Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on a wooden bench. I’m watching two kids argue over a video game. Jude sits down beside me. She’s chewing her lip, angry. But her eyes glow.
You should never have come here, she says.
It’s twenty-nine degrees outside and snowing. Jude is wearing a short white ski jacket. A black dress that stops halfway down her thighs and cowboy boots the color of wine. Her knees are pale and cold. She has her hands buried in her pockets. She looks everywhere but at me.
Are you insane? I say.
She crosses her legs. I have very warm blood.
I might want to kill you.
And I might say the same thing.
But you’re glad to see me.
Hardly.
My senses are jangled and the pain is becoming unbearable. I remove Pooh’s film canister from my pocket. I rattle the pills around, trying to think. Jude watches me, amused. One pill could leave me too goofy to function and I would rather she didn’t know I was high.
She grins. Did you like Pooh?
Her hair is slightly frozen, as if she just washed it. Her eyes are impossibly green and I wonder if she’s wearing colored lenses. She unzips the jacket a few inches to show her tender throat. She’s wearing lipstick and suddenly I want to crush my mouth against hers. I want to suck her blood.
Pooh is a sad tomato, I say. He’s in love with you.
Of course he is.
He must have a massive dick.
I’m sure he does. Like a horse. But I wouldn’t know.
Oh, really. Pooh tells me a different story.
And who do you believe?
I don’t believe anyone.
She laughs. Pooh is terrified of me. His penis would run and hide if I uncrossed my legs.
Then what use is he?
He carried eleven bags of ice up four flights of stairs to keep you alive. He never even complained.
That shuts me up. I pop one blue muscle relaxer into my mouth and roll it between my teeth. I bite it in two before it dissolves. I swallow half and spit the other into the palm of my hand.
Let’s pretend to be friends, I say.
Close friends, she says.
I hold the bitten pill out to Jude and she bends to take it with her lips.
Where is my kidney? I say.
It’s hot in here, don’t you think?
Did you know I used to be a cop? I could make you disappear.
Disappear, she says. I love that word.
She crosses and uncrosses her legs. A muscle like rope along her inner thigh.
Let’s go somewhere less public, she says.
Why not, I say. But I sit like a statue, a stone frog crouching in someone’s garden.
Don’t be afraid, she says.
The urge to kill her returns and I feel warm, as if the sun has slipped from behind a cloud.
Why would I be afraid?
I’ve already wounded you, she says.
Terribly.
But I can’t hurt you anymore, she says.
No, I say.
She stands and I can hear every whisper and rustle of her clothes. I can almost see her body through the nylon and leather. I can nearly see the organs beneath her skin, clustered and purple. Busily pumping and thrusting, keeping her alive. For a moment I wonder if my kidney is in there, knitting itself to her flesh. I tell myself I want to kill her, to punish her. I want my kidney back. But such thoughts only float away, foreign and weightless. I feel myself dissolve. She dangles a gloved hand and I take it.
Jude and I stand on the street corner waiting for the light to change. I still hold her hand. I’m afraid she will run away. The wind is bitter and I want to shield her from it. I have this ridiculous idea that I can protect her, that she needs me to. Three nights ago she took me apart like a dog eating stolen meat. She tore into me.
Across from the train station is a nameless motel.
It’s ugly, she says. But it does have room service.
I step out into the street, her hand still in mine. She flinches and I look around me. Pooh is standing behind a streetlamp; his face is hidden but his arms and shoulders and half his belly are clearly visible. His dirty white cast is bright against the dark mist in the air. I’m weirdly embarrassed by his incompetence. Jude growls and reaches into her purse. She comes out with a square black hairbrush, gripping it with the bristles turned down. She pulls away from me and takes several steps toward the streetlamp, holding the brush out like a gun. Pooh’s arms begin to flail and I am reminded of a children’s puppet show. Then he turns and runs down the sidewalk. Jude turns back to me, smiling and I shrug, as if she has just chased away a cowardly mugger.
The parking lot is black with snow.
