American Skin

by Ken Bruen

  She lingered on the name, drawing it out then rising on the last syllable, I said,

  “Like the song?”

  Blank look, then,

  “Song?”

  “Sure. Bobby Gentry, Billy Joe McAllister jumped off that bridge.”

  Didn’t register, she indicated her empty glass, said,

  “We drinking, or what?”

  I looked round and Juan had disappeared, she said,

  “He’s got a jones.”

  My turn to blank, so she sighed, made the gesture of a needle into a vein. I noticed her nails, black polish. Should have been ugly but worked. ‘Course, I was already sold and would have appreciated any shade. Juan had always been into dope, him and Tommy, bags of grass, moving up or down to coke. I was riveted by her eyes, flecks of green in there, I asked,

  “How serious is his habit?”

  More derision, as if she couldn’t quite get how dumb I was, dissed,

  “You’re shooting up, how the fuck serious does it get?”

  The obscenity hung in the air, like a bad news flash, to ease it, I stood, asked,

  “Wine, right?”

  She nodded, stared at me, said,

  “Nice buns.”

  Threw me, I countered,

  “The Girl with Green Eyes.”

  Blank again so I explained,

  “It’s a novel, by an Irish writer, Edna O’Brien, she . . .”

  Her hand was up, said,

  “Like the wine? Before Tuesday.”

  An Italian guy at the till, I asked,

  “Bottle of wine.”

  He looked past me, at Sherry, said,

  “Bottles.”

  Handed me two, another glass and I headed back, I’d been tempted to ask if he’d seen Juan but if he’d gone,

  “Juan who?”

  I’d have decked him. Jet lag, new city, Juan, had combined to make my headache start up again. When I sat down, it must showed as Sherry asked,

  “You hurting?”

  The “hurting” made it sound like a country song, I said, “The miles catching up.”

  She held my gaze, then,

  “Got some ludes, fix you right up.”

  I poured the wine, said,

  “I’m not real gone on dope.”

  She took her glass, said,

  “Juan said you were a tight ass.”

  Showstopper.

  Then I felt her toes touch my left thigh, a light caress then withdrew, said, “Juan catches you messing with me, he’ll put a cap in your skull.”

  “What?”

  “We’re married, yeah, so you know what you’re getting into big guy.”

  She was insane, no doubt about it, she was your out-and-out lunatic. I figured I’d give it five minutes, then get the hell out of there. I’d fulfilled my obligation to Tommy, met Juan and that was it, deal done.

  Juan returned, an energy burning off him, you could almost reach out and touch it, a manic fire. He said,

  “More vino, bueno.”

  Whatever his origins, Juan dived in and out of accents like a demented seal. When he was high, which was most of the time, he’d spin from Spanish to English to Pidgin at a blistering pace. My headache moved up a notch. I poured him a glass and he said,

  “To Tommy, mi amigo.”

  We clinked glasses and he drained his. Dopers, they’re cruising on some junk, they’ll take whatever else is to hand, especially your cash. Tommy telling me one time, you go a cokehead’s apartment, the first thing you see is tons of dry cleaning, all on hangers, in cellophane, ready to rock. No waiting. Juan asked,

  “Qué passé Stephan, where is Thomas?”

  I looked at them, two hyped strangers, my head pounding, said,

  “He’s dead.”

  Sherry was filing her nails and for a moment, Juan sat absolutely still then grabbed my wrist, demanded,

  “What is this . . . this sheet?”

  I stared at his fingers, the nails bitten to the quick, said,

  “You want to let go of my wrist. . . amigo?.”

  He released it, sat back and I said,

  “He didn’t suffer.”

  What a crock that is, as if it gives some sort of closure. A bleakness filled Juan’s face then his eyes were hardass, asked,

  “How?”

  “An accident.”

  He began flexing his fingers, cracking the joints, Sherry said,

  “Yo, guys, lighten up.”

  Without looking at her, he said,

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  Then to me,

  “You are his friend, you watch his back, how can he muerto, dead?”

