American Skin

by Ken Bruen

“You walk into a room, you feel the cold, you know she has been here.”

  Sherry was never referred to by name by her mother, who said,

  “I’m scared to say that demon’s name.”

  Juan, who spent more time with Sherry than anyone, was not immune to the sensation, but being on heroin, he put it down to the smack.

  The lesbian who’d picked her up in the coffee bar, recuperating in the hospital, would only ever say afterwards,

  “I’m so cold, why can’t I get warm.”

  The old people in Ireland, you ever ask them about Satan, about the fires of hell, they’d utter, as they made the sign of the cross,

  “ ‘Tis not the heat you need to concern yourself about, ‘tis the cold.”

  Ask them to elaborate and they’d go,

  “Pray to God you never find out.”

  Juan was getting dangerously out of control, the junk he was shooting was making him meaner than he was by nature and she saw an example of how quickly he could turn. One of his most trusted crew, a stoner named Max, had been with Juan for years. Max had a thing for Sherry, as did most of the crew. He made the mistake of letting it show. A Saturday night, they’d been to a club in Tribeca, Juan liked to think the upper echelons accepted him, they accepted his dope. Max had a few brewskis going, asked Sherry to dance, she looked at Juan who smiled, said,

  “Sure, hermano.”

  Max, downing a triple martini, got her in a clinch on the floor, let his hands fondle her ass. Over his shoulder, she could see Juan, his face like a corpse. It got her hot. She whispered in Max’s ear,

  “Bet you make all the girls want more.”

  Max, the poor schmuck, had enough brew in him to call her puta, making it like a term of reckless endearment. There is never enough booze in your guts to call a woman like Sherry a whore, in any language, and the endearment hasn’t been coined to sugarcoat it. To her, it would always be a lash in the face and required blood — yours. Max was about to add,

  “The mamacitas, they like to eat the meat, they get some Max, ain’t no other hombre gonna do.”

  He never got to utter this sweet nothing as his face was stinging and his head felt like he’d been walloped. He had. Sherry had stepped back, her Jimmy Choos near slipping from her feet, and she swung with her right fist, knocking, if not sense, at least a whole new focus into him. Then she was stomping back to the table, she saw a tiny smile reach Juan’s mouth. She had scored on two fronts, made Juan happy and got to fuck with Max.

  Any other bitch, Max would have cut her right then, reached for the knife in his boot, but he caught himself, she was the woman of his patron. He slouched, like the beast towards Bethlehem, to his boss’s table, expecting Armageddon. Juan was laughing, asked,

  “Mi amigo, you upset my mariposa, qué?”

  Qué . . . the question posed in Spanish, the echoes of Khe San were what reverberated in the tone. Max launched into a litany of profuse apologies, calling on the Madonna, Her Son, and any other saint that came to mind. Juan waved it off, went,

  “No biggie, mi amigo, we drink, we fool around, no problema, is true?”

  Max hoped to fuck it was. Sherry gave him a wicked smile and he got his hopes up all over again that maybe he might be putting the meat to her. More drinks came and an air of festivity resumed, Juan paid particular attention to Max, recalling all their past glories. Then, Juan said they’d move on, he needed to collect some merchandise from his warehouse.

  It was a basement off Bleeker Street. Apart from Max, Sherry, Juan, they were accompanied by Ramon, the designated driver, and two new guys from Rosario, lowlifes who crossed the border and were recent additions to the Juan posse, they were supposedly distant relations of his mother’s. In the limo, Juan had Max in the back and shared some lines of coke with him, all the time cheering him as his main hombre. Sherry, on the other side of Juan, felt her blood sing as she knew there was going to be something medieval. When Juan was this elated, it always ended in gore.

  Laughing, and high-fiving, the crew piled into the basement. It was packed with designer gear from the five boroughs. Juan was an equal opportunity thief, taking from every direction. Centre piece was a long, wooden table, old and gnarled. Cases of booze lined the floor. Juan said,

  “Yo bro, mix up a batch of margaritas, we gonna get down.”

