by John Lutz
“You take my share,” Anna said to her mother.
She watched as Dale and her mother carefully meted out the twelve silver dollars, four for Dale, eight for Anna’s mother, taking them from the top of the stack in order, one by one, and making it a point not to look at the dates. Lilitta observed the process closely, her face impassive.
Everyone was involved with the money and uninterested in whatever else might have been in the cigar box.
Like the gun tucked firmly against Anna’s hip.
Lars Svenson emerged from the Hades Portal Club in the East Village and drew a deep breath of cool night air. He was dressed in black leather from the toes up-black Doc Marten boots, tight black pants, and a studded black vest over a sleeveless black T-shirt.
He hadn’t been completely satisfied inside the club, where he was a regular patron. The woman he’d attempted to pick up belonged to somebody bigger and probably meaner. That was actually okay with Lars, as he’d gotten close enough to see that the bruises on her face were dark makeup. So he hadn’t scored sexually tonight, and he hadn’t scored for dope. Lars still needed relief from his barely contained guilt and rage, which meant he was still looking for meth or cocaine, and for somebody to hurt.
From the time he was a teenager, Lars’s relationships with women always led to violence. At first he tried to deny that was what he wanted, what he truly needed, but always the yearning was there, the compulsion only sometimes held in check. Gradually his willpower and his denial eroded, and during the past few years he accepted his need and learned how to lure his victims with feigned concern and kindness.
He soon found that it was like baiting a trap, a contest of wits his opponents had little chance of winning. He learned to enjoy it. It was like the hunting he used to do in the Minnesota woods-find the game, flush it, and make it yours. The only real difference he could see was that now he was in New York and it was women he hunted. And between hunts he enjoyed going directly to willing victims who endured pain for pay. It was like hunting birds in cages.
Just last week, even after moving furniture all day, he still felt the energy and the need, so he’d gone to a club and used his blond good looks and his pickup skills to get a young woman named Tina to invite him to her apartment.
Lars smiled, remembering Tina’s trusting, round face and zaftig body, even fleshier than he’d imagined when she’d stripped off her bra and panty hose. Tina liked to play rough. Or at least she thought she did. Lars had shown her what rough was, once she was tied and gagged and his for the rest of the night.
His smile had become such a wide grin that a passing couple of guys, faggots, stared at him as he strode along the sidewalk. He was recalling Tina’s futile struggles and muted cries for help, the terror and pain in her eyes, and then the resignation. After all, she’d gotten herself into this, said her eyes, after Lars had patiently explained it to her over and over. It wasn’t difficult to get her to believe it; she came with guilt built in, part of the package.
She’d welcomed his advances in the club and even told him she enjoyed bondage and discipline, rough sex with a little pain. Verbal commands and the whip were okay, if used sparingly. B amp;D and S amp;M. She hadn’t mentioned which she enjoyed more. Her oversight.
In the morning he untied Tina and asked if she wanted to go out for breakfast, but she awkwardly crept from the bed with sore and stiffened limbs and cowered in a corner, staring at him in mute disbelief.
Lars laughed, and as he got dressed, he told her what a stupid bitch she was. He didn’t glance back at her when he left the apartment. He wouldn’t be surprised to see her again; she might even come looking for him. They were like that, some of them, once you took them to a higher level. They needed to go higher and higher, and Lars was willing to fly them all the way to heaven so they could escape their hell. They’d beg him to, after a while. They’d plead and pledge their souls. What they wanted, they loathed, but their problem was they loved it even more. It was like a drug addiction.
Speaking of which…Lars was going to go out of his gourd if he didn’t score some dope pretty soon.
He tried to think of something else as he roamed the gray morning streets, watching for possibilities.
The something else was Claire Briggs.
She was the type Lars liked, slender and helpless, fems all the way, natural submissives once they were shown the path, once they were kicked in the ass and shoved along the path. And she lived alone, some kind of actress, probably with a rich family that might come across once he taught her how to mooch.
