Icarus. (45 page)

Inside was even worse. The hallway was squalid and filthy and smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in years. She headed up a flight of stairs and Jack hesitantly followed. One of his feet grazed a pile of rags on the first landing – and the pile moved angrily.

"A crackhead," Samsonite said. "Don't mind him."

She also told Jack not to mind the rat that scurried past them on the way downstairs. He considered grabbing her, dragging her the hell out of there and taking her back to his place, then he thought: No. I'm too close. I'll know what's going on soon. Don't spook her. Just let it go.

They reached her apartment, which was on the third floor. The soiled green door was protected by four interior locks and one outside padlock. As Samsonite began her unlocking process, she said, "It's not like I'm paranoid. I know you're thinkin' I'm paranoid. It's the Russian mentality. You always think someone's trying to take whatever you've got."

By now she had managed to open her door. She stepped into the apartment, flicked on the light, and recoiled at the brightness. She immediately flicked it off and, as Jack stepped in behind her, she began scurrying around lighting candles. Not three or four candles. Fifty, sixty candles, maybe even a hundred that were scattered all over the place. And there was not all that much place in which to scatter.

Samsonite lived in two rooms plus a kitchen. Although it could barely be called a kitchen now. It was a room with a dirt-streaked white refrigerator and countertops that were covered with food-encrusted plates and bowls and ancient cardboard cartons of Chinese food. When she lit the four candles that sat by the sink – which was filled to the brim with dirty plates and silverware – Jack saw what looked like a herd of cockroaches scuttle into the cracks in the wall.

The living room had rags and towels thumbtacked up as window curtains. There was one sofa that looked as if it would collapse if anyone sat on it, and a small orange crate that Jack guessed was a makeshift coffee table. That was it. Through the open bedroom door, he could see mounds of clothes scattered on the floor and an iron, four-poster bed.

"You know, when I first came here, I thought I'd be a model. That's what everyone said, beautiful girls come here from Russia, they become models."

"What happened?"

"Maybe I'm not beautiful enough."

"I don't think that's it."

She smiled a bitter smile and continued lighting the candles scattered around the room. As she reached over to light two on the floor, in the corner, she picked up a small hypodermic needle and held it up for inspection. "Maybe I found something else I like better," she said. When she was done lighting the candles, she seemed exhausted by her effort and flopped down on the ruin of a sofa. "Have a seat."

"Where?" he asked.

Without answering – he wasn't certain she'd even heard him – she popped back up off the couch and went to the kitchen. He heard the fridge open and the rustling of various implements in her cabinets, then saw her, her back to him, pouring wine into two paper cups. On her return trip to the sofa, she handed him one of the cups, filled nearly to the brim. She flopped again, this time stretching out so her head rested on one arm of the couch and her black boots on the other.

"Oh, God," she sighed. "Will you take my boots off?"

Jack hesitated, then set his wine down on the scuffed hardwood floor. He moved to the couch and she gingerly lifted one leg. He took her left foot in his hand, worked his fingers around the black heel, and pulled. It took three yanks, then it came free. He saw the look of pleasure on her face as she wriggled her toes. Without a word, she lifted her other leg and held her foot out to him. He grabbed this boot and pulled. When it was off, he set it down on the floor in front of her. Her head back, her feet flexing, she closed her eyes and Jack wasn't certain that she hadn't fallen asleep on him. But before he could even check, her eyes flew open and she said, "You know what Kid's biggest problem was? He was trying to reform me. I mean, shit, reform me from what?"

She took a long sip of her wine. A tiny bit of it slid from her lips and down her chin. She caught it with a finger and, with a look of great contentment, stuck that finger in her mouth and sucked it. Jack went back to where he'd been standing, picked up his own wine, and took a long swallow. It was cheap stuff, too cold and vinegary-tasting, but he didn't really care. He drank again.

"Someone was with him that night, just before he died. Did you know that?"

"Who?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you would. It was a woman."

"Oh." She was drifting now. He wondered if she'd taken something when she went to get the wine. "Kid." She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. "Besides," she said, "who wants to be reformed?"