  I could do hardass, welcomed it; he pushed, I’d push back, said,

  “Shit happens.”

  Just like that, he let it go, shrugged, made the sign of the cross, asked,

  “Tell me your plans, amigo?.”

  Had fully intended laying out my Tucson project, meeting him now, I way backtracked, lied,

  “Thought I’d hang out, you know, like chill.”

  Before he could respond, his cell trilled, he flipped it open with such casualness, I knew he’d practiced it a hundred times in the mirror, went,

  “Diga me.”

  Listened, then followed with a volley of spitfire Spanish, chewing the words in a flurry of facial grimaces I could only half understand. Went like this:

  “Dinero, mucho dinero, trabajo, carambe, muy bueno.”

  And a litany of obscenities. Slammed the phone on the table, shouting,

  “Maricón.”

  His eyes were crazed and he jumped to his feet, said,

  “Amigo, gotta vamoose, some business to fix.”

  He pronounced it bidness. I said,

  “No problem.”

  He indicated Sherry, not looking at her, asked,

  “Can you see my woman gets home, maybe catch a cab?”

  And he rooted in his skin tight-jeans, spilled a mess of bills on the table, said,

  “We hook up mañana, have us a time.”

  He was reaching out to make that black gesture, knuckles touching, then palms over and more cool shit, I ignored it, said,

  “You bet.”

  We all looked at his palm dangling in mid air then he recovered, leaned over to Sherry, got his tongue half way down her throat. Took a time as he made slavering noises, as if he were eating her, then withdrew, made a gun of his finger, cocked the thumb, said,

  “See you, slick.”

  After he’d gone, I said,

  “Bidness?”

  She was applying lipstick, a shiny pale gloss, said,

  “Thinks he’s a player, grew up in the goddamn Bronx.”

  “And is he . . . a player?”

  She adjusted her skirt, not that there was a whole lot to fix, but gave us both the opportunity to stare at her legs, then she said,

  “He’s a goddamn prick is what he is.”

  No argument there.

  “Sherry is what Connemara men drink when they

  give up booze for Lent, they feel it’s a true

  penance.”

  — TRADITIONAL

  SHERRY WAS BORN as Mary Ellen Dubcheck in the type of mining town made famous by The Deer Hunter. When she finally saw the movie, she was convinced, first, they’d made it in her hometown, and second, she thought Christopher Walken was the hottest guy on the planet.

  The term dysfunctional is too mild for the family she had — seriously fucked is closer. Her father was a shadowy figure who beat her, then just upped and disappeared. Laying the seeds of abandonment rage in the young girl, for the rest of her life she’d be acutely aware of men attempting to leave her. Her mother was the trailer trash of Gretchen Wilson songs, the proverbial redneck woman.

  What Sherry remembered of her town was the thick pallor of grit, dust, black smoke that hung over the landscape like the worst omen. It got in your eyes, hair, clothes, and no amount of scrubbing would erase it. When the steelworks were closed, a blacker de
pression settled on the place. The men, drank, fought and hunted. The atmosphere was rife with hurt, hatred, resentment, and all of it laid its curse on the girl.

  One brother, Lee, a year older, interfered with her when she was twelve, and when she told her mother, she got the beating of a lifetime with the words,

  “It’s what men do, stop whining or there’s more whipping . . . .”

  Lee was found dead from a gunshot wound to the back of the head in the woods. Hunting accident they said. Sherry’s mother thought otherwise but said nothing. Their dog, a collie named Rusty, was also the victim of a hunting accident. Rusty had hated the young girl with the unerring instinct that canines have for the very essence of malevolence. Her mother packed Sherry off to New Orleans when the girl was fourteen. To a friend who ran a whorehouse. Sherry learned all she needed to know for survival, sex equals power equals violence. A combination of that trinity would run her life from then on. Having been schooled in the very essentials of survival and manipulation, Sherry lit out for New York when she was seventeen. Arriving at Port Authority, like the thousands of runaways and prey who arrive daily, she was hit on by one of the waiting friendly predators. He sure dialled the wrong number. His usual gig being to get the girl to a house, then turn her out to a line of men. In a New Orleans drawl, Sherry asked if he’d like a little suck before they left the station?

