Blind Shrike, Page 2

  When he stepped out of the shower, he left the wet shirt draped across the towel rack beneath the framed Lady from Shanghai poster that Jenny hated. The gash on his shoulder burned and his headache was coming on strong behind his eyes. Spyder slapped on some gauze squares and taped them down with white medical tape.

  Christ, he thought, I was supposed to call Jenny last night and tell I was going to be late. She must be pissed. Then it hit him, as it had hit him almost every morning for weeks: Jenny was gone. She’d packed up and moved the last of her stuff to LA. That’s why he’d gotten so drunk with Lulu. It was the one month anniversary of her desertion.

  “No fucking way I can put ink on anyone today,” he thought. It was already after one in the afternoon. Spyder didn’t want to go the studio, but he needed to call his clients and reschedule. He dressed quickly into battered black jeans, steel-toed Docs and the largest, loosest gray Dickies shirt he could find in his closet. A pile of Jenny’s abandoned textbooks were stacked at the back, The Gnostic Gospels, Heaven and Hell in the Western Tradition, An Encyclopedia of Fallen Angels. Spyder slammed the closet door.

  The warehouse Spyder rented was across town from the tattoo studio. He usually rode the Dead Man’s Ducati—the bike he’d bought cheap from a meth dealer he knew down in Tijuana; the previous owner had gone missing and did Spyder want first dibs?—but he felt too shaky for two wheels today. He called a cab and waited by the curb in the warm afternoon sun.

  “Do you have the time?”

  Spyder was so out of it, he hadn’t seen the tall man in the gray business suit approach him. The man was bald, but tanned and healthy-looking, with deep wind- and sunburn creases on his cheeks. It took Spyder a second to answer.

  “Uh, no. Sorry.”

  “No worries,” the man said with a slight Shrimp-on-the-Barbie accent. “Lovely day.”

  “Yeah. Great,” said Spyder

  “You all right, mate?”

  “Just a little hungover’s all.”

  The business man laughed. “That’s how you know you had a good time,” he said and clapped Spyder on his sore shoulder. “Cheers.”

  As the man walked away, Spyder saw something attached to his back. It was sort of ape-like, but its head was soft, like a slug’s. It had its teeth sunk into the man’s neck and was clinging onto his back by its twisted child-like limbs. Spyder wanted to call out to the man, but his throat was locked tight in fear and disgust. The parasite’s head throbbed as it slurped something from the business man’s spine.

  Spyder took a step back and his shoulder touched a rough wooden pole planted in the ground through a section of shattered pavement. Pigeons and gray doves were nailed up and down the pole. Animal heads were staked around the top. An alligator. A rottweiler. A horse. Other more freakish animals Spyder couldn’t identify. Each head was decorated with flower garlands and its eye sockets and mouth stuffed with incense and gold coins, like offerings.

  Across the street, a griffin, its leathery wings twitching, was lazily chewing on the carcass of a fat, gray sewer rat. Emerald spiders the size of a child’s hand ran around the griffin’s legs, grabbing stray scraps of meat that fell from the beast’s jaws. The spiders scrambled up and down the griffin’s hindquarters. Gray stingray-like things flapped overhead, like a flock of knurled vultures. A coral snake lazily wrapping itself around the sacrifice pole stopped its climb long enough to call Spyder by name.

  Spyder’s head spun. He stepped into the street, flashing on the demon in the alley the night before. The mugging had been real. Had the monster part been real, too? He leaned his head back. Spinning in the sky overhead were angels with the wings of eagles. Higher still crawled vast airships. Their soft balloon bodies glowed in the bright sun, presenting Spyder with profiles of fierce mythological birds of prey and gigantic lotuses.

  A cab turned the corner onto Harrison Street and Spyder frantically flagged it down. “Haight and Masonic,” he said to the driver, trying not to sound as deranged as he felt. Spyder slid into the backseat and as the driver pulled away, he peered out the cab’s rear window. The business man was on the corner, talking to three pale men in matching black suits. Their clothes and general formality reminded Spyder of bankers in an old movie.

