Dermaphoria (11 page)

O
NE OF
W
HITE’S STUTTERING LAB GEEKS GAVE WORD THAT A COYOTE BY THE
handle of High Tail had gone supernova between drops, scorching his ghost onto a patch of Route 127 like a Nagasaki flash shadow. I was carrying four pounds of lysergic acid amides in my trunk when I stopped to check my messages from a gas station pay phone. Otto was wiping dragonfly guts from my windshield when I heard the black magic word assigned to the signal man working Gotham.

“Hindenburg.” Dial tone.

A Wicker Man could be contained. A Hindenburg meant an accident en route, so the highway patrol knew about it first. My Gotham man had been on point, ears glued to the scanner, but he’d been taking payment in product to stay awake. His panic was contagious.

The signal man picked up on the first ring.

“Go,” he said. Emergency phone protocol. Say nothing explicit and keep it short.

“Yes or no,” I said. “Nothing else. Is Angela there?”

“Yes.”

If a tapeworm in the phone picked up the name, it wouldn’t matter. Angela was code—wipe everything down.

“Cargo.”

“I didn’t—”

“Cargo.”

“No.”

They should have packed while waiting for me to phone. The drill called for the crew to load their belongings—nobody brought more than a single bag—wipe everything down, salvage the product, abandon the glass and cut our losses.

“Then everyone pack up and walk,” I said. “And I mean walk. Do you understand?”

“There’s—”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Product?”

“No.”

“You know where to whisper?”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I’ll tell you when you get there.”

“In thirty.”

“Twenty.” I hung up.

Once the authorities ID’d our dead man, they’d run his arrest sheet, bank and credit card action, phone records and every pay phone within a mile of his residence, and repeat the same for his known associates and lean on every one of them with both barrels. Delinquent parking fines, outstanding warrants, parole violations, child protective services, property search and seizure, rat jackets.

Somebody always talks. Always. The cops dangle immunity deals and cash payouts from seized trafficking assets. Nobody gets cuffed and stuffed solo, and every one of them knows someone else, their best friend, wife or children, who will break in exchange for the free ticket out and a marked bankroll. They had to be faster than the next guy, so our crews had to be faster than the DMV and dental records.

We were en route from Texas. I’d grown a culture of claviceps fungus at Gotham, then moved it via coyote to a location code-named Sleepy Hollow, where the crew used it to infect a rye crop. Otto and I arrived just after their midnight harvest. I worked with them until sunrise pulverizing the seeds and showing them how to leech out the fats with toluene. The resulting black mash was sensitive to light, air and temperature change, so I triple sealed it on dry ice before I hit the road. On certain runs, I prefer my own wheels. I didn’t want one of White’s idiots veering into a reservoir or river. The call from Gotham confirmed my caution.

One cook was legend. His blotter sheets were ready for infusion when he did a face-plant in his own lab. A puddle, a stray cord or a six pack, no one will ever know. He splashed a quart of pure, liquid LSD all over himself as his head hit the concrete. He went black for a week. To this day, he swears he reinvented acid, but his girlfriend’s dog was a spy for the government who stole the recipe and engineered his accident.

I left the crew their cash and instructions to dismantle the lab and abandon Sleepy Hollow. I’d been driving ever since. We had to store the ice chest at Gotham until runners arrived with the other materials. I was anxious to get home, Otto was anxious to hit the Vegas tables for an afternoon.

Otto reached into the car and flashed the headlights. I waved him off. He resumed cleaning the windows. Wasps, crickets, moths, locusts and horseflies grew bigger the deeper into Texas we drove. Where men are men and so are the insects, he’d said. They hit my windshield at 70 mph like small rocks, held on long enough to crack out the whiplash
then flew away. Others exploded on impact, their guts blotting out an entire headlight.

After eighteen minutes, I dialed the second pay phone. The signal man answered, sucking wind.

“Go.”

“Your turn,” I said. I needed details.

“Who is this?”

“You said, ‘Hindenburg,’ that’s who. Tell me everything is sprayed and the glass broken.”