  They found him in the urinal, his pants around his ankles and his dick in his mouth, a cathouse variation on the blow job, his wallet missing.

  Sherry got a job as a dancer in the East Village and pulled down the bucks with a wild routine that involved an imaginary dog she called Rusty and sometimes, for private customers, she called the dog Lee.

  How she hooked up with Juan, she spotted his thick wedge of green from the stage and within a week, he’d set her up in a cosy studio. His use of heroin meant the sex was sporadic but he kept her around as she was so sharp. Called her his private dancer. Sherry loved the big city, she got her own supply of drugs set up and had plenty of green. She sent her mother a fat package with half a Ben Franklin and the words,

  “I left the other half in the woods, like men do.”

  Juan had offered her some crank but she was too slick to go that road, she had a nice buzz on a daily basis from the dope she’d been reared on in New Orleans — Percodan — she dearly loved her percs. Mix in a little crystal for variation and a girl was as happy as a pig in a basket. She worked on her accent, learning to vary it with down home licks and the harsh vowels of the Lower East Side.

  Scams . . .

  Nothing she liked better than a good one. House of Games was her favourite movie, with the line, “one born every minute and two to take ‘em.” She stumbled into a rich seam almost by accident.

  Forty-second Street, cleaned up and tourist attraction though it still had enough sleaze to make her feel comfortable. And if you hung out close to Port Authority, she saw most of them go down. It was a master class in the con. Became her custom to take her latte, grande, with vanilla lick, in the Starbucks on the corner opposite. Plus, one of the geeks, calling himself a barista, had the hots for her and threw in a Danish free. Turned out the nerd had a little habit going and so she established another minor connection for her medication, never could have enough sources. Juan, though not stingy with his dope, sometimes threatened to cut her off, keep her in line, the usual macho bullshit.

  She was ripping him off daily but a little at a time. Never knew when the time might come , she’d have to leg it and best be prepared. A cold Monday, the windchill howling down Sixth Avenue, she made her way to the coffee stop, got her smile and latte, took her usual seat near the restrooms. The cold ensured the place was jammed and a business type asked if he might share her table. In his forties, he had the hairline of the harassed executive. He put his briefcase on the table, then supped loudly on his cardboard cup. Sherry got her best smile in place, the one she’d rehearsed a hundred times, a hint of timidity, a dribble of heat and a whole lot of promise. Never failed. She flashed it, said,

  “Lemme guess, mocha with a dash of peppermint.”

  She’d heard him order the damn thing. He was amazed and lured by the smile, went,

  “Well, good Lord, that is astonishing.”

  Yeah, right.

  He was wearing a red string on his wrist, beneath a Rolex.

  He caught her look, used his fingers to touch the band, said,

  “The Kabbalah, it protects from the evil eye.”

  She nearly laughed, thinking, you’re going to need more than a piece of string to protect you now buddy. She put on her most oh please educate me kind sir expression, asked,

  “What’s that about?”

  He explained that he suffered from recurring anxiety/depression woes then heard about Philip Berg, the founder of The Kabbalah Centre, and his life had been changed. He named Madonna and Britney Spears as two devotees. If he thought this would convince Sherry, he couldn’t have chosen worse names. Sherry thought these dames were seriously whacko. Her only heroine was Roseanne Barr, badass and rich.

  She near simpered,

  “And have you met Madonna, Guy . . . and oh, their divine little girl, Lourdes?”

  He wasn’t pleased as it distracted him from the main topic, himself. She quickly got that rectified by asking,

  “How do I get one of those . . . bands?”

  She was careful not to call it string. He patiently outlined that she could attend The Kabbalah Centre, purchase the item for twenty-six dollars and the book of learning was only three hundred or so. He offered to take her. Within a few hours, she’d taken him for his wallet, the Rolex, and on a whim, took the red band, too. Left him on a bed in the Milford Plaza. As she headed towards Penn Station, a homeless guy asked her for help, she gave him the string, and he whined,

  “The fuck is that?”