Claire Briggs. Definitely worthwhile.
Lars spotted a guy he recognized standing outside the entrance to a diner, a gigantic black dude with dreadlocks, looked like a former NFL linebacker who’d taken up reggae. While bigger than Lars, he wasn’t as solid. The soft life was making him vulnerable. He was talking to a woman with straight blond hair that hung almost to her ass. The guy’s name was Handy and he dealt.
The woman said something about pancakes, then sashayed her ass inside the diner, making the long hair swish. Handy stayed outside, leaning back against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette like it was an art.
“Handy,” Lars said when he was about twenty feet away; he didn’t want the dealer to miss seeing him and go inside after the woman. “Remember me, my man?”
Handy flicked away his cigarette and gave Lars a wide, gleaming smile. “I remember your money.”
“I wanna reintroduce you,” Lars said, forgetting all about Claire Briggs.
For the moment.
20
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
“He’s sixteen,” Milford Sand said, “of an age when he can damn well work and pull his own weight around here. Hell, I was-”
“I know,” his wife Cara said, “you were working in the mine when you were fourteen. This boy, Luther, is the only survivor of a house fire that killed his foster family in Missouri; then he somehow survived almost a year of life on the streets in Kansas City.”
“So he’s no innocent,” Milford said.
“So he needs time to heal body and soul, Milford. Please show him some compassion.”
Milford snorted and jammed his arms into his suit coat almost hard enough to split the seams. “He can heal his soul while he’s working with his body.”
Milford Sand was fifty-three, almost twenty years older than his wife, but he looked as if he could be in his late sixties. His narrow back was bent from sitting hunched over at his desk at the Hiram Lead Mine, where he kept the company books, and his face was pale and pinched. His cheap drugstore spectacles, which were too small, gave him a slightly cross-eyed appearance. Milford monitored the household money the way he tracked expenses at the mine, and there was no point in spending for prescription glasses when the ones on the revolving rack at Drexel’s Pharmacy would do just as well.
He studied his thinning brown hair, strained blue eyes, and puckered mouth as he adjusted his tie knot in the dresser mirror. He’d once overheard somebody at the mine say his natural expression was that of a man about to spit. Milford wasn’t insulted; the comment hadn’t been far off the mark. “The agency said this boy-Luther-has had some experience as a housepainter. I’ll talk to Tom Wilde about taking him on as an apprentice.”
“I don’t know-”
“That’s true,” Milford interrupted in a weary, tolerant tone. “You don’t know, and there’s no need for you to worry about that part of it. You just try and make the lad feel at home; I’ll take care of his employment this summer so he can earn his keep.”
“Maybe he should go to summer school. He’s already two grades behind.”
“Maybe he’s simply unable to do the work and needs to learn a trade.”
“Milford-”
“I have to get to the office.” He snatched up his heavy brown leather briefcase from the floor alongside the dresser, an adroit and powerful motion for such a frail-looking man, and headed for the door. Then he paused. “What time’s the agen
cy bringing the boy?”
“One this afternoon. Try and get home if it’s at all possible.”
“I’ll speak to them at the mine.” He forced a lemony smile and hurried from the room.
A few seconds later Cara heard the screen door slam downstairs, the hollow thumping of his footfalls on the wooden porch, then after a minute or so the grinding of his car starting in the garage and the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Morning sounds. It was how Cara started each long day, listening to Milford leave for the mine.
The mine. All he thought about was the mine, his job, numbers, and lead. Profit and loss, this column or that. Cara thought the lead in the air was probably poisoning the whole town.
It was certainly poisoning their marriage.
Luther was surprised by the house that Saturday afternoon. He’d expected something smaller. This was a cream-colored frame monster with gray trim, a gallery porch, and a steep, tiled roof with lots of dormers. It looked like the house Luther had seen in Hansel and Gretel drawings-only much, much larger. There were a few other houses something like it on the wide, tree-lined street, but this one was the biggest and in the best condition even though it was old like the rest of them. The yard around it was wide and level, with a low stone wall in front and with lots of trees and shrubs. There was a long gravel drive that ran to a garage in back that looked newer than the house.