  One of the bankers stepped forward, reached into the businessman’s chest and pulled out his heart. Turning stiffly, he dropped the organ into an attaché case held up by another of the trio. That done, the third banker used a knife to carefully peel the businessman’s face off. The cab turned the corner and Spyder lost sight of them.

  FIVE

  Communication Breakdown

  “How you voting on Prop 18?”

  Spyder looked up. The cabbie looked—exhausted, Spyder thought. One of those guys in his forties with eyes that make him look ten years older. His skin hung loosely on a gray, unshaven face.

  “The companies make it sound like it’ll put more cabs on the street, but really it’s just going to screw up the medallion system even worse and give all the power to the big cab companies. We aren’t employees, you know. All us cabbies are freelance. I owe money the moment I take my cab out. The moment I touch it. A cab driver has the job security of a crack whore. Worse than slaves, even. We’re up at the big house begging the master for more cotton to pick.”

  “I’m sorry, said Spyder. “I don’t know anything about Prop 18. I don’t vote…ever.”

  The driver shook his head. His black hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he’d been sleeping on it just a few minutes earlier. “Voting’s not a right, you know. It’s not a privilege. It’s your duty. My daddy died in the war so you could vote.”

  “Hey driver, uh,” Spyder looked at the name on the man’s taxi license, “Barry. Do you want to play a game?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There’s a $20 tip in it for you. “

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Fag?”

  “No.”

  “You from the cab company?”

  “No, Barry.”

  “What kind of game?”

  “Don’t rush getting me to the Haight,” Spyder said. He leaned his head against the window. It was cool on his forehead. “Take your time. Let the meter run. As we hit each corner, you’re going to tell me what you see.

  “What’s on the corners you mean? Like buildings and people?”

  “Exactly. Big or small. Whatever strikes your fancy.”

  “Give me a for instance,” said Barry. “Like this corner.”

  “Okay,” said Spyder leaning forward to peer out the windshield. “That semi up ahead. The blonde eating a taco in front of bodega. The mailbox painted like a Mexican flag. That blimp shaped like Garuda.”

  “What’s a Garuda?”

  “A bird-beaked messenger deity from Thailand.”

  “I don’t see nothing like that.”

  “Tell me what you see.”

  Barry breathed deeply and craned his head on the end of his long, doughy neck. “Some bums with shopping carts. Some hookers. Mexican or Asian, maybe. Can’t tell from here. They got on high heels and the littlest goddam skirts. You can see all the way to Bangkok when they bend over.”

  “Keep going,” said Spyder.

  “Just stuff?”

  “Just stuff.”

  “A Goodwill. A closed down porn theater. Cholos drinking forty-ouncers by a low-rider. A cop car stopping near ’em…,” Barry fell into a sing-song pattern, reciting as they drove. “A mom with her kid in a stroller. A couple a dogs fucking. Get some, boy! Some dope dealers. Bunch of teenyboppers cutting school. Little shits. Don’t learn to read and we end up paying their welfare so they can have babies.” Barry glanced into the rearview mirror at Spyder. “This is kind of a stupid game, buddy. When is it your turn?”

  “My turn?” Spyder lit a cigarette, his first of the morning. “Everything you saw, I saw. But there were other things, too.

  “Dazzle me.”

  “A winged horse. A lion turn
ing into a golden bird, then into smoke. An angel sharing a cigarette with a horned girl whose skin’s blue and hard, like topaz.”

  “Jesus fuck, man,” said Barry. Spyder saw the driver’s eyes widen in the mirror. “Are you on drugs or do you need drugs?”

  “There’s a naked, burned man walking down the street. No, not burned. Cooked. Glazed and cooked like a ham. There’s a swarm of little sort of bat things flying around him taking bites. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “I’m letting you out at the corner, guy.”

  “Keep going or you don’t get your tip.”

  Barry shook his head. “Keep it. Getting stabbed by some psycho fuck isn’t worth twenty dollars.”

  “Do I seem like a psycho to you, Barry?” asked Spyder.

  “I dunno. Sure talk like one.”

  “I understand. This is weird for me, too.”

