Two Worlds and In Between: The Best of Caitlin R. Kiernan (Volume One) (12 page)

His hair not grey, cotton-boll white, and, even by the soft Tiffany light of his office, JoJo Franklin looks a lot older than he is, the years that the particulars of his life have stolen and will never give back. He closes a ledger and takes off his spectacles, rubs at the wrinkled flesh around his eyes. Rows of numbers, fountain-pen sums scrawled in his own unsteady left hand because he’s never trusted anyone else with his books. He blinks, and the room stays somewhere just the other side of focused: dull impression of the velvet-papered, wine-red walls, old furnishings fine and worn more threadbare than himself, the exquisitely framed forgery of Albert Matignon’s
Morphine
that a Belgian homosexual had tried to pass off as genuine. He paid what the man asked, full in the knowledge of the deceit, small talk and pretended gratitude for such a generous price, then had the Belgian killed before he could cash the check; Jo forgot the man’s name a long time ago, but he kept the phony Matignon, the three beautiful morphinomanes, decadent truth beneath Victorian delusions of chastity, and this fraud another level of delusion, so it’s worth more to him than the real thing could ever be. The value of illusion has never been a thing lost on JoJo Franklin.

And now Jimmy DeSade’s outside his door, waiting to do business, the simple exchange of pure white powder for green paper. JoJo puts his glasses back on his face, wire frames hooked around his ears, and the three ladies in the painting swim into focus, gently euphoric furies hiding one more deception, the counterfeit bills just up from Miami, stacked neatly in his safe, fit company for his ledgers and the darker secrets in manila and old shoe boxes; good as gold, better than.

The topmost drawer of his desk is open, and the little pistol is right there where it should be, tucked reassuringly amid the pencils and paper clips. Just in case, but he knows there’ll be no ugly and inconvenient drama with Jimmy DeSade, creepy fucking zombie of a man, but a sensible zombie; no more trouble than with the Haitians the night before, the Haitians who are always suspicious of one thing or another, but these bills so goddamn real even they hadn’t looked twice. Jimmy DeSade will take the money and carry it northwards like a virus, no questions asked, no fuss, no trouble. In a minute or two, Jo Franklin will push the intercom button, will tell Arlo to send the smuggler back, but he’s thirsty, and something about the pale and skinny man always makes him thirstier, so a brandy first and
then
the intercom, then the zombie and this day’s transaction.

Jo Franklin rests his hand a moment on the butt of the pistol, cold comfort through fingertips, before he slides the drawer shut again.

Four knocks loud on the door to Rabbit’s room, four knocks heavy and slow, reckless sound like blows more to hurt the wood than get attention, and he blots his lips on the cheap tissue, sparing a quick pout for the mirror before, “Yeah, it’s open,” and it is, the door, slow swing wide and hall light spilling in around them. Rabbit sees the men reflected without having to turn his head, and he sits very still, seeing them. Both dark, skin like black, black coffee and both so fucking big. Rabbit can’t really see their faces, only silhouettes with depth: one much thinner than the other and wearing sunglasses, the other bald and built like a wall. Concrete in a suit meant to look expensive. Pause, heartbeats, and “Come in,” he says and wonders if he said it loudly enough, because the men don’t move, and his voice grown small and brittled in an instant. Christ, it’s not like he hasn’t done doubles before. Not like Arlo would ever let anyone come up those stairs that was gonna be a problem. Speaking to the mirror, scrounging calm, “C’mon, he says. “You can shut the door behind you.” 

A low whisper from one or the other, and the bald man laughs, a hollow, heartless laugh before Rabbit breathes in deep and stands to face them. The tall man first, his face so slack, his bony arms so limp at his sides, torn and dirty Mickey Mouse T-shirt and rattier pants, no shoes on his knobby feet. Movement underwater slow, sleepwalker careless, like those four knocks, and the bald man follows after. He shuts the door, and the lock clicks very loud.

“Three hundred and fifty for the both,” Rabbit says, cowering rabbit voice that wants to be brave, that wishes for the needle and sweet heroin salvation; the bald man smiles, hungry-dog smile and one silver tooth up front catching the candlelight. “
Ou chich,
” chuckled Creole and Rabbit shrugs, street-smart shrug even if he doesn’t feel it. “Whatever,” Rabbit replies, “We’re priced to sell ’round here,” and the ice not breaking even though the trick laughs again, every laugh just that much more frost in aching veins, laugh and “You’re a funny
masisi
, funny faggot,” Caribbean-accented bemusement, Jamaican or Haitian or something of the sort. The tall man just stands behind the fat man, stands with his back against the door, and doesn’t smile or laugh or say a word.