Jude leads me up a flight of stairs to room 212. The door is heavy and swings shut slowly. Jude sits down on the bed and takes off her cowboy boots, dropping them to the floor. She reaches for the remote control and flicks on the television. She finds a soap opera and turns down the volume. I still stand by the door. The gun is in my ankle holster. I could have it in my hand. I could shoot her between the eyes and go. I could kill her with my knife. I could sit down beside her and offer to rub her feet and when she smiles I could grab her by the hair and pull her head back and cut her throat. I could keep the Blister’s insulting money and take Eve to Disney World.
Jude glances at me. Why don’t you sit down?
I bend to one knee and remove the Smith & Wesson. Jude watches me, unconcerned. I place the gun on top of the television, then put my knife down beside it.
Jude smiles. In my left boot, she says. I have a stinger, like a wasp.
I pick up the boot. The leather is slick and smells new. There is a sheath sewn into the inner wall of the boot and I pull out what appears to be a sharpened dentist’s surgical tool, much like a stiletto with a hooked tip. It’s a nasty little thing. The silver grip is slightly curved and wrapped in leather cord. I fold my hand around the grip and slash at the air and I like the feel of it.
Did you use this to rip me open?
She laughs. Of course not. It’s not meant for such delicate work.
I put the stinger down. What else do you have? I say.
Jude unzips the ski jacket. Her dress is cut low across the neck and her collarbones are sharply defined. The flash of a black satin strap. I roll my eyes away and try to concentrate. She pulls a small silver automatic from the inside pocket of her coat. She tosses the gun at me, a Beretta .25 with a skeleton grip.
It suits you, I say.
Jude shrugs. I always wanted to fuck James Bond.
Dreams are all we have. But I’m looking for another gun, a nine millimeter.
I don’t have a nine, she says. I don’t care for big loud guns.
But I did have one. The night I met you. And now I can’t seem to find it.
She lounges back against the pillows, her legs like scissors. The black dress is like tissue and I’m dying to touch her. I’m sorry, she says. But I didn’t take it. Maybe the cops have it, or the bellboy. Even Pooh could have it. He was in the room and he has very sticky fingers.
Detective Moon has it in his desk drawer and he hasn’t decided what to do with it. I should close my eyes and walk out of here. I should go down to the station and walk in like I’m coming home. I hope you boys are thirsty because I got money to burn and by the way, Moon: where’s my fucking gun? But he might just laugh at me and say whatever do you mean? I take off my coat and drop it to the floor.
Tell me about yourself, I say.
I’m an only child.
Only children tend to be spoiled.
They are selfish, she says. They never had to share their mother’s breast.
The shadows in her room are short and malformed, squatting in the corners like sullen trolls.
Are your legs cold?
Very, she says.
I touch her knee with the tip of a finger. Slowly trace a line down to her ankle. There’s a fine black stubble, barely visible but roug
h as stone.
Let me rub your feet, I say.
She uncocks the left leg and drops her foot in my lap. I look at it without touching. A small pale foot, with a high arch. A crooked purple vein. The heel is callused. The toes are well shaped, evenly spaced. The nails painted blue as a clear sky. I begin to stroke and fondle her foot as if I’m petting a kitten.
I’m curious, she says. What’s so special about that gun?
Silence.
I used to be a cop.
She stares up at the ceiling, bored. That cloud looks like a lizard, she says.
I could easily break her ankle. I could twist her fucking foot off.
So you used to be a cop. So what?
A cop doesn’t like to lose his gun. It makes him nervous, I say.
Is that the only reason?
I whisper for her to shut up and bend to kiss her, to bite her.
Jude reaches for the phone. She says she’s starving.
She orders blueberry pancakes and coffee for two. I look down at my hands, clasped around her foot. They are strange to me, unfamiliar. I look at the television instead. Two actors are kissing vigorously on a phony riverfront as white smoke swirls around them.
Jude lights two cigarettes and gives me one.
For ten minutes we smoke and watch the silent soap opera. Jude tries to explain the intricacies of each character’s sexual history but I’m not really listening.
