Animals

by Jonn Skipp; Craig Spector

  And if there was any hope of survival, there was healing to be done.

  Syd tried. Whatever else might be said, no one could take that from him. He tried. For the better part of the next year Syd limped in and out of counseling; crutching like a zombie, trying to piece the shattered fragments together. Trying to undo the thing that could not be undone.

  It was no use. The trust was gone. As Karen's secret world shattered into a million glittering fragments she retreated, the better to protect herself from the truth she could no longer bear to face. She found out through the grapevine that Vaughn Restal had been fucking three other women the whole time he was helping himself to her, and that each and every one of them got his special slime-coated vow of true love and deep, caring commitment as well. It only drove her deeper and deeper inside.

  For months Syd played cheerleader to the faltering cause: buying her flowers, courting her constantly, apologizing for his part in their undoing. Trying to make her feel his love. Trying to ignore the fact that he was dying inside. Hoping that she would return to him before he could go no further.

  She never said she was sorry, or that it would never happen again, or any of a hundred other things that could have eased the pain, helped to heal their suffering.

  Worst of all, she could never bring herself to tell him the one thing that could have restored him, the one thing that might have helped to wipe the slate clean. The thing he needed most to hear, more than anything in the world.

  I love you.

  One day he realized that he just couldn't do it anymore. There was no blank check he could write her from his bottomless emotional reserves. He'd given her every chance he had to give, and quite a few that he hadn't. He was all used up.

  Syd packed his things, filed the papers, and walked away; trading his home for a skeevy little two-room walk-up in another part of town, the woman he loved for an empty bed, and a pocketful of dreams for what was left of his pride. That was a year ago. In the process he got his life back, such as it was. And with it, his integrity.

  All it cost him was his past and present, and the only future he knew.

  The one with Karen.

  The one that officially ended, today.

  SYD LOOKED UP. It was dark outside. The CD had long since played out, wrapping him in silence. The cigarette was a three-inch-long ash, poised between his fingers. The decree lay on the table, where it had fallen from his grasp. Droplets spattered its surface; it took Syd a moment to realize that they were his own tears.

  "God," he whispered. "I gotta get out of here."

  He looked at the papers with disdain, then crumpled them into a tiny little ball. Keeping it around was like hanging on to a severed limb. Syd had tried to hold on to the good that he could still feel, only to have it slip away—wraithlike, ephemeral.

  The bad was much more durable. It was as though the trauma of the breakup had all but blotted out his ability to connect with anything but the pain.

  But he had loved her; of that, he was certain. He had the scars to prove it. The memory of his love was seared into his soul and etched into the marrow of his bones. Ten years took up a substantial piece of your heart; it left a big hole when you finally cut it out.

  He was tired of whipping himself with her memory. He had stitched up the hole, spent months waiting for the scars to scab over. He'd heard his friends' polite inquiries a hundred times; felt innocence turn suddenly awkward as they asked how's Karen, oh really, gee, I'm so sorry to hear that. Then, silence.

  His responses had winnowed down, too—the heart-wrenching outpourings of the first few months gradually giving way to fewer and fewer details, like colors fading from a painting, or a vital sign slowly going flatline. Until finally people stopped asking altogether, grateful to be relieved of the burden.

  Until finally, it was reduced to its lowest common denominator of truth. Things just didn't work out.

  It's in the past, he told himself, choking back a wrecking-ball-sized lump in his throat. It's behind me now. Just let it go.

  Syd grabbed another cigarette, picked up his lighter. He flicked it on, listened to the tiny hissing flame.

  Just let it all go. . . .

  The balled-up wad of paper blossomed into flame as he placed it in the ashtray. Syd picked up the photo. He hadn't seen her in over six months. He doubted that he would ever see her again.

  "Good-bye," he said. Then consigned her to the pyre as well.

  Karen's face turned black as the emulsion bubbled and crisped. The fire flared bright for an instant, then receded,

  leaving only ash. Syd stood, looked at his watch. Seven-fifty. Jesus. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time to change and get the hell over to Chameleon's before either Queen Bee started or he blew his brains out.

  Whichever came first.