Only part of their turn-on, trying to psych you out, and
Don’t you let ’em fuck around with your head,
Rabbit thinks, trying to hear his own words in Arlo’s voice, or Chantel’s, Chantel three doors down who never gets cold feet with weirdoes. But it’s still just his voice, small thing rabbit-whispering from tall bayou grass. And a fat roll of bills comes out of the bald man’s coat pocket, rubber-band snap, and he’s peeling off two, three, four, laying them down like gospel, like an exclamation point on the table by the door, the table with plastic lilies stolen late one night from a St. Louis vault. Sun-faded plastic lilies in a dry vase. 

“Gonna fuck you till you can’t sit down, funny
masisi
,” and Rabbit looks to the money for strength, four one hundred dollar bills, crisp new paper, bright ink hardly touched, and there’s an extra fifty in there, fifty free and clear of Franklin’s cut. “Yeah,” he says. “Whatever you want, Mr. – ” and the customary pause, blank space for an alias, your name here, but the bald man is busy getting out of his jacket, too busy to answer, or maybe he just doesn’t want to answer. The tall, still man takes his companion’s jacket, drapes it gently across one thin arm, like some nightmare butler, and the bald man reaches for his zipper. 

“What about him?” Rabbit asks, trying to sound hooker-tough, but almost whispering instead, sounding scared instead and hating it, motioning at the man with his back pressed to the bedroom door. “He doesn’t talk much, does he?” 

“He don’t talk at all, and he don’t fuck. So you don’t be worrying about him. You just gonna worry about
me
.”

“You paid enough, for both – ” 

“
Fèmen bouch ou,
” and a sudden flicker like lightning in the man’s dark eyes, flickering glimmer down a mine shaft so deep it might run all the way to Hell. Rabbit doesn’t understand the words, but enough meaning pulled from the tone of that voice, from those eyes and the hard lines of his face to know it’s time to shut up, just shut the fuck up and play their game by their rules until it’s over.

“Stop talking and take off that ugly dress,” the man says, and Rabbit obliges, unzips quickly and lets the very plain black dress fall around his ankles, a pool of black cotton around his heels to step out of, reluctant step closer to the man. His pants already down, grey silk trousers to match the jacket, but no underwear, uncircumcised droop, bizarre and fleshy orchid, organ, but he’s getting hard, and Rabbit knows he’ll probably be using hemorrhoid pads tomorrow, shitting a little blood as well. The pants are hung on the tall man’s arm now, too, and still no emotion in that face, every movement past slow or efficient, pared to jerky last stop before coma paralysis. Rabbit feels cold inside, more naked than can be explained by the discarded dress; the bald man makes a satisfied sound in his chest, mumbled approval, and Rabbit glances at himself in the dresser mirror. His thin body like a teenage girl’s, almond skin, legs and underarms shaved smooth, and he’s wearing nothing now but the black lace and satin, bra and panties trimmed with scarlet, naughty somber contrast, matching garter belt and thigh-high net stockings on his long legs: nothing to mar the cultured illusion of his femininity except the subtle bulge at his crotch and the flatness of his chest.

“Sure you a boy?” the man asks, and this is nothing new, this question and the answering so routine that Rabbit can almost relax a little. He hooks a thumb into the front of his panties, pulls them down enough to reveal his own sex, the sex of his flesh, and the man nods, one hand rubbed across his hairless, glinting scalp. “Leave them on.” he mutters.

“Sure, if that’s what you want,” and now the man’s big hands are on him then, sweat-warm palms and fingers over his cool skin. Hard kiss like something desperate, something forced that isn’t, but needs to
feel
that way, faint cigar taste, tongue pushing past Rabbit’s teeth and inside him, exploring teeth and palate and his own tongue. And then their lips parting, and a string of spittle between them to cling to Rabbit’s chin. 

“Bend over, bitch,” the bald man says, and Rabbit bends over, hands on the bedspread, ass to Heaven, and he feels his panties coming down, draws a deep breath before two wet fingers shove their way inside him, probing, working his asshole, and he closes his eyes, braces knees against the sagging bed as those strong hands grip his thighs, purchase found, strong fingers to leave bruises behind, and there’s the smallest whimper from Rabbit’s lips as the bald man’s cock pushes its way inside.

