She was ripping him off daily but a little at a time. Never knew when the time might come, she’d have to leg it and best be prepared. A cold Monday, the windchill howling down Sixth Avenue, she made her way to the coffee stop, got her smile and latte, took her usual seat near the restrooms. The cold ensured the place was jammed and a business type asked if he might share her table. In his forties, he had the hairline of the harassed executive. He put his briefcase on the table, then supped loudly on his cardboard cup. Sherry got her best smile in place, the one she’d rehearsed a hundred times, a hint of timidity, a dribble of heat and a whole lot of promise. Never failed. She flashed it, said,
“Lemme guess, mocha with a dash of peppermint.”
She’d heard him order the damn thing. He was amazed and lured by the smile, went,
“Well, good Lord, that is astonishing.”
Yeah, right.
He was wearing a red string on his wrist, beneath a Rolex.
He caught her look, used his fingers to touch the band, said,
“The Kabbalah, it protects from the evil eye.”
She nearly laughed, thinking, you’re going to need more than a piece of string to protect you now buddy. She put on her most oh please educate me kind sir expression, asked,
“What’s that about?”
He explained that he suffered from recurring anxiety/depression woes then heard about Philip Berg, the founder of The Kabbalah Centre, and his life had been changed. He named Madonna and Britney Spears as two devotees. If he thought this would convince Sherry, he couldn’t have chosen worse names. Sherry thought these dames were seriously whacko. Her only heroine was Roseanne Barr, badass and rich.
She near simpered,
“And have you met Madonna, Guy... and oh, their divine little girl, Lourdes?”
He wasn’t pleased as it distracted him from the main topic, himself. She quickly got that rectified by asking,
“How do I get one of those... bands?”
She was careful not to call it string. He patiently outlined that she could attend The Kabbalah Centre, purchase the item for twenty-six dollars and the book of learning was only three hundred or so. He offered to take her. Within a few hours, she’d taken him for his wallet, the Rolex, and on a whim, took the red band, too. Left him on a bed in the Milford Plaza. As she headed towards Penn Station, a homeless guy asked her for help, she gave him the string, and he whined,
“The fuck is that?”
She gave her sweetest smile, said,
“The answer to your recurring anxiety slash...
She emphasised the slash, leaning on it, getting some heat in there, then,
“... depression, problems lie in that little piece of magic.”
She had Juan buy her a laptop, well, he acquired one, paying for things wasn’t his territory and she looked up cults, got her a list of religious groups, including, the Brethren, Sai Ba, Jews For Jesus, Raelians, Beta Domination. Over the next few months she met and rolled representatives of most of these.
Her database also turned up Aryan Nations, Satanic Church, and web addresses such as www.godhatesfags. com. The tone of these folk reflected her own personality too much for her to fuck with them; she knew they weren’t the ones to go after as they’d come right back and with ferocity. Like everything else, she grew bored with the whole deal, she couldn’t face one more earnest-faced, veggie, non-caffeinated, positive do-gooder.
Sherry liked to walk. New York was full of wonders, every trip out was an adventure. A brisk march day, Juan had took off to conduct some bidness in Chicago, Sherry was walking along Christopher Street, she’d heard one of the crew mention that from Sheridan Square down to the Hudson was the territory of the maricón, the gay enclave. On West Street she watched in wonder as openly gay couples walked hand-in-hand. She walked on to Grove Street, saw a cafe called Marie’s Crisis Café, and went in. Ordered a large latte with vanilla, slice of Danish. She wouldn’t be eating it but liked the possibility.
Sherry only ever admired one human being, Roseanne Barr, had never missed her show.
Roseanne was true grit, had balls like no else on the planet, stuck it to everyone and now had the fuck-you money that Sherry wanted. A woman sat at her table, asked,
“Join you, hon?”
She was in her fifties but cosmetic surgery had worked its limited miracle. Her neck was old but her face was that of a twenty-year-old. Sherry said,
“You’re sitting so I’d say you’ve already joined me.”
The woman laughed, then launched into a very explicit account of her female lovers, followed by a long tirade about the failings of men. Sherry waited till she ran down then used one of Roseanne’s lines,
“Why’re you complaining, you don’t have to fuck them?”
Got her attention real fast.
She invited Sherry back to her place for a drink, some relaxation. Sherry said she’d love that.
The apartment was small but tastefully decorated, she produced a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, asked,
“This to your liking, hon?”
Sherry smiled, asked to see the bottle, the woman going,
“It’s a good one.”
And handed over the bottle. Sherry hefted it in one hand then swung it fast, splitting the woman’s forehead like an egg, swung twice more before the woman was out. Sherry took the cap off the bottle, swigged and said,
“It is good.”
She kicked the woman in the back of the head, going,
“Goddamn dyke.”
The apartment yielded an ounce of grass, nearly three hundred bucks, a soft leather jacket that fit perfectly, and some decent-quality earrings.
Later, she was having a drink in The Monster, on Sheridan Square itself, she asked the bartender about the pedestrian walkway that links Battery Park to the top of the Village.
The bartender said that it was fine during the day, packed with bladers, bikers, joggers, but at night, the predators came out. Sherry adjusting the collar of her new soft leather, said,
“You mean it’s dangerous?”
Giving her wide eyed look.
The bartender shook his head, said,
“Bitty thing like you, they’d eat you up.”
The first thing people were aware of when meeting Sherry was the raw sexuality, it oozed from her. A palpable heat that seemed to shimmer in her aura. She knew and worked it every way she could. Not till afterwards, when you’d gotten away from her, did another sense hit.
An icy cold.
James Hillman, a Jungian psychotherapist, named icy coldness as one of the prime features of evil.
Sherry was able to hide that when you first met her, such was her sensuality that it cloaked the ice. It was literally only when you were away from the fire did the cold set in. Her mother had said,
“You walk into a room, you feel the cold, you know she has been here.”
Sherry was never referred to by name by her mother, who said,
“I’m scared to say that demon’s name.”
Juan, who spent more time with Sherry than anyone, was not immune to the sensation, but being on heroin, he put it down to the smack.
The lesbian who’d picked her up in the coffee bar, recuperating in the hospital, would only ever say afterwards,
“I’m so cold, why can’t I get warm.”
The old people in Ireland, you ever ask them about Satan, about the fires of hell, they’d utter, as they made the sign of the cross,
“ ’Tis not the heat you need to concern yourself about, ’tis the cold.”
Ask them to elaborate and they’d go,
“Pray to God you never find out.”
Juan was getting dangerously out of control, the junk he was shooting was making him meaner than he was by nature and she saw an example of how quickly he could turn. One of his most trusted crew, a stoner named Max, had been with Juan for years. Max had a thing for Sherry, as did most of the crew. He made the mistake of letting it show. A Saturday night, they’d been to a club in Tribeca, Juan liked to think the upper echelons accepted him, they accepted his dope. Max had a few brewskis going, asked Sherry to dance, she looked at Juan who smiled, said,