  “Then maybe you just want to be quiet and not talk about it anymore,” Barry said. “Anyway, we’re almost to your drop.”

  “Do you see that building on the corner? I can’t tell what it’s made of. It’s like pink quartz, but the walls are shifting like the whole thing is liquid,” said Spyder.

  “It’s a vacant lot, man.”

  “Maybe I’m just dreaming.”

  “If it’s a dream, you can give me a fifty dollar tip instead of twenty.”

  Spyder smiled. “Or I could stab you in the head, suck out your eyes and skull fuck you. I mean, if this is just a dream.”

  The cab screeched to a stop. “Get out.”

  “Let me get my money,” said Spyder.

  Barry turned around to face him. He had a lime green windbreaker draped over his arm to hide the old Browning .45 automatic he was holding. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Jesus, Barry. Tell me that’s not your daddy’s gun,” said Spyder. “Pretty Freudian, don’t you think?” The cabbie’s eyes narrowed. “I’m kidding, man. I’m just having a weird day. Let me give you some money.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them and get out. I’ll shoot you and tell the cops you tried to rob me. When they find all the dope in your blood, they’ll believe me.”

  “Sorry I scared you.”

  “You didn’t scare me, you pissed me off,” said Barry. “Can’t you tell the difference?”

  Spyder got out of the cab and leaned in the front passenger window. Barry kept the gun pointed at him. “Funny, my ex said something like that when she split.”

  Barry gave Spyder the finger, gunned his engine and shot straight down Haight Street before being caught at the next corner by a half-dozen jaywalking punks.

  That guy was going to shoot me, thought Spyder. He considered that as he walked the last half block to the studio. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad option. The hallucinations weren’t letting up. Maybe being shot was what he needed to kick his brain out of the peculiar abyss into which it had fallen. Spyder had the feeling that the day wasn’t going to get any better.

  SIX

  A Trick of the Light

  Spyder walked with his head down, not allowing himself to look around no matter how odd or enticing the visions: black hooves, crows chatting with rats, the suddenly sinister insect-silhouettes of panhandlers he’d seen a thousand times before.

  He smelled musk and ambergris, cook fires and sewage. It reminded him of the Moroccan souks, but he was very far away from Morocco. In fact, very far away from anything familiar right now.

  A sense of relief came over Spyder when he entered the tattoo studio and closed the door behind him. A couple of college girls were inspecting the flash designs on the walls and giggling nervously to each other. They didn’t have wings or horns or extra eyes. They were a beautiful sight. Spyder could hear Lulu in the back with one of her piercing customers. “You’ll feel a little pressure and then a slight sting, but that’s all,” she said. “Relax.”

  Hungry for a normal moment he spoke to the college girls. “If you have any questions about the tattoo work, that’s what I do around here, so you can ask me.”

  The girls looked at him and the taller one, a café-au-lait brunette with bright green eyes, said, “How much for the black panther? That’s a real traditional one, right?”

  “Yeah. All the pieces on that wall go way back. And we charge by the hour, so the price depends on how big and where you want it. We have a hundred dollar minimum.”

  The girls whispered to each other, then turned to Spyder. “We’re going to think about it. Do you have a card?”

  Spyder went behind the counter and found one of the studio’s cards. He felt self-conscious handing it to the brunette. The card had a symbol on it. Spyder knew it was something Celtic, but he had no idea what it meant.

  “Thanks,” said the dark haired girl, letting her fingertips brush against Spyder’s as she accepted the card. Under normal circumstances, Spyder would have taken that as a signal to go into his charming act, complete with self-effacing patter and a certain calculated awkwardness that gave him the look of someone who might need just a little looking after. Today, however, all he could muster was a tired smile. “Any time,” he said and turned away from the girls, looking for his appointment book so he could cancel everyone set for that day. Maybe for the rest of the week, he thought.

  His head and body ached and his hands shook a little as he leafed through the appointments. “Every rabbit hole has a bottom,” he said quietly, remembering something that Sara Durango had told him after giving him his first hit of acid when he was fourteen.