The very last door at the sunset end of a hall that is all doors, six choices with antique crystal knobs to ease decision, and that last door is Chantel Jackson’s; been here longer than anyone, any of the boys, longer even than Arlo. Her end of the deal upheld after JoJo Franklin paid for her trip to Brussels, money she’d never have to resolve the quandary between her legs, and money he’d never miss. In return, she’s the house specialty now, this one all the way, not just a pretty boy in frilly drawers, no shit, wanna know what it’s like to fuck pussy that used to be dick? And she’s got no complaints, so many ways things might have gone so much worse, and that resolution all she ever really wanted, anyway.

No complaints except that magnolia right outside her window, and there’s a few minutes before her two-fifteen so she sits on her bed, smokes and watches that scary old tree, the sash down and locked, smudgy glass protection between her and those crooked limbs, big leaves like the iridescent green shells of a thousand gigantic beetles. Nothing good about that tree, and mostly she ignores it, keeps the blinds down and tries not to notice the shadows it makes on her walls day and night. But sometimes, like now, when the demons inside are worse than the demons outside, she tries to stare it down, make it blink first, make
it
flinch. She imagines that magnolia shriveling the way movie vampires do if the sun gets at them, all those leaves turning brown and dropping off, the tree gone to dust before they even touch the ground, the gnarled trunk husk laid bare like a guilty heart, and wood cracks and splits, and the earth opens to take it back down to Hell. Or, maybe it bends itself over, pulls up its roots, tired of the masquerade if some tranny hooker bitch has its number, anyhow, and so it shamefully drags itself back to the swamps, move over, Mr. Catfish, move over, Mr. Snapping Turtle, and it’ll lie waiting in some black pool until everyone’s forgotten it again.

“Silly fool,” she whispers, knows it’s goddamned ridiculous to be scared of an ugly old tree when there’s plenty enough else to be scared of in this city; silly bitch, but there’s her church-neat line of charms and candles, anyway, painted saints and plastic Jesus and Mother Mary on the windowsill. Her careful shrine just in case it’s not so silly to be afraid of ghosts after all, ghosts and worse things than ghosts. 

They used to hang pirates from that tree,
someone said, and thieves and runaway slaves, too. Just about everyone got hung from that tree, depending on who you happen to ask. And there’s also the tale about the Storyville lovers: impossible and magic days a hundred years ago when hooking and gambling were legal, Storyville red-light before the whole district was razed for more legitimate corruption: a gentleman gambler from Memphis, or St. Louis, or Chicago, and he fell in hopeless love with a black girl, or a mulattress, under this very tree, except she was a
loup-garou,
and when she finally showed him her real face he went stark raving bug-fuck mad. Some claim you can still find their initials carved in the trunk, name-scars trapped inside a heart, if you know where to look, can still hear her crying if the moon and wind are right. Can still hear the greenstick snap of his bones between her teeth. 

None of that folktale shit even half as bad as the bleached animal skulls and little skeletons wired together wrong ways round, charms the voodoo women still leave in the limbs when no one’s watching, the things JoJo won’t ever cut down, won’t even let Arlo get near them, never mind the awful racket they make whenever a storm blows up.

And tonight it just stares right back at her, that magnolia and all its guarded secrets, truths and lies and half-truths, steadfast, constant while the world moves around it.
Not tonight it ain’t gonna blink for you or for nobody else, not a chance,
she thinks, and then Chantel Jackson crosses herself, reaches for the dangling cord to lower the blind, and down there in the always-shadow that grows beneath a tree like this tree she sees the men coming, the dark and confident men on the overgrown walk to the front door nailed shut. And one face glances up, and maybe it sees her, small and haunted in the frame of her window, and maybe it doesn’t, but it smiles, either way, and she hears the wind, and the bones in the tree, like champing teeth and judgment.

The door bursts open, cracking splinter-nail explosion, door years sealed and boarded but off its rusted hinges in one small part of an instant and split straight down the center. Arlo doesn’t wait to see, one hand beneath the bar and right back up with the shotgun Jo keeps mounted there, twelve-gauge slide-action always loaded, and he levels it at the bad shit pouring through the shattered door. Men huge and black and hard enough they barely seem real, skin like angry, living night, the flat glint of submachine gun steel and machete blades; the domino players cursing, scatter of bodies as Arlo levels the Winchester’s barrel at the Haitians, white tiles flying like broken teeth, tables and chairs up for shields before the thunder. God of sounds so loud and sudden it wipes away anything else in the buckshot spray, and Arlo blasts the first big fucker through the door, and he also hits a man named Scooter Washington, slow and skinny shit into JoJo for almost ten thousand dollars, and Scooter falls just as hard.