Dermaphoria (15 page)

The fire lulled and a wave of darkness followed that lasted for no more than a few moments. I slowed my run and when the second blast sounded, a hot wind bent the sage and the desert shrubs to the ground. Stopping to breathe, I looked back. A ball of fire, half the size of the house itself, rose to the sky. Beautiful.

The desert life burrowed from the apocalypse, and the massive fireball dispersed into angry tongues of flame scattering in every direction and then, in a whirlwind motion, they came back together. The bats were on fire, they were pissed and looking for me. I had to outrun my own echo.

I ran until the fire was too far behind me to light my way, and then walked in the dark, ducking off the road when I saw headlights. Fatigue pulled at my feet, the sluggish quicksand of delirium wrapped around my chest and neck, choking me. A distant streetlight shone over the highway intersection, the abandoned gas station from where I’d called you earlier. The line was contaminated, but I had no other option. As I felt my pockets for change, the tablets I’d been carrying at the diner turned up again, the only incriminating evidence left. Lab or not, they were enough to send me to jail. I should have thrown them away but I couldn’t think clearly. I panicked and swallowed them.

That’s right about where my memory gets fuzzy.

M
Y MEMORY BITES ITS OWN TAIL AMID THE FLAMING BATS AND MELTING
nails as Oz implodes into a smouldering bruise in the desert. The distant flames die down and the phone booth goes dark. I can’t see anything except the black metal and plastic of the phone itself, though I don’t remember it having a green light. My eyes adjust, and I’m not in the phone booth. The green light is from the coin box of booth number four and, in the dark, I feel the wood from the guillotine panel protecting the Glass Stripper from the world outside her pink room.

Either I’m dropping through the floor, or the coin box is floating away. I reach for it, catching a light switch and the overhead bulb washes out the glow from the black light, and a painted green roach scurries down the wall, behind my bed.

I blink, and my life is over.

I’m sober, though I can’t say I’m clearheaded. Morrel meets me at the courthouse and gives me a sport jacket, dress shirt and tie, and I change clothes in the bathroom. Morrel says I look like death, and he’s right. After I change, we go across the street to a lunch counter where I drink a pot of coffee and Morrel flags the waitress and says something I can’t hear. She returns with two jalapeno peppers on a saucer.

“Eat these,” says Morrel.

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. Just one, you can do it in two bites.”

After the first bite, my face flushes with heat, sweat runs from my forehead and my nose feels like it’s bleeding

“What was that for?”

“You need to get some color in your face.” He takes a travel pack of aspirin from his pocket and slaps it in front of me. “Take a couple of those and finish your coffee. We need to go.”

My trial proceeds. Morrel and the prosecutor approach the bench, resume positions, argue over a display of evidence tagged and spread across two end-to-end cafeteria tables near the bailiff’s desk like the recovered traces of an airline crash. They dispute the admissibility of each and every vial, bag, envelope, soil sample, glass shard, tire track cast, my vehicle registration and nearby phone booth records. The list seems infinite, though the court can’t produce a single witness identifying me at the scene. They have no record or witness of a transaction into, or out of, the lab. Each piece of evidence is a scorched fragment of something larger and more incriminating, but on its own is shaky and open to disputes which Morrel, much to my shock, conjures out of thin air: Each exhibit’s discovery location and loose proximity to the lab, fire department testimony as to the indeterminate strength of the blast and how far it could have sent certain fragments, the quantifiable, vaporizing heat at ground zero. Morrel recites a litany of raids and arrests in the surrounding area, all of which could have led to discarded or abandoned evidence. The pieces are nothing individually, but collectively they tell me what I already know. The proof of arson is absolute but, beyond that, it’s a line-item fight for enough evidence to prove the rest.

I scan the courtroom for signs of anyone I recognize, hoping for
you. Anslinger is nowhere to be seen, though if he’s going to testify, he won’t be present during the other proceedings. Manhattan White and Toe Tag, I suspect, will observe, but they’re not here yet. Sometimes I look over my shoulder as the courtroom doors swing shut, and someone has either just sat down or just walked out but I never catch anyone in between. It’s startling how many familiar faces I’ve amassed in my short time starting from nothing. The courtroom feels lonely without them. Perhaps I’ll invite the Glass Stripper to come by and sit in for an afternoon when she’s not working.

“Desiree,” says the prosecutor.