  Max was looking for the tequila when Juan blindsided him with a baseball bat. He regained consciousness, his head on fire, and found himself tied to a chair, his hands extended on the table, fastened tight. A loud blast of salsa was roaring in his ears. Seated across from him was Sherry, sipping a margarita. She winked. Juan was flexing a mean-looking cleaver, saying,

  “Piece of Taiwan shit, ees no sharp.”

  He’d lapsed into Mex-speak, a sure sign he had lost it in more ways than in speech pattern. He sunk the cleaver into the table, close to Max’s arm, asked,

  “What you think, mi compadre, ees gonna do the trabajo?”

  Max tried to speak but sheer terror seemed to have frozen his throat. Juan pulled the cleaver out, asked,

  “You like to use your manos to pat my mariposa’s butt? That what you like, you call her puta . . . eh, maricón?”

  Max stared at Sherry, his eyes, wild in his head, imploring her for intercession, she smiled demurely, raised her glass. Juan moved in close, asked,

  “Which mano you want to lose, which one you use to wipe your asshole, you choose, left or right?”

  Then brought the cleaver down, half severing the right arm, shouted,

  “Ah, caramba.”

  The guys from Rosario took a few swings and though it took a good twenty minutes, they finally removed both arms. Juan, sweat rolling down his face, took the limbs, tossed them on the table, said,

  “You a hands-on kind of guy, eh, muchacho?”

  The hands they threw in a Dumpster, get a rise out of the sanitation guys, and Max, Max went into the East River. Ramon, who’d been silent all evening, finally asked,

  “How he going to swim, no arms.”

  That cracked them all up.

  Sherry kept that blunt cleaver at the forefront of her mind. The same evening, Juan actually went to bed with her, not that it took long, tops three minutes and she’d learnt all she needed in New Orleans about groaning and urging . . . go, you stallion. It never ceased to amaze her the crap that men believed, you made orgasmic noises and they truly accepted they were the hottest lover this side of the Rockies. Juan, well into the junk, barely got thirty seconds of effort into the act, she faked the other two minutes, thirty seconds. Sure, she timed him, she’d little else to do while he grunted like a hog in stew.

  One of her fantasies was to hold a mirror up to a guy as he heaved and blew, let him see what she had to see, it might put them off the fierce bullshit they peddled.

  Juan had fallen back, exhausted, she lit a Camel, unfiltered, ‘cos he was so macho, put it in his mean mouth, cooed,

  “You make me so wet.”

  She knew he was already thinking of his next hit of horse, then he looked at her, asked,

  “You ever think, you like to do it with some other hombre?”

  She made all the right noises, he was the best, the mega, satisfied her like no other could, and other dreary garbage. She kept a blade on her side of the mattress, for the day he turned, as turn he surely would. Then she’d gut him like the reptile he was.

  Meantime, she fantasized about some dream lover who’d take her the hell away from all this shit.

  On a junket to Vegas, she’d persuaded Juan to bring her along, he wasn’t hot on the idea, had his crew and obviously had planned on a guys’ tour of Vegas. She loaded him up on ludes, got those margaritas into him, and dragged his sorry ass to the Little White Chapel, got hitched.

  Juan wasn’t real happy about it the next day but shrugged, he had a method of divorce that was indeed final if push came to shove, so he thought, Let it ride. . . for now.

  “Get away from her, you bitch!”

  —
RIPLEY, Aliens

  SHERRY’S HEAD was lying on my chest, her hand on my balls; she said,

  “I think you’re ready to go again.”

  I moved her hand, pulled myself upright, got the pillow against my back and remembered I’d asked myself in the cab,

  “What’s the dumbest, the most reckless thing you can do, what would be like, the worst idea?”

  I’d just done it. Sherry sat up, reached for her cigs, got one cranked. I couldn’t believe what I said:

  “This is a non-smoking room.”

  She asked,

  “Yeah, where’s the non-fucking room?”

  Then she blew smoke at the ceiling, said,

  “So fuck ‘em, let ‘em come get me . . .”

  She flicked the ash on the floor, saw me looking, shrugged, then,

  “Juan finds you fucked me, he’ll kill you.”

