to pursue this project, well, then just consider it a token gift from an admirer of your work.” Lethe passed a small sheaf of bills across the table and rose to depart.

  Locke stared at the five matching engravings of Benjamin Franklin that smiled knowingly at him from the table. Five-hundred dollars, is this guy whacked? Locke slowly slid the money across the table uncovering the man’s somewhat old-fashioned calling card which read in stolid print:

  A. Lethe

  Todesfall Rd.

  North Bend, WA

  888-0776

  A Microsoft millionaire? Locke wondered. North Bend was a small suburb to the East with incomes ranging from just above the poverty line to palatial estates that had been carved out of the bucolic countryside by the cyber geniuses of Nintendo and Microsoft. Yet North Bend was still small enough that its Post Office tolerated quaint anachronisms such as no street numbers. Perhaps this strange commission was the beginning of a turn for the better, a fresh start, a new day in his pocked life. Feeling expansive, Locke signaled the waitress to bring a round of drinks over to Lehrling and his beauteous companion. The waitress scowled at him when he gestured to Lehrling’s table.

  It was empty.

  Oh, well, Locke thought. He looked at the money in his hand. At least Lehrling’s not the only one who got lucky tonight.

  (iii)

  Lehrling groaned with pleasure and subtly shifted his position, the silken ropes that held his wrists to the bed-frame were smooth enough to preclude any chafing even if things got a bit more energetic. He couldn’t believe this good fortune: he’d met the girl, Anna, only by chance at Concannon’s. She’d bumped into him and dropped her wine spritzer whereupon he’d quickly taken the blame and offered to buy her another. From that point on the evening had moved along at a delirious pace that was much better than anything he could have contrived to orchestrate. The language barrier had been dissolved by the solvency of several more drinks, and Anna had begun to display such a degree of passion and enthusiasm that Lehrling thought a hasty exit from the pub to be in order.

  Pay day, he thought.

  He’d had lots of pay days—the “Rich Novelist” persona served him well—but this was a bit more than a typical bar floozy. This was prime turf.

  Upon inviting her to his place for another drink, Anna had responded with her usual reply of “Ja ist gut!” and Lehrling had negotiated the winding drive to his Laurelhurst condo in record time. After arriving he’d barely time to mix them a couple of Champagne cocktails before she was leading him to the bedroom. Anna had apparently gone out well-prepared for a carnal frolic, from her backpack she’d produced a couple of pieces of silken cord and a small wooden paddle; she bent over and wriggled her firm buttocks at him and indicated that she wanted to be tied up and spanked. Lehrling complied with her request, though he was more than a little disconcerted by her yelps with each stroke of the paddle. It was obvious the spanking was bringing her to the point of orgasm. On about the fifteenth stroke she convulsed and shuddered, gasping “Aaah…gott!”

  Kissing her on the neck, Lehrling untied the cords and made to turn her over. She quickly rolled over on top of him saying “My turn, ja?”

  Uh, ja, Lehrling thought.

  She scooted up on the bed, lowering a pristinely blonde muff over his face. At the same time, though, she tied his wrists to the headboard. Lehrling began lapping at her sex as she rocked back and forth on his face when…

  Did he hear something? He thought he’d heard the front door open, but of course that was impossible. Not with the Arrowhead alarm system, and the motion detectors in the foyer. The only door opening here is hers…

  He lost himself in Anna’s wet musk as he felt her hand reach back and grasp his cock. She climbed off of her perch and began running her tongue up and down his chest, all the while gently tugging his erection—Lehrling closed his eyes at the tensing pleasure, reveling in the sensation of her tongue and lips traversing every inch of his chest and belly, finally coming to his groin. The lips, then, with an almost painful slowness, worked their way up the shaft, toying with him, a tease of flesh. This was exquisite torment. Tough life, huh, Lehrling? he joked to himself.

  Then she finally took him into her mouth and began to suck…

  “Now, Anna…”

  Lehrling’s eyes shot open at the sound of the man’s voice. A tall figure stood in the doorway, features indistinguishable in the darkness; however, the shock of an intruder in his bedroom paled in comparison to the blinding white-flash pain as Anna’s teeth came together and precisely bit the corona off of his penis. Lehrling jerked so violently that both wrists dislocated.

  Blood gushed. The red smile showed him what she was doing…

  Chewing. She was chewing his glans, vigorously, as one might chew a tough piece of clam meat.

  Then, so to speak, she went back to the well, and sucked some more.

  Teeth, with the exactitude of siding shears, bit off the rest of Lehrling’s penis in minute increments—biting, chewing, swallowing—biting, chewing, swallowing—until nothing remained but a meager stump. All Lehrling could do, of course, was feel the pain… Coherence was long lost, nothing sapient, no human thoughts in his head, which seemed reasonable. Well, maybe just one, somewhere flitting about in the mad crush of his brainwaves…

  —she’s eating my—

  But that was about it.

  ELEVEN

  Interrogation and a Solitary Wake

  (i)

  The knock on the door startled Locke to wakefulness; he groggily threw on his bathrobe and glanced at the top of his dresser, where the money and calling card remained, fanned out like a winning poker-hand. Yes, one could be true and be financially rewarded at the same time i
t seemed. Right? he asked himself. The knock came again, jarring him from the first positive mood he’d known in quite a while.

  Locke opened the door to see a grim-faced Captain Jack Cordesman, accompanied by another man whose off-the-rack coat and scuffed Volume Shoes loafers readily identified him as one of the hippish-detective’s brethren in law enforcement.

  “May we come in, Mr. Locke?” Cordesman seemed stern, distant—not much like the refined wiseacre Locke recalled from their first meeting.

  “Is there a problem?” Locke was puzzled. Cordesman, in spite of his previous method-acting, had seemed satisfied that he’d had nothing to do with White Shir—er, Byers’ suicide.

  Why are they here?

  “You’re not under arrest, and we don’t have a warrant, at least not yet… We would like you to get dressed and come with us, there’s something we’d like you to take a look at.” This from Cordesman’s companion, a man who seemed completely devoid of emotion. In another setting the Jack Webb monotone would have been hilarious; in this context it seemed to possess something of a creep-factor. Locke glanced at his clock, 9:38 a.m.