I’ve completely tuned out at this point. I’m about to ask for a bathroom break, but forget it the instant I hear your name. I look behind me, hoping for your flaming hair among the spectators, but you’re not there, nor are the doors swinging in your wake. My heart pounds with a mixture of hope and horror but everything’s stalled. The prosecutor confers with his aide, scanning a sheet of paper and looking at a small evidence pouch.

“Your Honor,” Morrell steps to the podium and addresses the judge, “the defense moves to have the exhibit stricken from the proceedings.”

“These specimens were gathered by the same team, from the same burn site as part of the same investigation,” says the prosecutor.

He holds up a small, glassine envelope with a property sticker affixed to one side. I could spot them from a thousand miles away: the shiny blue tablets, the reigning media scourge that brought me back into your arms at the Firebird. Their connection to me is tenuous at best, but this man plans on making his career by putting me away, the mastermind behind the latest drug scare.

“We do see why these should be exempt,” he says.

“Counselor?” The judge removes his glasses to address Morrel.

“Your Honor,” Morrel begins, “if the prosecution wishes to accuse
my client of any wrongdoing, especially with respect to the illegal manufacture of drugs, then the prosecution should be able to correctly identify,” Morrel stresses
correctly identify
as he holds aloft a photocopied sheet, “beyond urban slang or street lingo, the illegal substance that my client is being accused of manufacturing.” The prosecutor stands to speak but Morrel doesn’t pause. “If you can show me court records that document a conviction of possession of ‘reefer,’ or ‘doobie,’ I’ll reconsider.” The courtroom chuckles, everyone but me.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor jumps at the opening. Morrel tries to stop him again but the judge silences him. “The presence of this drug is well-known and documented, as is its very recent entry into the black market. It is a new analogue without any known medical production.” Once more, Morrel tries to interrupt but the prosecutor continues with his voice raised. “The speculation that it came from a pharmaceutical manufacturer is still speculation. Your Honor, whether or not the drug has an origin in a legitimate source, the fact remains that all available evidence points to it being a purely black market product. The state has nothing but its street terms with which to identify it.” He produces a photocopied sheet. From a distance, it looks to be identical to the one Morrell is using. “Skin,” says the prosecutor. He dons his glasses and begins reading a litany of street terms—I already know them— “Touch, Cradle, Derma, D,” until Morrel cuts him short.

“The prosecution is using a girl’s name, Your Honor.” The courtroom breaks into laughter. “They haven’t even begun to identify the substance, so it stands to reason they’re not prepared to levy a charge of manufacture for something they can’t identify. I will not have a client be charged with making ‘Peggy Sue’ in a laboratory.” The courtroom bursts into outright hysterics. The judge beats the laughter into submission with his gavel, then calls the opposing attorneys to his bench, yet again.

Several minutes of mumbling and gesturing follow, a ball of lead forming in my stomach and growing heavier by the second. Morrel returns and the judge adjourns until the following day while he considers the issue at hand.

“You know anything about this?” Morrel whispers to me.

“About what?”

“The street names. Apparently it’s hip to call it by a woman’s name.”

“It sounds familiar. You know how it is with me.”

“I do. At least we know what ‘Desiree’ means.”

I don’t hear anything else. The ball of lead is falling into a gorge at terminal velocity, taking me with it, and I grip the edge of the table to keep from being pulled into the black hole below the courtroom carpet.

“Things are looking up,” says Morrel. “They’ve got a scary mountain of evidence, but the pieces break easily. We just need to chip away at them.” This is good news, I know. I’m facing a lifetime trafficking conviction and the court-appointed lawyer is showing optimism, but I don’t feel it. “Loosen up, Eric. Remember, you’re not even on trial, yet. We’re still arguing evidence. Be here bright and early.”

I’ve sweated through my dress shirt by the time I arrive at the theater. My head is screaming. Court adjourned around 4:00, and I haven’t seen this much sunlight since ever, as far as I know. I remember seeing sunlight before the fire, but I can’t trust those memories anymore. It’s a long shot the Glass Stripper is working right now, but I can’t bear the thought of my room. The allure of Skin is gone. I don’t want to remember anymore because my memories keep getting worse.

I step into booth number four with a handful of tokens. I don’t ask for Desiree this time. The Token Man assumed nothing, so extracted no toll and gave me my full change. I slide the latch shut with my bare
fingers, dropping a few of the brass tokens in the dark as I’m fumbling for the coin box. The looking-glass guillotine slides up. The Glass Stripper faces away from me, entertaining someone in a window on the opposite side of the pink room. I recognize her ass. I knock on the glass once, then again harder, not caring whether or not the mop man has been slacking. She doesn’t hear me. When the guillotine window opposite mine drops, I hammer the glass with my fist. She spins quickly and scowls at my window, her dancing booth charm turned to ice.