It was warm when he and the woman from the state agency got out of the air-conditioned car. There was plenty of shade in the yard, and twenty or thirty industrious sparrows pecking away busily on the green lawn. The sparrows all took flight when Luther slammed the car door. He hefted his lumpy duffel bag and walked around the car toward the wide wooden porch steps.
The porch was shady and had viney potted plants and a glider and rocking chair on it. “Looks like Norman fuckin’ Rockwell lives here,” Luther heard the agency woman mutter under her breath. She was slender, with lustrous blond hair, and was better-looking than most of the state employees. Luther knew she would have been pissed off if she was aware of how he’d been studying her.
Their footsteps made noise on the plank floor, and the front door opened before the agency woman pushed the doorbell button.
Inside, the woman introduced herself to Mr. and Mrs. Sand as Helen Simpson, which was a good thing because Luther had forgotten her name somewhere on Interstate 40. He watched and listened as she went through the routine that was so familiar to her, complete with smiles and pats on Luther’s shoulder at proper intervals; then she left the house and walked down the drive to her dusty white agency car. Business finished.
And there sat sixteen-year-old Luther Lunt with his new foster parents. The three of them listened to gravel crunch as Helen Simpson backed her car out of the drive. Then it was quiet in the big three-story Victorian house that Milford Sand and his wife had restored.
Luther would be the only charge here, which he liked. And he liked the wife, Cara, right away. She was kinda old-maybe even in her thirties-but still pretty, with her curly dark hair and brown eyes. She had an oval face that looked like it belonged in one of those heart-shaped lockets you opened up to see the photograph. And she smiled at Luther as if she meant it.
On the other hand, the husband, Luther’s new temporary father, acted like he had a stick up his ass. While working the streets as a male prostitute in Kansas City, Luther had seen his kind of little weasel before. He thought he might need the wife to protect him from Mr. Sand. He was sure, just by looking, that she wasn’t like Mrs. Black.
Cara-Mrs. Sand-was smiling at him. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade, Luther?”
Time for the act. “I sure would, Mrs. Sand.”
She stood up from the sofa, where she’d been seated next to her husband. For a moment she looked as if she might cry. “I wouldn’t expect you to call me mother, Luther, but Cara would do fine.”
Milford stood up also. He bent over and brushed imaginary lint or dust from his pants. “I’d like to stay, but I need to get to the mine.”
“Mine?” Luther asked.
“The Hiram Lead Mine, where I’m head of accounting.”
“Sounds neat,” Luther said.
Milford nodded solemnly. “It is neat.” He pecked Cara on the cheek. “I’ll be back in time for dinner, dear. Bye, Luther.”
“Bye,” Luther said to his retreating back.
Cara went into the kitchen, then returned with two glasses of lemonade. She handed one to Luther, then sat down again on the sofa across from the wing chair where he sat.
“He works so hard,” she said of her husband. “Even sometimes on weekends. When they’re behind at the mine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Luther sipped lemonade and glanced around. “You sure got a beautiful house, all the room and nice furniture.”
“Why, thank you, Luther. Mr. Sand and I spent months restoring it. The first two floors are done, and we’ll get around to the third-floor bedrooms someday.” She took a sip from her tall, frosted glass and crossed her legs, tugging down her flowered skirt demurely to cover her knees. “We sanded the floors, brought the kitchen up to date… It’s such a job, keeping up with an old house. It never stops.”
“Maybe I can help,” Luther said.
“Why, thank you.” She smiled. “Maybe you can.”
“I know you and Mr. Sand are putting yourselves out for me.”
“Not at all. We volunteered because we like to help children-young men-like yourself. And if it’ll make you feel any better, Mr. Sand’s going to speak to someone about helping you learn a trade. A housepainter. You’ve done some of that, haven’t you, where you came from?”