  4

  CHAMELEON'S WAS A creaky little roadhouse dive that specialized in cheap drinks, so-so pizza, and superlative rhythm and blues. Its capacious gravel parking lot gobbled a sizable chunk of turf at the foot of Mt. Royle and Dirks Mill Pike, well on the outskirts of town. At night, you could see the lights of the city splayed out before you, from miles away. It underscored how far out in the boonies you were. How far removed from, quote, CIVILIZATION. Unquote.

  The music always hit you first. It was loud, even during the daytime, banging out through the double doors and into the lot; and it was always, always good. One thing you had to give the owners: they didn't skimp when it came down to the tunes. Though the kitchen, lighting and overall decor were decidedly low-tech, they had popped some serious bucks on the house sound system, and it wailed.

  They also had a new-fangled CD jukebox, which Jules had crammed to the hilt with coolness: little independent-label reissues of vintage, seminal recordings rammed right up against the latest in showy big-budget technique. So you got Johnny Winter's mid-'60s album "Progressive Blues Experiment" back to back with Albert King and Gary Moore's British 1990 duet. Prehistoric T-Bone Walker. Posthistoric Robben Ford. Johnny "Guitar" Watson and Roy Buchanan. Jimi Hendrix and Buddy Boy Hawkins. Muddy Waters and Stevie Ray Vaughan.

  Jules liked all kinds of down 'n' dirty music, but his love was the blues. Jules was the most authoritative and genuinely passionate lover of the blues that Syd had ever met. He had tintypes from the Mississippi Delta to go with his old 78 rpm's, musty hardbound volumes on the music's history that he'd picked up over the years at all those book fairs and flea markets he loved to attend.

  What's more, Jules had actually spent a big chunk of his youth wandering the country, by his own telling "searching for the heart of the blues." It was something Syd had always admired him for. And in working Chameleon's for the last decade, he'd managed to book—then meet and, in many cases, befriend—more than half the living legends still at large. From there, he'd become both a walking encyclopedia and self-styled curator, playing steward to every shred of data or memorabilia he picked up along the way. Not bad for a big ugly inbred bastard from the white-trash backwaters of Washington, Pa.

  And that was the most amazing thing about Jules. He moved at what might look like a leisurely pace, but he always followed through. When he examined an issue, he tended to examine it thoroughly; if he let a person or thing get close enough to nestle its hooks in him, he was in for the duration. Jules would not volunteer an uninformed opinion; and he wouldn't volunteer an opinion at all until he felt he had earned the right. These were issues of trust, and of adequate information. Issues he took very seriously indeed.

  Jules had been there for Syd, all through the divorce and the whole painful sequence of events leading up to, around, and through it. He had been Syd's sounding board, till the wee hours of the morning, on more occasions than Syd frankly cared to admit. He had offered encouragement, support, friendship, and—when it came down to it— some painfully honest criticism.

  Which was why Syd felt the need to talk with him tonight. He needed a little comprehensive perspective. On his encounter with the wolf. On those p
apers in the mail. And on what weird tenuous connection, if any, there might possibly be between them.

  Syd rolled in at eight forty-nine. Red was stationed just inside the double doors, as usual, collecting the five-dollar cover charge. Red was there mostly to inspire awe and dread, help deter excessive rowdiness and the criminal element. He was ugly and large and he excelled at his job. Fights didn't tend to last long at Chameleon's. He gave a poker-faced nod of recognition as Syd ambled up, then let him slip in ahead of the throng without paying. Privilege of the insider.

  Syd continued on. He knew maybe a third of the people there by name, two-thirds of them by sight; but he could deduce what ninety-eight percent of them were drinking, all the way from the door. Tommy was there, with a couple other guys from work. Their pitchers were loaded with Genuine Draft: too pale to be Bass, too rich to be Schaefer or Rolling Rock. Budd and his main squeeze Holly huddled by the popcorn machine, smooching over strong Cuba Libres with extra lime. Trent, the second-string bartender, was whipping up what appeared to be a Slippery Nipple for Tammy Eberhardt. And the Knuckle-head Brothers, Gary and Steve, were getting ready to perform some serious Jaegermeister damage; they took their liquid hallucinations very seriously.