“It’s done. But they wanna get paid and they’re scared. And pissed.”

“If you shut down and dispersed according to procedure, you having nothing to worry about. Everyone will get paid, but they’ll have to wait.”

“I heard about the last one.”

“You heard what?”

“Pinstripe.”

“Shut up.” I listened to the wire hum. Tapeworms don’t click, like the old days. They’re quieter. Alias or not, he said Pinstripe’s name. His crew wasn’t connected with Pinstripe’s crew. The coyotes didn’t know each other or the cargo they carried.

“The guy,” the signal man was stuttering, “he was getting help and nobody’s seen him.”

“Who told you that?”

“I heard.”

From a rogue link in the chain.

“Listen, he screwed up,” I said. “He didn’t follow instructions and had to get help. He’s fine, but he’s out of the crew. That’s why nobody’s heard from him.”

I’d forgotten about Pinstripe as soon as I passed him off to White.

“Now, pull it together and tell me what happened.”

The coyote was carrying phosphorus. Someone overpacked. Someone left impurities in the product. The agitation on the drive created a spark. The CHP found the smoking husk of the VW, the paint blistered from the heat, in the middle of the road, overturned from the driver’s attempt to regain control after the spontaneous combustion of the cargo. He drove the flaming ball for a quarter mile of absolute panic before rolling it, setting off the gas tank and the rest of the cargo.

God, how I missed you then.

A week ago, you blocked my way into your front door after I’d just returned from another road trip.

“Tell me you missed me,” you said.

“I missed you.”

Maybe I didn’t look you in the eye long enough. Maybe my tone was off, ever so slightly.

“Try again,” you said. “And mean it.”

“I missed you,” I said again. “I came straight here. I haven’t been home because I wanted to see you first.”

You smiled, weighing my sincerity against its expression. You stepped aside to let me through. I dropped my bag and pulled you to me, burying my face in your flaming hair.

“I did miss you, Firefly.”

“Don’t call me that.” You took my wrist and pulled me inside.

“I could do this forever,” I said. You squeezed me, lightly. “Just lie here beside you. Watch the sun go down.”

“How can the sun go down forever?” Your voice sleepy.

“Sorry?”

“You said you could do this forever.” You rested your chin on me. Your eyes were brighter.

“And then you said you could watch the sun go down. How can you do both?”

“I try to be romantic and you mince words.”

“Giving you a hard time,” you said, then kissed my chest.

“Maybe the sun could set really slowly. I mean really take its time.”

“Sshhhh.”

Darkness settled. Your curtains open, no moon in the sky. We’d kicked the covers away in the heat, and I wanted to look at you.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

“Bathroom. I’ll light a candle when I get back.”

“Hurry back. No candles,” you said into your pillow.

I thought you were joking until I struck a match.

“Eric, I’m serious. Don’t.”

“Once again, I’m the romantic one.”

You said nothing, your face away from me.

“Hey. Your house burn down or something?” Your room grew darker in the silence. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You didn’t know. It’s just my stupid hang-up.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It’s stupid. I’m paranoid, and that’s stupid.”

“You’re paranoid about fire in general or just candles? Is that how your house burned down?”

“No, that’s the stupid part. It was a fire in our kitchen when I was four years old. My mom was cooking. But I’ve been really sketchy about some things ever since. I hate gas stoves. Candles didn’t always bother me, really, until an old roommate of mine started a fire in our apartment.
She was stoned.”

“You’ve had two homes burn down.”

“No, the second time wasn’t serious. She lost a bunch of her stuff to smoke and water damage. But when I was little, our family lost everything. Nobody got hurt, but everything was gone.”

“Where were you?”

“I was watching the parade.”

“What parade?”

“We lived near a middle school and their marching band would practice around our neighborhood. I used to run outside because I thought it was a parade. My own parade, every day.”

“You were saved by a marching band.”