They have money and posh cars but they’re still a lot of inbreds, she says.
A gentle knock at the door. I go to answer it and a boy in a red suit stands there with a tray of food. I sign the slip and give him five dollars. Jude tells me to hang the DO NOT DISTURB card. I ignore her and set the tray down on the bed. Jude moves to crouch like a wolf over the food. She uncovers the steaming pancakes. They are stained by the burst blueberries and the smell is heavy and sweet. Jude smears them with butter and eats them without syrup. She pours coffee and hands me a cup.
Look in the bathroom, she says. There’s a bottle of brandy in the sink.
For the first time I look closely at the room. It is clean and neat; housekeeping must have come recently. Still, there are no random possessions laying about. There are no clothes hanging in the closet. A compact black garment bag dangles from a hook. I would dearly love to poke through it but it is zippered shut and tight as a drum. I have a feeling Jude is ever ready to walk out the door. Even in the bathroom there is little sign of her presence. No clumps of tissue, no toothbrush and feminine gear. A half bottle of brandy in the sink. A green rubber icebox on the floor. I unscrew the brandy and take a short swallow. The hairs in my nose shrink as if on fire. The icebox is padlocked.
Jude has disposed of her pancakes and is freshening her lipstick. I give her the brandy and sit down to smoke a cigarette. You should eat, she says. The pancakes are getting cold.
I’m not hungry.
It’s a shame. They’re delicious.
I blow smoke and watch it swirl toward her.
Why didn’t you meet me last night?
What do you mean, dear?
You left me a note. When I’m depressed I go bowling…
Oh, she says. I suppose I changed my mind. And you found me anyway.
Strains of early afternoon light. Pooh’s blue moon gives everything a fine glassy sheen. The room is thick with electric heat and it’s difficult to breathe. The soap opera has given way to thumb-sucking midget versions of Bugs Bunny and friends. The sound is muted but I keep thinking I can hear their helium voices. Above the television is a large round mirror and a watercolor of a duck. I sit in a chair beside the bed. On the nightstand there is a phone book and a TV Guide and the Gideons’ Bible. The chair has no arms and I don’t know what to do with my hands. My pants are unbuttoned and Jude kneels before me with my dick in her mouth. Her teeth are small and sharp and it’s like her mouth is full of powdered glass. She may have drawn blood and I can’t separate the pleasure from pain. I don’t want her to stop. Jude lifts her head before I come. She breathes and smiles. The lipstick is gone and her lips are pale. She climbs into the chair and I’m inside her and I remember Crumb telling me to be careful, that sex could kill me.
The brandy is gone. Jude lies with her head in my lap. We share a cigarette back and forth. She is naked and has thrown the sheets off the bed. I am memorizing her body and I really don’t need to. She is already as familiar to me as a recurring dream. Her eyes are wide apart and shaped like lemons; the lids are hooded and I remember my mother telling me those were mongoloid eyes, the devil’s eyes. She has fine white teeth, slightly crooked and sharp. Her skin is a pale creamy yellow. She has small breasts with nipples the color of wet leather. Her belly and thighs are long, muscular. Her pubic hair is shaved like the narrow wing of a baby crow.
Phineas, she says.
What?
You saw the icebox.
Yes. Didn’t you want me to?
I suppose.
It has my kidney in it.
She doesn’t say anything. I stroke her throat and she passes me the cigarette.
It’s strange, I say. At first it was like my wallet was gone and I wanted it back. And now I don’t feel anything. It’s just used flesh. It’s garbage.
It’s not garbage. It’s worth a lot of money.
Who is the buyer?
A land developer in El Paso named Gore. One of his children has a bone disease or something.
What if the kidney isn’t compatible?
Don’t worry. I took tissue samples and had DNA tests done. Mr. Gore wasn’t the only prospect. It could have easily gone to a baseball player or a politician in Canada.