“I’m sorry.” I want her to hear me, but I hate raising my voice. I slide three Jacksons through the tip slot. “I’m cool. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me.” She takes my money, tucks it into the front of her panties. “Want a dance?”

“No.”

“Good.” She starts to walk away and I tap the glass again.

“Wait, can I just talk to you for a sec?”

“I have customers. You want to talk, then get a number out of a newspaper.”

“I just gave you sixty dollars.”

She rolls her eyes, crouches down so her face is almost level with mine. “Go.”

“Do you recognize me?

“You’re the guy with the booth tokens and the chafed cock, right?”

“Yeah, I mean no, not really. You might have me confused with somebody else.

“I was joking,” she says. She hasn’t stripped yet, but what little she’s wearing I could ball up into my fist. More sleight of hand, she pulls a cigarette and a lighter out of thin air. She lights up with a deep drag, but says nothing else.

“Desiree, please. Just look at me. Have we ever met before, outside
of this place?”

“I’m not Desiree.” She blows a cloud of smoke against the glass.

“I know. Your name isn’t Desiree. It’s a stage name. I won’t ask your real name.”

“Yes, you won’t ask my real name and no, you don’t know my stage name. My name is Charlene on the dance roster. And that’s the only name you’ll get from me.”

“No, I asked for Desiree. He sent me to you.” I jut my thumb behind me, back where the Token Man sits outside the booth doors.

“Of course he did. And yes, of course I recognize you.”

Good. She understands me, at least.

“So you know I’m cool.” I’m calmer now, and I speak in a whisper. “And your name is Desiree, right?”

The booth flashes blue with the noise of a cracking whip and my nose burns with electricity. I was staring at her eyes or following the glowing cigarette tip, I don’t know, but I was right up against the window trying to whisper to her when this sleight-of-stripper had one hand free and out of sight, and now she’s poking the chrome teeth of a stun gun through the tip slot, right against my belly after the warning snap that sent me all the way back to a smoking pear tree that might or might not have ever existed.

“Don’t move,” she says. “Who sent you?”

There’s no move I can make that’s faster than her squeeze of the trigger. Out of reflex, my hands are in the air and a cascade of brass coins hits the floor of the booth, a sound I know with more certainty than anything I’ve felt without a brain load of Skin.

“Some guys from my hotel,” I tell her. “They said to ask for you.”

“You mean Desiree.”

“Yeah. Desiree.” The one thing worse than being wrong is being uncertain.

“What hotel?”

“The Firebird.” Strange, I haven’t told anyone where I’ve been until this moment. “It’s about a half mile from here.”

“I know where it is.”

“A couple of guys who live there. Jack. He’s got a friend. A skinny guy who doesn’t talk.”

“I know them.”

“So you know his friend’s name?”

“No.” Then she whispers, “And you cleaned me out last time.”

“Who’s your supplier?”

“Not a chance,” she says, and stands to leave.

“Wait, please. Who is Desiree?” I need to hear it, I need to know for certain.

“Nobody. It’s code. You should know that.”

“Code for what?”

Her eyes freeze, glassy like the camera eyes of the elk head. She grinds her cigarette out with her stiletto toe. The edge of the pink carpet by my window is burned and blackened with dead cigarette butts.

“I’m clean,” I tell her. “I’m not setting you up,” and I loosen my tie, start to unbutton my shirt but she shakes her head, waves her hands at me to stop.

“You have to go now.”

I button my shirt, then ask her, “Can you read palms?”

She says nothing, but mouths the word “go” at the glass.

“I know it’s a strange question. But do you read palms? Or can you tell someone’s fortune with cards? Yes or no.”

Another lightning blast flares in the booth. She’s holding the miniature cattle prod at her own waist level, behind the glass where it can’t possibly touch me but the sight and sound of the microlightning
still threatens to burst my heart open.

“No,” she says. “Now get out.”

“Just tell me again, your name isn’t Desiree. Your real name. I don’t care what it is, as long as you tell me it’s not Desiree.”

If she says anything, I don’t hear it. My time runs out and the guillotine window drops, shutting out the pink light for the last time. As soon as I step from booth number four, the Token Man has one hand around the back of my neck and the other around my wrist, twisting my arm behind me and I go limp with fear, feeling my healing burns stretched to near ripping at the edges. I land on the sidewalk. A mailbox stops my tumble into the street.