“After my roommate started the fire in our apartment, I think I freaked. I don’t remember, but I definitely overreacted. Then she told them about me, so this asshole fireman thought he could get into my pants. He got our number and kept asking me out. I said no for three weeks before he gave up. Guys were always saying they had gone through the training or were thinking about becoming firemen. Like I was some damsel in distress who’s going to get wet over firemen.”

“When it’s really marching bands that get you hot.”

“Go home.” You hit me with a pillow.

“I’m going to learn the trombone.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“And wear one of those shiny hats.”

“They’re called shakos.”

“Busted.”

You hit me again.

“Forget it,” I said. “I’m going whole hog and learning the tuba.”

“Good. The standup lessons aren’t paying off.” You left for the bathroom. I loved watching you in the dark.

Your body jigsaw wedged against mine when I woke, your face against my neck and our ankles interlocked, the morning glow of your room turning into the garish sunlight I’d be driving through, to Texas and back. You were asleep, but still clung fast when I tried to get out of bed. The hot shower pounded me awake and I ran through my departure checklist. I gave myself five days for the round trip.

I leaned over to kiss you before I left, and you pulled away.

“Do you have to leave again?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you wait for a day?”

“No. Please, let’s not get into that.”

“One day.”

“Please,” I said. “It’s my turn to be serious. Please don’t harass me about work. I’ll call you, every day. At least once, I promise.”

“Promise me.”

“I just did.”

“Say it again.”

“I promise. I’ll call you every day.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I still call you Firefly?”

You nodded.

“Then go to sleep, Firefly.” I kissed you and left.

Otto honked the horn, impatient, though still cleaning the windows.

“You’re taking up too much space on my machine,” I said. “I promised I would call.”

“You didn’t call all day.”

“I promised I would call,” I said once more. “And I did. I haven’t had time today, so I’m doing it now.”

“You were too busy to make a single phone call?”

I was too busy to make a single phone call that would log your number into a pay phone that could, at some point, be audited.

“Yes, I was. And I have to go now.”

“Okay.” Your cold pout came all the way through the lines.

“Dee, I miss you. I want to see you and I’d much rather be there than here. Please. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Just come straight over.”

“I’ll stop at home, shower and then be straight over.”

“You can shower here. I washed the clothes you left.”

“Okay.” Anything to end this conversation. “I’ll go straight to your place. But please, no more messages while I’m out of town.”

The horn honked, the headlights flashed. We said our good-byes.

The electric red-eye blink on my machine flashed fourteen times in the dark, paused, then cycled through again. I was too jaded to panic. I dialed the relay number for White, hung up, then heard the footsteps outside. Someone knocked, or I heard the tapping and creaking of my settling house. Someone whispered my name, or I heard the breeze brushing leaves against the windows. I sat in the dark, waiting for my windows to explode and the dark soldiers to fly through the glass, their lights in my eyes and gun barrels to my head.

I’m a boy again, hiding beneath my covers from the monsters in my room, the deformed and disfigured faces I see in the tree bark at night are leaning over me, waiting for me to breathe.

*

I’m on my bed at the Firebird. So are you. I’m safe.

Another knock.

“Eric?”

No mistaking my name, this time.

The peephole distorted your face. I unlocked the three deadbolts and flung the door open. You stepped back, startled.

“What are you doing here?”

“You said you’d come to my house first.”

“Keep your voice down. I wanted to, but I had to stop.”

“For what?”

“I said keep your voice down.”

“Why won’t you let me in?”

“Desiree, please be quiet.”

“I’ll talk as loud as I want if you’re going to make me stand on the goddamned porch.”

I grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside. You started to shout and I clamped my hand over your mouth.

“Okay, you’re inside. Now keep your voice down.”

“Why did you do that?” You were rubbing your wrist. The fear and sadness twisted your face until you looked twenty years older in the faint light. “You don’t have to be so mean.” The words squeezed from your throat, wrapped around a sob.

“Why can’t you give me some breathing room? What the Christ gives you the right to stampede through my life like this? Who do you think you are?”

It broke my heart to break yours. The bulldog facade that served in
my dealings with White served only to hurt you, and I lost sight of that between my road fatigue and rabbit hole focus.