Incubi

Jack hung up, sputtering. In the mirror, he could not conceive that the reflection was his own: a pale stick- man sitting on a bed, smoking a Camel, long hair a wet mop in his face. Pretty as a picture, he thought.

He went to his dresser for socks. Beneath the socks was a picture of Veronica. He knew he should not be thinking about this now. He should be immersed in the Triangle case — but the picture catalyzed him. It kicked his spirit back in time. Veronica was sticking her tongue out at the camera, holding a big cup of Guinness, her arm around Jack. Craig had taken the picture at the ’Croft last St. Patrick’s Day. It was the day after Veronica had told Jack that she loved him.

One time she’d gone to Atlantic City with Ginny. She’d called long-distance just to tell him she loved him. Another time they’d been downtown with Randy and his girlfriend, having a good time, talking innocuously about innocuous things, and Veronica had inexplicably passed Jack a bar napkin on which she’d penned I love you.

These were just a few. How could something once so bright have turned so black? Now he could view the past as only a dead providence.

He shoved the picture back in the drawer.

He dawdled about the flat, kept glancing at the phone. You’re an idiot, he concluded an hour later. She is not going to call you. Why should she call you? She broke up with you.

…his passion is purposive, Karla Panzram had said. He’s very passionate.

I love you, the bar napkin read.

HERE IS MY LOVE, the wall read.

This guy blew his load all the way up her repro tract.

Jack stared at the dresser mirror. “I am a very fucked-up person,” he stated to it. His reflection looked like a stranger. There was a loose cannon in his town, cutting up girls alive, yet all Jack could think about was Veronica.

He looked deadpan at the phone.

She’s never going to call you again. She’s too busy with what’s his name. Khoronos.

He left the flat. Dusk was descending; it was warm out, pretty. Main Street was alive with lovers and clean salt air. The purity of the vision depressed him. His long hair was still wet. He walked up toward Church Circle, toward the Undercroft—

— but at the corner he stopped. Was he sick? He felt dizzy at once; he backed up against a MOST machine to keep from falling. When he closed his eyes he thought he saw fire.

Something skittered across his mind. Something — a thought. A red thought.

No, a word.

Aorista.

* * *

“I knew I should’ve locked the door,” Craig said.

“What, and keep out your best tipper?”

“I’m not into coin collecting, Jack. I’ve told you dozens of times.”

“Just keep hocking in my Scotch like you’ve been doing for the last five years. I’ll get the message eventually.” Jack took his usual stool at the end. Several regulars raised their glasses in greeting. Jack liked the bar’s appointment. The rafters bore hundreds of beer coasters from around the world. Banners from breweries as obscure as Felinfoel, Tennent’s, and Tucher covered the front wall. Craig piped Fine Young Cannibals through the sound system while an Orioles game with the sound turned down progressed from the high TV. Jack was happy to see that the Yankees were using the O’s for toilet paper.

“What do you call three cops up to their necks in sand?”

“What, Craig?”

“Not enough sand.” Craig twirled a shaker cup full of ice perfectly over his shoulder, then poured equal volumes from four bottles at the same time, holding two in each hand. Bar tricks were something he’d honed to an art.

“Poor man’s Tom Cruise,” Jack commented.

“What’s that make you? Poor man’s Columbo?”

“I’ll drink to that. And speaking of drinks, do I have to fire warning shots to get one in this joint?”

“Keep your liver on.” Craig put a shooter before him. “Try that. It’s a tin roof.”

“What?”

Craig rolled his eyes. “It’s on the house. I call it the Piss Shooter.”

It looked like urine. “If your fly was open, I’d be leery.” Jack downed the shooter. “Not bad. You’re learning.”

Craig ejected the shaker’s ice over his shoulder. The ice landed directly in the sink. Craig was famous for never missing. “Couple of your boys were in today, giving me the business.”

Randy’s men, Jack deduced. “They show you pictures?”

Craig nodded and grabbed the Glenfiddich bottle without looking at it. He had the exact location of every bottle memorized.

“You know her?”

“I’ve seen her around, but I didn’t know her. Shanna something. She’s got a rep downtown as a monster rack.”

Craig’s terminology never ceased to amuse, along with such gems as Mr. Meat Missile, Killer Mammalian Carriage, Body by Fisher, Brains by Mack Truck. Craig also had the ultimate last call: Everybody get the fuck out of the bar! A “monster rack” was a girl with whom not much effort was required to get into bed.

“You know anyone who ever jammed her?”

“No one by name. I’ve seen lots of guys pick her up at Fran’s and the Map Room. Sounds like something heavy went down.”

“I’ll spare you the details. Ever see her in here?”

Craig shook his head. “She only hangs out at dance places.”

Not hangs, hung. And she ain’t dancing now.

Craig brought him a Fiddich on the rocks, then raised a brow a few minutes later when the glass was empty. “First one always goes fast,” Jack excused himself.

“I’ll bet that’s what you tell all the women.”

“Just your girlfriend.”

Craig guffawed. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I have a harem.”

Jack had to fake going along with the jokes; the first drink was already bringing him down. “Another, Craig.” Watch it, don’t get shitfaced again. Then the latent fact hit him like a fist. This was the same stool he’d been sitting on the night he met Veronica.

Khoronos, of course, would be strikingly handsome, older, mysterious. He would be different. He would be the kind of guy who could offer her a different experience.

Experience, she’d told Jack that last night.

The second drink went nearly as fast. “Riding the black train again, huh?” Craig asked.

Jack lit up, slouching already. “I’m its favorite passenger these days.” The alcohol and memory formed a whirlpool. He was flotsam in it, wreckage. He was going down.

“Let me tell you something.” Craig flipped a Marlboro in the air and caught it in his mouth. “You’re not the first guy in the world to get sacked by a girl.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“You gotta tighten up the bootstraps and move on. Remember what we were talking about today? Every day you spend boo-hooing about it is another day down the drain.”

Jack shrugged. He didn’t need lectures.