  I caught her wrist, said,

  “Enough with the tough-broad routine, okay, it’s like tired . . . and could you stop, you know, calling what we did . . . calling it. . . am . . .”

  She was amused, said,

  “Isn’t that kinda cute, you want it to be special, how’d you like me to say it, lovemaking, that make you swoon?”

  I got out of bed, pulled on boxers, T-shirt, and went to get some water. On the table was a brochure for Tucson, even the motel we planned on, the aptly named Lazy 8, and various guides to Arizona, all concentrating on a lengthy stay. Last night, hot to trot, full of bad wine, it never occurred to me to put them away. Thinking with my dick. Checked my watch, six in the morning, and Sherry reading my mind, said,

  “You’re wondering what Juan is thinking, like where the fuck his wife is at?”

  Might as well fess up, said,

  “It crossed my mind.”

  She was out of bed, pulling on clothes, said,

  “He’ll be wasted, he won’t surface till noon, then he’ll come home.”

  I said,

  “Handy arrangement.”

  And she shouted,

  “Don’t get judgemental, hotshot, you’ve no idea how my marriage is, you met me eight hours ago, you jumped my bones, and now you . . . like . . . know me?”

  Before I could apologise, admit I was outta line, she completely changed. The rage evaporated in a moment and now she was almost perky, indicated the brochures, asked,

  “Want me to tag along, touch you in Tucson?”

  Something in the way she used touch, an almost imperceptible hiss, gave me pause, then I said,

  “It was just a notion, I’ve got brochures for all sorts of places.”

  She was hiking up her skirt, her breasts on display, asked,

  “Let’s see’em?”

  “What?”

  “The other brochures, let’s see ‘em.”

  Fuck.

  I waved it off, tried,

  “Don’t you want to shower, get freshened up while I brew some coffee?”

  She pulled on her top, the one that had shone in the light last night, didn’t glisten much now, her head was down, her voice real low with,

  “I want to see the other brochures.”

  I headed for the bathroom, maybe when I finished, she’d be gone, like Bob Dylan’s “Waiting on a Miracle.”

  Asked myself,

  “The fuck I’m doing, having a shower this time of the morning?”

  Got in there, shut the door, nearly locked it, had to fight the impulse; shaved, taking it slow, killing time. Had the shower to scalding, burn off the paranoia. Finally emerging, towelling my hair dry, casual, nothing on my mind save caffeine. She was dressed, a glass of Bush in her hand, asked,

  “Join me?”

  I tried not to sound like a total prick, going,

  “Little early for me.”

  Sounded like a total prick. She knocked back the drink, said,

  “You guys make neat booze.”

  Then,

  “Wanna fuck?”

  Pause.

  “My apologies, like to make love?”

  Then she was up, moving towards me, shoved the glass at me, said,

  “Keep it in your shorts, fellah.”

  Banged the door on her way out.

  I went back to bed, clean, if not easy.

  The phone dragged me to consciousness, couldn’t figure out where the hell was I? . . . But it was dark, grabbed the phone, muttered,

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Blake, you have a visitor, waiting in the lobby.”

  “Oh right, I’ll be down, um, in ten minutes.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Blake.”

  Shit, I should have asked whom. Checked my watch, after ten, I’d been out fourteen hours, at least. Stumbled to the bathroom, got my head under the cold tap, woke me fast. Dried my hair, finger-combed it, get that raffish look. Put on a white shirt, jeans, the mocs, ready to roll. I shared the elevator with an elderly black man who gave me a warm smile, I said,

  “How you doing?”

  “I’m doing swell, young man, and thank you for asking.”

  New York, gotta love it.

  I moved into the lobby and my brief joy evaporated. Juan. Dressed a la pimp. Bright. . . nay . . . blinding orange shirt and skintight white leather trousers, try that gear in Galway on a Saturday night, they’d chuck you in the Corrib. I thought,

  “He’s got to be fucking kidding.”

  Maybe heroin made you colour blind. He was wired, energy coursing through him, he asked,

  “You ready to get down?”

  Like we were a couple of frat boys, trying to be black. That’s among the most pathetic things on the planet. I couldn’t think of a sane answer, apart from “Aw, fuck,” so said,

  “Sure.”