“I can paint some,” Luther said. His voice was tight, remembering the fire spreading over spilled paint, gaining glowing life, burning in a widening circle and filling the house with fumes. He’d thought the other kids were gone and the house was empty except for the scumbag Norbert, and Dara, who didn’t care. They were supposed to be all by themselves, fucking in the upstairs bedroom, not paying attention while the fire spread. It was when the screaming started that Luther-
“More lemonade?”
“No thanks,” Luther said, grinning shyly at Cara. “I best be getting unpacked, if that’s okay.”
Cara placed her glass on a coaster and stood up. “Of course it’s okay. I’ll show you your room. I hope you’ll like it.”
“I will,” Luther said, following her.
The next Monday, after a breakfast of pancakes and eggs prepared by Cara, Milford drove Luther into town to introduce him to Tom Wilde.
Wilde’s Painting Company was a green-and-yellow flat-roofed building that looked as if it had once been a corner service station. A rusty and dented Ford pickup truck and a newer-looking white van were parked outside. The van was lettered with the company name and phone number and had racks on top and three paint-splattered aluminum extension ladders lashed to them. One of the pair of overhead doors was open to reveal a shadowed interior of shelves lined with paint cans and folded canvas drop cloths. Nearby were several stepladders, a pair of wooden sawhorses, and stacks of white plastic five-gallon paint buckets.
Milford parked his blue Ford Fairlane sedan at the curb, diligently setting the emergency brake even though they were on level ground. He said nothing as he and Luther got out of the car and walked toward the building.
Luther thought the old pickup truck looked interesting and wondered if he’d be driving it. Driving Norbert Black’s pickup was the only thing he’d found enjoyable about working for Norbert. Of course Luther didn’t have a driver’s license, which never bothered Norbert but might be of concern to Tom Wilde.
As they got closer to the building, Luther detected the familiar scent of paint thinner. Then he saw in the dim interior of the building a stocky figure in white overalls, standing at a workbench with his fists on his hips. Drifting from what had obviously once been a service bay for cars came the thumping and vibrating rhythm of an electric paint mixer violently shaking a
gallon can of paint.
The man at the workbench sensed he wasn’t alone and turned. He was between thirty and forty, with kindly, handsome features arranged in a permanent, squinting smile. He had bushy brown hair and a somewhat oversize, lumpy nose threaded with red veins. His was the sort of face that made you like him at once, or at least trust him. Luther saw now that his white overalls were splattered with a rainbow array of paints.
The man reached behind him and switched off the frantically thumping mixer; in the silence he looked at Luther and smiled wider. “This the lad?”
“This is him,” Milford said, and formally introduced them.
“I’m told you have some experience as a painter,” Wilde said. He had a soft, precise way of speaking, like a teacher.
“Some,” Luther told him. “Painting barns, some houses.”
“That oughta be good enough. Pay’s every two weeks, minimum wage. That’s about all I can afford.”
“That’d be fine.”
Nobody spoke for a while; then Milford said, “I’ll leave you two to tell paint stories and get acquainted.” He looked at Wilde. “I might have to work late at the mine. Can you drop Luther off at the house after you’re finished with him?”
“Won’t be a problem.”
Luther and Wilde watched as Milford returned to the Ford. He glanced back and waved to them as he was lowering himself behind the steering wheel; then he drove away fast, making the car’s wide back end dip.
“He sure seems to like his job,” Luther said.
Wilde laughed. “A kinda workaholic. And don’t let his frail appearance fool you. He spent time in the military as a ranger, then some years at hard labor in the mine while he was getting his accounting degree. You never want to mix it up with him, Luther.” As if reminded of his interrupted task, he turned on the paint mixer again, then motioned with his head. He and Luther walked outside, where it wasn’t so noisy and they could talk.
“We got a job today?” Luther asked, still trying to imagine Milford Sand as a hard ass tough guy. It was just possible.