  Jane the barmaid smiled at him as she approached, tray of drinks in hand. She was a mischievous spirit, on the lean side of twenty-something, with a presence that belied her age and her petite stature. She always seemed to have energy and enthusiasm to spare. Syd liked the way her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, the way her face was shaped: angular cheekbones framing a thin-lipped, intelligent smile, a slightly crooked nose, and wise, dark eyes that picked up on everything and seemed to constantly sparkle with secret amusement.

  She also had a kickass sense of humor, and a habit of not taking a scrap of shit off of anyone. Syd also greatly appreciated the fact that she hated Vaughn Restal. In fact, at that moment he wondered why he hadn't ever thought to marry her, instead . . . or virtually anyone else, for that matter.

  "Hi," he said, perking up a little in her presence.

  "Nice to see you changed your pants," she said.

  "Oh, god." Mortified. "Does everybody know about this now?"

  Jane just smiled and sashayed past. His spirits both rose and fell, pleased by the strokes but completely embarrassed. Did she think he'd peed himself? And where the hell had she seen him? He eyed the crotch of his pants unconsciously, just making sure it hadn't happened again.

  There were a pair of big-haired women at the bar, flanking a small hairy man. Before them, Jules stood, smiling indulgently. Syd guessed that they were trying to play "Stump the Bartender." Syd was sympathetic. He'd been trying to stump Jules since they first met, fifteen years ago. He'd pretty much resigned himself to the fact that it would never happen.

  "Okay, okay," the small hairy man said, as Syd came within earshot. "Set me up with a couple of Prairie Fires, then." He looked incredibly smug, glancing from the breasts on his left to the breasts on his right and back again. Syd stopped and watched, curious. This was one he didn't know.

  But Jules just plucked two shot glasses off the shelf and the Cuervo Gold off the speed rack before him. His oversized body's movements were surprisingly graceful, fluid, and precise. He poured a shot of tequila into each, replaced the bottle, and scooped the Tabasco from the condiments shelf, measuring out five scrupulous drops per shot and then sliding them over to Monkey Boy. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.

  "And what will you ladies have?" Jules inquired, expression professionally neutral. It wouldn't do for the bartender to gloat.

  "I wanna Tootsie Roll," said the one on the left, snapping her gum.

  "I'd like a Screaming Orgasm, please," said the one on the right, looking bold and embarrassed all at once.

  "And I," Syd volunteered, bellying up beside the Tootsie Roll queen, "would like a Hemorrhaging Brain."

  "Right you are," Jules said, lobbing a sidearm grin at Syd. Then he filled a pair of fancy highball glasses with crushed ice. Into the first he poured one ounce of Creme de Cacao, then topped it off with orange juice and shook it vigorously. Into the second he emptied half-ounce increments of amaretto, Kahlua, and Absolut (for the Screaming part). Cream polished off the rest of the Orgasm. Again, he shook, then slid them over to the ladies. The hairy man paid in full. Jules turned to ring it up.

  When he turned back, his wily gaze was trained on Syd. A longneck Rolling Rock appeared in his hand. He cracked it open and set it down. "Thanks," said Syd. Jules nodded his head. His eyes, deep-set beneath their steep cro-magnon brow, had the warm glow of the genuine wild inside. There was something entirely primitive about his features, placing him somewhere between Tom Waits, Ron Perlman, and Andre the Giant on the evolutionary scale: a rough-hewn quality to the long, horsey face, with its coarse black crop of hair, thick eyebrows to match, squat, prominent nose and sly, expansive deadpan grin full of slightly overlarge teeth.

  It was a great face, all in all, and it suited Jules perfectly: full of character, full of surprises. It was a face that people were predestined to underestimate. Jules liked that, and used it constantly. You had to be paying attention if you wanted more than a fleeting glimpse of how quick he actually was.

  "So how goes it this evening?" Jules automatically washed up behind the bar as he spoke, running the tools of his trade from left to right through the hot sudsy water, the warm rinse, the cool rinse, then onto the drain boards, without once looking down.