  Lulu and her female client were coming out of the back room when Spyder settled on the numbers he needed to call. He didn’t look up, not ready to deal with the world, much less make eye contact with Lulu or the girl.

  “Remember,” said Lulu, “you’re going to want to soak in a sea salt bath and use that antibiotic cream every day.”

  “Every day,” said the other woman. Spyder heard the little bell over the door ring as she left.

  Spyder had to concentrate to make his fingers punch the right numbers into the phone. It rang a few times then gave a subtle click as it switched over the voice mail. “Hi. This is Spyder Lee over at Route 666 Tattoos. Sorry, but I have to cancel our appointment for this afternoon.” He settled back in his seat, giving Lulu a pained smile. “I’m not feeling that well and…holy shit….”

  Spyder set down the receiver and stood up, coming around the counter. Something was terribly wrong. He took Lulu gently by the arm. “Goddam,” said Spyder, leading her to a chair. “What happened to you?”

  Lulu looked at him, puzzled. “Nothing happened to me. You’re the one who got stomped, ’member sugar?” She laid her hand on his cheek. The hand was cold and the skin was stiff, like dried-out leather.

  “What happened to you?” Spyder repeated more insistently.

  Lulu kept smiling. She had to. She had no lips. All the flesh from the lower part of her face had been cut neatly away, leaving her with a permanent leer. She wore a low-cut shirt and her dry white skin was criss-crossed with old scars and stained stitching. Spyder thought of the cheap boots and vests he’d bought on teenage roadtrips to Tijuana. Bad leather sewn together crudely and carelessly. Most disturbing of all were Lulu’s eyes. They were gone. Over her empty sockets torn scraps of paper were taped, each with a smeared, childlike drawing of an eye.

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  The exposed muscles around Lulu’s mouth twitched a little. She reflexively pulled away from Spyder and covered her face with her hands, then quickly lowered them. “Oh my god, “ she said. “You really had your brains rearranged last night.”

  “Tell me I’m fucked up,” Spyder said. “I’ve been seeing the most horrible shit all day. Monsters. Buildings that aren’t there. Dead people.”

  “Not dead, most likely,” Lulu said. “There’s a whole lot more range between dead and alive than they taught us when we were kids, Spyder.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a lot no one taught u
s. Deep, dark secrets. Other worlds. Other kinds of people. Hidden, but right in front of us.”

  “This is a mistake.”

  “I wish. There’s monsters in the world. Some of ’em were born and some were made. I was made.”

  “This isn’t happening. I’m still in the alley. I’m knocked out and I’m dreaming.”

  “I’m so sorry, darlin’. You’re not ready for this. You were never supposed to see or know about it.”

  “Know about what?” Spyder shouted. “What are you?”

  “I’m Lulu, baby. Just Lulu.” She sat down next to him again, a horrible, broken toy. “You’re just seeing another part of me. And I’m so sorry for that.” Tears fell from her empty eye sockets, staining the paper drawings taped there.

  Spyder walked across the room and sat on the floor with his back against the counter. “I refuse to accept any of this,” he said.

  Lulu got up and locked the door to the studio, then sat back in the chair in front of Spyder. “Darlin’, we’ve known each other since we were six years old. You’re the first person I came out to,” she said. “I guess I’m coming out again.”

  “As what?”

  Lulu leaned forward and laid her hand on his knee. “Please don’t touch me,” Spyder said. She withdrew the hand.

  “I’m not really a monster,” said Lulu. “I’m a damned fool, but I’m not a monster. I just got into something a little over my head.”

  “That part’s obvious.”

  “I just had my eyes opened, so to speak,” she said, pulling her exposed muscles into a smile. “Just like you.” She slid down next to him on the floor, careful not to let her body touch his. Spyder shifted away from her a few inches.

  “Remember four, five years back when I was all strung out on oxy? I couldn’t work. Couldn’t do much of anything but steal and score.”

  “You still owe me a CD player,” Spyder said.

  Lulu let out an airy laugh, like wind through a keyhole. “Rehab didn’t work. Then, I met some people through this dealer. They said they could get me clean. Make my hands steady, so I could work again. Did I want to try it? Of course, I said Yes.”