"Were you with him?"

"I was with him a lot," she said dreamily.

"That night. The night he fell, were you with him then?"

"How the fuck would I know?" she said. "I don't even know where I am now. Where are we? I mean, Jesus."

She reached down under the couch without looking, felt around, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches, and lit one.

"Kid was tripping when he fell," Jack said.

"Yeah?"

"Are you surprised?"

"You wanna know the truth? I'm beyond surprise. That particular, whaddyacallit, that thing in my brain, it's like some kind of electrical thing, well, it's gone. The fuse is blown or whatever. I don't know the exact medical terminology."

Jack sipped his wine again. He was surprised to find that it was tasting better.

"Goddamn, I miss him, you know? I mean, he saved my ass. Did I tell you that already? Yeah, I guess I did. Sorry. Sometimes I don't remember what I said and what I didn't say.

"No," Jack told her. "You didn't tell me."

"Really?"

"What happened?"

"Oh, man, I did somethin' so fucking stupid. I mean, it was so fucking stupid it was even stupid for me. But all that money, you know, it's just right there in front of you."

Jack watched her sit up. Her movements were almost snakelike. She seemed to slither when she moved. She looked at him and bared her teeth. As she did, she took her right hand and began rubbing her left breast. She twisted the shirt fabric over her nipple and squeezed and massaged it. Her head lolled back and her mouth opened just a bit. He saw her eyes lose their focus and he thought she was about to begin masturbating. But then, as suddenly as she'd started, she stopped. She was just sitting on the edge of the couch now, leaning forward intently, staring at him.

"You're talking about when you're dealing?" he asked, trying to get her back on the subject. He glanced at his watch. He'd left Grace exactly half an hour ago. "Where all that money is?"

"Yeah," Samsonite said. "When I'm dealing. It's not like we're in Vegas, you know. I figured, with those bozos, I mean, you slip a coupla chips into your panties, who the fuck is gonna know?"

Jack realized he was sweating heavily. He wiped his forehead as perspiration dripped down into his eye. "Can I open a window?" he asked. "It's very hot in here."

"Open whatever you want," she told him.

But when Jack went to the living room window, he was surprised to find it was already open. The air was cool and blowing and he realized that now he was shivering slightly.

"Somebody caught you?" he asked.

"You got that fucking right. They were gonna cut my fuckin' hands off if I didn't make good on it in twenty-four hours. Yeah, like it wasn't already up my fuckin' nose."

"Five thousand dollars," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"How much did you steal?"

"Hey, it wasn't stealing. I mean, it didn't really belong to anyone, it was, like, gambling money, you know?"

"You took five thousand dollars, right?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

Half to himself he said, "The Entertainer's money."

"You're really weird, you know that?" Samsonite announced.

Jack felt as if one minor key had been unlocked. "That's why he needed the money. Kid gave you the five thousand dollars."

Samsonite sat up now, excited. "In a flash. I mean, that day. It was, like, amazing. Like he was some kind of angel, you know? I paid those assholes back ASAP and it was, like, totally cool."

Jack was sweating again. He realized that his shirt collar was sopping wet and his hands were moist. He felt like he had a fever. He was suddenly dizzy.

"But… you're still working there," he said. His voice sounded strange to him, as if he were in an echo chamber.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't they fire you?"

"Hey, good people are hard to find."

He felt himself rocking from side to side. He thought he should sit down but he suddenly didn't think he could make it to the couch. Talk to her, he thought. Keep talking. Focus. You'll snap out of this.

"His other women… Did Kid ever talk to you… about… his other women?"

She was standing now. Walking around the room. Circling him, he thought. Like a vulture.

"Oh, he talked," she said. "He was a good talker. There was the rich old lady in the 'burbs. She was hot, he said. Wild. And there was a stripper; I remember that 'cause I wanted him to bring her up here, do a little threesome thing. I always wanted to be a stripper, you know. I think it'd be cool…"

Jack felt himself go down on one knee. He wasn't aware of his body touching the floor, though. It was as if he were in some kind of dream. Disconnected from his body. Looking down, seeing himself sag and fall.