  "Kinda weird, actually," Syd replied. The words I'm divorced. I almost got ate by a wolf hung back for the moment, reined in by propriety and his own innate sense of comic timing.

  "Ah-hah." A serotinous Mona Gorilla smile. "So were you serious about that Brain?"

  "Well . . ." Syd stopped and thought about it for a second. "Actually, I just kinda said it to be funny. But . . . "

  Jules wiped down the bar, set the rag down, waited.

  "They are really good," Syd acknowledged, musing.

  Jules nodded sagely. "Delicious."

  "And they do look disgusting."

  "There's always that."

  "But I don't usually drink anything but beer."

  Frowning. "You're right."

  Syd grinned. "And you're just agreeing with everything I say."

  "One hundred percent."

  Syd laughed, shook his world-weary head. "Now that's a professional," he said, and finally got a laugh out of Jules as well. "What the hell. Let's do one up."

  By that time, a few more people had poured in the door, were making their way to the bar. Syd turned to watch them come as Jules turned for the peach schnapps and Baileys Irish Cream. A handsome young black couple, maybe slightly overdressed. A peck of essentially harmless good ol' boys. A lonely, dark-haired, fiercely-bulimic woman in her forties, whose name Syd could never remember. Behind her, a dark figure in the doorway, its identity as yet unclear.

  When he turned back, Jules was pouring the schnapps into a five-ounce rock glass set out before him. "I love this part," the bartender said, then opened the Baileys and meticulously dribbled it into the glass.

  The result was sheerest magic, purest mixological alchemy. No matter how many times he saw it, Syd never ceased to be amazed. It was way better than sea monkeys, cheaper than Claymation, tons more fun than an EPT. The second the Irish Cream hit the schnapps, it began to congeal into a brown, brainlike, undulating mass that floated in the clear liquor like an ugly fetus in amniotic fluid. Little fissures erupted across its surface, increasing in complexity as it grew. By the time Jules was finished, it even had a little brain stem. Such was his consummate skill.

  Syd stared at the tiny shriveled thing in the glass, felt something oily respond deep in his bowels. Suddenly the wide-open deer, in all its glory, was back in his mind's eye. Jesus, he thought. What the hell was I thinking?

  He didn't know why he'd failed to put it together before, what perverse side of him thought this would be a good idea. But the fact was that he didn't need,
just now, to see something that looked so much like his own internal organs. Much less to strain such a thing through his teeth as it tipped back down his throat.

  Then Jules applied the grenadine Hemorrhage, letting thick red fluid drift down to fill the brain grooves and make them gleam. Syd cross-indexed the visual reference against his gag reflex, found himself provoked but holding steady.

  He turned away, for a breath of fresh air.

  And that was when he saw her.

  5

  THE DARK SHAPE in the doorway had paid its cover, was descending the steps toward him. That it was a she, he could clearly see.

  And, dear god, what a she it was.

  Syd felt suddenly like Glenn Ford in Gilda, watching Rita Hayworth for the very first time. The same stunned disbelief: closing his throat as she riveted his attention, rendering him incapable of either speaking or looking away. The same cruel certainty that he would never again—no matter how long he lived—be this close to a woman so utterly, unequivocally compelling.

  She moved closer, charging the very air around her as she parted the crowd. Syd literally felt her before he saw her clearly, sensed the power implicit in her presence. Strips of light and shadow illuminated and concealed her in stages as she came. The flashes were revelations, each more startling than the last.

  First, her body, emerging from silhouette: a black leather biker's jacket draped over a body-hugging minidress, concealing her tight, excruciating curves even as it revealed just enough to stoke his imagination to flame. Her legs were black-stockinged, breathtakingly long, immaculately sculpted, altogether painful to behold. Long cascades of hair the color of blood and cinnamon caressed square and elegant shoulders, flowed past the delicate expanse of her throat. Her eyes were brilliant, backlit emeralds, burning with a feral green light; her lips were wet plush beestung dreams of glory, bite-red against her fine pale skin. Her mouth was wide and sly, the corners turned slightly downward in a naturally sardonic, inward grin. Once again, like the rest of her, so intensely intoxicating that it hurt to directly address them with his eyes.