John Shirley - Wetbones

He began to feel something else, then. A suspicion.

All morning and into the afternoon, the feeling had been there. A sense of being dogged. Followed by Amy, of course. Not a feeling that she was in him… it wasn't like possession… more like she was looking over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, wreathing him with some lost essence.

He saw himself, then, as she'd seen him that day. The day they'd broken up. Tom Prentice with a refined sneer, a supercilious disdain at what he'd called her "childish over-reaction" at the affair he'd had. He saw clearly, beyond the unconvincing sneer, the fear and uncertainty briefly flickering in his face. The self loathing.

He had abandoned her. He had failed her and driven her away and she'd gone out into the urban-primeval outer darkness of Los Angeles and gone alone…

He wanted to put a fist through the painting of a woman alone on the overpass…

He turned and hurried out of the gallery, looking for a bar. He found a fern bar, with lots of brass and plants and abstract paintings – abstractions were more to his taste at the moment, they were safer – and he drank a double Jaegermeister. He cast about for a way to get his mind clear of Amy.

Found his way to the pay phone at the back of the bar. Jeff had given him permission to have messages left on his answering machine. He called up Jeff's number and pressed the appropriate touchtone buttons to get the machine to reel out its messages over the phone. He had to wait out three irrelevant messages for Jeff before there was one for him. It was Buddy. "Tom, this is Buddy – if I got it right, you're at this number – um, just wanted you to know that Arthwright called, he is interested in putting up a little money for your treatment…"

Prentice thought: And Zack says thanks for the blow job.

Buddy went on, "Um, I don't know how you pulled off that miracle but Zack says he's going to talk to you a little more about it at the party, whatever party that is – how come I'm not invited? – and I just wanted to tell you, don't accept any offers on your own, just smile and say, 'Sounds great – call Buddy!' Okay? Catchya later, pal. Hang in there."

A new record for Buddy on message length. Usually it was, "Hey I think we got a nibble, give me a call." Startled into loquacity, apparently, by Arthwright's willingness to cough up some cash.

Well. That was good, then. He should be happy about it.

He really should.

The Doublekey Ranch, near Malibu

As Mitch's body healed, his mind began to flake away. Sometimes he heard a murmur of voices when he was sure the building and the grounds outside were empty. After a while he realized he was hearing the roses outside the window talking to one another.

When the Handy Man came into the room, Mitch didn't recognize him, at first. He looked the same as always, but somehow no identity clung to his familiar face. To Mitch this creature was just a moving module of flesh and purpose; an apotheosis of the minatory presence of this place. A thing that moved about the room like a videogame character, doing this and that; beeping now and then. Then he went away. Game Over.

Eurydice's voice brought Mitch back to himself. "Mitch?"

It came muffled through the wall.

"Come and talk to me!"

They'd spoken earlier, through the crack, but Mitch hadn't been able to say much. "Oh we're just here, is all," he'd said. "I gotta lay down now. 'Bye."

How long ago had that been? Hours. He'd sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wallpaper, letting his eyes go in and out of focus. For how many hours? He shrugged, and got up from the bed, went to the wall, pushed the dresser out of the way, and crouched next to the crack.

"Mitch… Are you okay?"

Suddenly his pulse was pounding, his mouth was dry. "Eurydice," he said. "I'm geeking in here. I'm losin' it."

He could tell she was trying not to break down as she said, "How long you been there?"

"I don't know. Some days. Maybe some weeks. I'm not sure. They don't let me out at all. I go into some weird places in my head. I saw some shit in that room you're in. And outside. Eury, we gotta…"

They had to what? He wasn't really sure.

"Can't get out the window," she said. "Your room like that, too?"

"Yeah. There's no attic trap doors, there's nothing. No way to get out."

"The only way out is to jump somebody. When they come in the door."

He frowned. Did she really think that was possible? "They wouldn't let that happen. They know what you're doing. They know when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake. They won't let us. No."

"There always be some way! Motherfuckers. Fucking motherfuckers lied, really trickin' us off, they…"

"We have to just stay here. Maybe they'll let us have lots of head syrup."

"Don't talk about that!" she hissed. He heard her thump the wall in her anger. "Goddamn it, why you such a limp dick? We gone get out of here, Mitchie. We…"

"I was always in love with you," he said, suddenly.

She was silent for a minute. Then she said, "You tell me when we get out."

"We can't."

"Mitch -!"

"Don't get mad. We can't. Except… Um…"

"Except how?"

"Except if we… become like them. We got to learn to be what they are…"

Watts, Los Angeles

Garner found them, all of them, in the parking lot of a corner E-Z Check Cashing place, its windows cluttered with signs. Any check cashed! Bus Passes; Money Orders; Food Stamp Pick-up; Western Union.

On the opposite corner, across from the little parking lot, was Bubba's Discount Liquors. The crowd that hung out in the parking lot filtered back and forth between the check cashing business and the liquor store. They stood around laughing and arguing and hustling one another and ignoring one another and gossiping, their restless eyes watching the street. Now and then one of the girls, the toss-ups, would take a ride with one of the men who cruised by, looking for easy pussy. There were about forty of them in the Set, when they were all there; sometimes there were as few as ten, depending on what the Mix had given them. Garner had sat in his van and watched them for a while, sipping from his bottle until one of the girls approached him. A black girl – her skin the colour of coffee with a single spoonful of cream. She was short but quite pretty, despite being nearly emaciated. Big eyes, pointy tits in a t-shirt shortened to show her flat, muscular belly, brown jeans. It was the sort of t-shirt with a cat's face on it, traced out in gold and silver paint; its eyes were plastic fake emeralds glued on at the factory.

"How are you today?" she asked, putting it like that because he was a white guy.

He shrugged and said, 'What's your name?"

"Gretchen."

"I'm…" He thought back. When he was using, the time before, they'd called him Slim, on the streets. "I'm Slim."

"So. Slim – what's happening with you today?"

She was careful not to solicit him, and she was consciously speaking in mostly white English. She probably had an educated background. A fair number of addicts did. He'd met hardcore crack whores who had two degrees. They were usually black, though, even the educated ones. Going back to visit the old neighbourhood could be dangerous, if your life was going sour.

"What's happening?" Garner snorted. "My daughter's dead. She was murdered. I want to get fucked up. Really geeked-out fucked up on rock. And then I want some pussy."

She stared at him. Then laughed. "Well, you come right to the point anyway, don't you?"

They were in a dingy box that Gretchen's cousin, Hardwick, called "my crib". It was a studio apartment with the bathroom down the hall. It had nothing in it except a mattress where Garner and Gretchen and Hardwick sat with legs sprawled onto the floor; an aluminium chair missing the back; a pile of clothing in one corner. Even the fridge and the stove had been hauled out and sold somewhere, probably for less than fifty bucks each.