"Then there was this Miss I'm So Perfect Downtown SoHo Art Bitch. He used to go on and on about her. Oh, man, it used to make me puke. And it takes a lot to make me puke."

She was standing in front of him now, staring down at him. She didn't look concerned. Just predatory. He felt his hands start to tingle. The left one went numb. He reached out to her, wrapped both arms around her hard thighs, fell forward.

"He used to talk about you a lot," she said.

She seemed so far away… so out of focus…

"Christ, what I don't know about you. Your stupid red-meat crematorium. Your fantasy apartment. The whaddyacallit, the balcony that you're terrified of. Your big affair in London. How you tried to have a baby but your wife had an abortion. Kid told me everything about you. Stuff he didn't even know he was telling me…"

It sounded like she was speaking in slow motion. Everything was in slow motion. His hands slid slowly down her legs. Her skin felt so smooth, so warm. His legs fell out, ever so slowly, from beneath him. He was stretched out on the floor now, his chin resting on the top of her bare foot. With her other foot, she nudged his chin and he felt himself roll over. Twisting, turning, on the wood floor…

"I know why you're here," she was saying now. Her voice was even slower, and deep, like a record being played at the wrong speed. "I know what you want me to say. I figured it out, too. But when he came to buy the fucking acid, I didn't know who it was for. I didn't know what he was going to do with it…"

The rest made no sense to Jack. It was too slow. Too deep. He was drifting. He was almost gone. His last thought was Goddamn you, what did you put in the drink…?

Then he was still, not moving at all. He was lying on his back and Samsonite was kneeling over him, straddling his chest.

"This is going to be way cool," she said. "Way fucking cool."

He never knew what he dreamed or what was real. Not while it was happening, not after it was all over. It was all so distorted and twisting. Twisted. Sometimes delicious. And funny. Sooooo funny. He couldn't stop laughing, it was impossible to stop the laughter. Nothing ever felt so good. Until it felt bad. And then nothing was funny. He couldn't stop crying. It was excruciating. Terrifying. Unbearable.

Sometimes he was naked. Once he was on the bed like that and he couldn't move, he didn't know why but he couldn't, and Caroline, sweet Caroline, lovelier than ever, was on top of him, riding him, her eyes rolled back in ecstasy, saying over and over again, I love you, Jack… I love you, Jack… I love you…

Then suddenly it wasn't Caroline. She was gone and instead it was Samsonite. Laughing and moaning. And dripping something. What was it? Dripping all over. It was red. Wine. Blood. Red red red everywhere…

How did Grace get there? She was naked, too, spreading her legs, climbing over him. She was delectable. Petite. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone. She was saying something, yes, she was saying, The Destination. She drew it out, Desssstinaaaashunnnnnn, so it sounded like a train, chugging far away, around a bend and gone forever, He was inside her. She was on top of him and he could feel himself inside her. She was leaning forward, bending down low breasts grazing his bare chest, and she was very beautiful. So beeeaaaauuutifullll. Her lips were soft and moist and he kissed her. Her tongue was inside his mouth, exploring his teeth and the hollows of his cheeks. Her breath was sweet, like wisteria brushing up against his face. But then her tongue got too big to keep in his mouth. It was so long, like a snake. It was a snake. It hissed and licked him but it kept going, slithering out past the bed, along the floor. So thick and getting thicker. Growing. Expanding like a balloon being pumped up with air. It was filling up the room. And getting longer. Going out the window…

The window… out the window… he was going out the window…

No, not the window. The balcony. Kid's balcony. He was going over, he was falling. Plunging! Going faster and faster and faster and faster. He was going to hit!

He heard the screaming. Was he screaming? Yes, yes, it was him, because the red was everywhere now, covering him, flooding the room in a rushing wave, filling it up to the ceiling. Everywhere he looked, there was red and more red. More red everywhere.