  She gave her sweetest smile, said,

  “The answer to your recurring anxiety slash . . .

  She emphasised the slash, leaning on it, getting some heat in there, then,

  “. . . depression, problems lie in that little piece of magic.”

  She had Juan buy her a laptop, well, he acquired one, paying for things wasn’t his territory and she looked up cults, got her a list of religious groups, including, the Brethren, Sai Ba, Jews For Jesus, Raelians, Beta Domination. Over the next few months she met and rolled representatives of most of these.

  Her database also turned up Aryan Nations, Satanic Church, and web addresses such as www.godhatesfags. com. The tone of these folk reflected her own personality too much for her to fuck with them; she knew they weren’t the ones to go after as they’d come right back and with ferocity. Like everything else, she grew bored with the whole deal, she couldn’t face one more earnest-faced, veggie, non-caffeinated, positive do-gooder.

  Sherry liked to walk. New York was full of wonders, every trip out was an adventure. A brisk march day, Juan had took off to conduct some bidness in Chicago, Sherry was walking along Christopher Street, she’d heard one of the crew mention that from Sheridan Square down to the Hudson was the territory of the maricón, the gay enclave. On West Street she watched in wonder as openly gay couples walked hand-in-hand. She walked on to Grove Street, saw a cafe called Marie’s Crisis Café, and went in. Ordered a large latte with vanilla, slice of Danish. She wouldn’t be eating it but liked the possibility.

  Sherry only ever admired one human being, Roseanne Barr, had never missed her show.

  Roseanne was true grit, had balls like no else on the planet, stuck it to everyone and now had the fuck-you money that Sherry wanted. A woman sat at her table, asked,

  “Join you, hon?”

  She was in her fifties but cosmetic surgery had worked its limited miracle. Her neck was old but her face was that of a twenty-year-old. Sherry said,

  “You’re sitting so I’d say you’ve already joined me.”

  The woman laughed, then launched into a very explicit account of her female lovers, followed
by a long tirade about the failings of men. Sherry waited till she ran down then used one of Roseanne’s lines,

  “Why’re you complaining, you don’t have to fuck them?”

  Got her attention real fast.

  She invited Sherry back to her place for a drink, some relaxation. Sherry said she’d love that.

  The apartment was small but tastefully decorated, she produced a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, asked,

  “This to your liking, hon?”

  Sherry smiled, asked to see the bottle, the woman going,

  “It’s a good one.”

  And handed over the bottle. Sherry hefted it in one hand then swung it fast, splitting the woman’s forehead like an egg, swung twice more before the woman was out. Sherry took the cap off the bottle, swigged and said,

  “It is good.”

  She kicked the woman in the back of the head, going,

  “Goddamn dyke.”

  The apartment yielded an ounce of grass, nearly three hundred bucks, a soft leather jacket that fit perfectly, and some decent-quality earrings.

  Later, she was having a drink in The Monster, on Sheridan Square itself, she asked the bartender about the pedestrian walkway that links Battery Park to the top of the Village.

  The bartender said that it was fine during the day, packed with bladers, bikers, joggers, but at night, the predators came out. Sherry adjusting the collar of her new soft leather, said,

  “You mean it’s dangerous?”

  Giving her wide eyed look.

  The bartender shook his head, said,

  “Bitty thing like you, they’d eat you up.”

  The first thing people were aware of when meeting Sherry was the raw sexuality, it oozed from her. A palpable heat that seemed to shimmer in her aura. She knew and worked it every way she could. Not till afterwards, when you’d gotten away from her, did another sense hit.

  An icy cold.

  James Hillman, a Jungian psychotherapist, named icy coldness as one of the prime features of evil.

  Sherry was able to hide that when you first met her, such was her sensuality that it cloaked the ice. It was literally only when you were away from the fire did the cold set in. Her mother had said,