Jude is never completely still. She twists a piece of string between her fingers and her foot bounces up and down. Her whole body seems to vibrate. I watch her face closely and her eyes never fade. She doesn’t scratch her nose or twist her lip or change colors. I’m sure she’s lying and then I’m not sure.
I have two tickets to El Paso, she says. A cozy little sleeper car.
I don’t want to but I smile. What are you saying?
I’m willing to give you half.
Only half.
I’ve done all the legwork, she says.
Why give me any of it?
I need a partner. Someone to watch my back. And I kept thinking of you.
That’s nice. How much are we talking about?
A lot, she says.
When I was ten years old, I thought fifty dollars was a lot of money.
I think it’s impolite to discuss money.
There’s nothing polite about any of this.
She sighs. It’s quite cheap, really. Two hundred and fifty thousand.
I slide out from under her and begin to get dressed. Two hundred and fifty thousand. It seems ridiculous. The kidney is a small lump of fatty tissue that processes waste and sends it along to the bladder in liquid form. The kidney makes urine all day. Then again, someone might have a daughter whose life depends on a used kidney and how much is that worth? I am very sore and my brain is like a dead balloon. I am hoping that sex with Jude will eventually make me stronger. For now, she will have to help me put my boots on. I stop and smile at our weapons lined up in a neat row. I take my gun and stroll into the bathroom. I pick up the icebox and I’m almost disappointed. It should be heavier, somehow. I come out of the bathroom, my gun pointed lazily at Jude. She is still naked. She doesn’t blink and she doesn’t pull a gun from her ear like a coin.
I’m taking this with me, I say.
What will you do with it?
I feel like screaming.
I don’t know. I might put it back where it belongs. I might fry it up with some purple onions and have it for lunch. I might just sell it myself.
You could never find a buyer. Not in a thousand days.
When does the train leave?
Tomorrow at nine thirty-five A.M.
Give me my fucking ticket.
Are you going to kill me?
I thought s
o, earlier. Or I wanted to think so.
Jude rolls onto her stomach. The eye tattoo black beneath her strewn hair. I adore her strong sleek ass. She reaches for the white ski jacket and pulls out a blue and white ticket, flashing it like a trump card.
ten.
The average drug mule swallows a dozen or more fat, skin-tight latex packets shaped like bullets and filled with heroin or coke. He or she has perhaps thirty-six hours to make delivery; otherwise the digestive system breaks down the latex, dissolving it. The drug is released into the bloodstream, and the host is dead within minutes. I have long passed thirty-six hours and I’m still breathing.
I could care less about heroin that may not exist. But Jude has her teeth deep in my heart.
Everyone is throwing money at me today and I’m feeling like a car wreck. I decide to live a little and take a taxi. It’s ten after two. I’m late for Rose but I think she’ll understand. I haven’t been myself.
The driver is a young guy, slouched down in his seat. I tell him the address. He grunts, chews his gum. I’m lucky and he doesn’t want to talk. The radio is tuned to an oldies station. A little Johnny Mathis and then the Temptations. I stare out the window at faces in passing cars.
*
A green Volvo station wagon pulls alongside the cab. There is a woman at the wheel, perhaps forty with severe hair. Her lipstick is a ferocious red that is smeared along her jaw and in the back window I see naked faces pressed against the glass, dirty and emaciated. Lost children, tortured and pleading for help. The faces dissolve and waver and become ordinary children, five and seven. The woman is their mother and there is something wrong with me.
I bounce around in my seat, manic and juiced. My skin doesn’t feel right. It feels rubbery and stretched, as if two people are sharing it. Soon it will come apart. I’m stupidly high, of course. Jude could have slipped me something. Or Pooh might have lied. Perhaps those little blue pills were not muscle relaxers at all, and I remember poor Georgia. I hope she has come down from Pluto and is no longer rabid as I would hate to shoot her. I hope she suffered no ill effects from the pills I gave her. She was already on a bad cocktail of some kind; heroin and ecstasy perhaps, with a dash of crystal for kicks. Sudden death is always an eyelash away and I hope she didn’t perish in that closet. Eve might find her while innocently looking for toilet paper.