  We went outside and there’s a stretch limo, chauffeur holding the door, Juan said,

  “For you, hombre, tonight you are the man.”

  When I didn’t move, he said,

  “Buddy of mine, runs a limo service, owes me big.”

  Tommy would have loved that crap. The bigger the nonsense, the more he dug it. A limo would light him up. I don’t hate them but can’t get over the ridiculous image they convey, plus, they call attention, which is the last item, like, ever, on my agenda. Juan bowed, said,

  “After you, amigo.”

  I got in, saw a bucket of champagne on ice, full mini bar, and salsa on the speakers. Juan slid in beside me, asked,

  “What’s your poison, muchacho?

  I’d just got up, I wanted coffee, breakfast, solitude, said,

  “I’ve been sleeping, need a caffeine fix.”

  He wasn’t pleased, snapped at the intercom, rattled off some Spanish. The limo suddenly changed lanes and a few moments later, we pulled up. Through the window, I could see Starbucks — Juan asked,

  “Watcha need?”

  “Latte, shot of expresso.”

  Juan gave me a slow look, then fired off more orders. The driver was out and in flash time, was back, handed the container over. I placed it in a holder on the seat. Juan got out some cellophane packets, laid lines of white powder on the seat, rolled a bill, offered me. I shook my head and he snorted deep, three lines, let his head back, then made a sound midway between relief and agony. I began to work on the latte, I could see the coke hitting Juan, he mellowed, said,

  “I want to say muchas gracias, amigo.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that.”

  “My woman, you took real good care of her.”

  I was glad of the cup, gave me something to work on, keep my head down, he continued:

  “Some guys, they think maybe they can hit on her, I’m not around, they see a chance.”

  The coke hit another level and he used his index finger to rub his gums, said,

  “They mess with my woman, I cut their nuts off.”

  Mister Mex macho. The expresso had jolted and the devil was in me to ask how was it growing up in the Bronx?.”

  Some reply was needed, so I tried,

  “Juan, I don’t think too many gu
ys would want to mess with you.”

  Taking what Tommy called the piss, he took it as flattery, said,

  “Sherry, she’s muy bonita, sí?”

  Testing me? I could play, fuck, had to, said,

  “You’ve a good one there, she’s . . . devoted.”

  His left leg was tapping out a rapid beat, not to the music, which mercilessly droned on, least not any external tape, this was pure nerves, fuelled on coke and adrenaline, he said,

  “Sherry, she don’t take to many hombres, they bore her, comprende? But you, you, amigo, she likes you, is good, no?”

  I was in a minefield, tried,

  “You guys been together long?”

  Like I gave a goddamn.

  Clicking his fingers, checking out his boots—looked like lizard skin, some creature’s precious hide—he was off somewhere, then clicked back:

  “Like a year, maybe, but is, you know, siempre, always, I got me some señoritas on the Lower East Side, no big thang (pronounced it thus) they is like... fuck babes, Sherry, she’s my main event, she’s my rock.”

  Some foundation.

  I finished the coffee and he grabbed the cup, hit a button, and the window slid down, he chucked it out. Registering my surprise, he laughed.

  “They can’t take a joke, fuck ‘em, right? . . . is important the limo is clean, is like life, keep the garbage outside.”

  I couldn’t resist, said,

  “Some philosophy.”

  He put up his hand, for the high five, I gave him my palm, feeling like a horse’s ass, and he went, “We’re simpatico, you and me, bro, we gonna kick some ass.”

  Which was about as depressing news as I’d ever heard. There was a briefcase on the floor and he nudged it with his boot, said,

  “Open it, my friend.”

  I gave him the look, said,

  “Juan, I’m Irish, I don’t open things without the bomb squad.”

  Took him a while to get it, then a display of teeth, the cokehead’s smile, which has no connection to warmth. He tapped the case with the heel of his boot, so I picked it up, set it on my lap, lifted the top.

  Guns.

  Guys and guns.

  Could be a musical.

  Tommy was fascinated by them, always talking about getting a piece. I asked the obvious: