He knocked. He heard no steps but la Ñora opened almost immediately, without looking through the peephole. She eyed the Redeemer with an odd intensity, trying to place him or perhaps keep him at bay. She said not a word.
Good afternoon, señora, said the Redeemer.
Evening, you mean, la Ñora replied automatically, tho it seemed like her mouth hadn’t moved.
Right, yes, evening. Ahh, listen, señora, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be having some people over tomorrow. Not for long — they’ll just deliver something and go — but there will be several of them.
La Ñora stared, no change to her inscrutable expression.
I wanted to let you know so you don’t worry, in case you hear anything.
You’re going to have people over, la Ñora said. And you want me to keep my nose out of it.
Sharp lady, la Ñora.
The Redeemer smiled. Just don’t want to worry you, señora.
La Ñora gave a nod. The Redeemer, too, nodded good night and turned. As he was about to enter his place la Ñora said Sir, then faltered. Young man, she tried again: have you seen the boy?
Answer me but keep your nose out of it, she said with her eyes. On the surface she looked the same as always, fierce and wary, but the Redeemer saw, now, a certain tender tremble and almost wanted to embrace her. He’d keep his nose out of it, tho. The anemic student. Who’d have thought.
No, he said. But I’ll let you know if I do.
La Ñora nodded again and closed the door. The Redeemer stood a few seconds struggling with mental images of la Ñora and the anemic student, ate a two-day-old sweet roll and went to knock on Three Times Blonde’s door. He heard her body stylizing its steps and saw the light behind the peephole go dark. They both stood breathing silently but the door didn’t budge. Finally Three Times Blonde said Have you been wearing that facemask all day?
Yes, the Redeemer lied.
Three Times Blonde waited another minute and opened up slow. She took a step back, and the Redeemer walked in and shut the door. The moment he did, he cornered Three Times Blonde, pulled down his facemask and began to kiss her. She let him, arms at her sides, body limp but tongue responsive. In that single second the Redeemer thought of all the people who’d breathed in his face that day and the bug he’d smashed on his neck and the who-knows-what already coursing through his veins, yet here he was, a brazen bastard overexcited at the miracle of breasts and diereses before him. What a sonofabitch. Maybe she could sense the Redeemer’s black dog pawing at her chest. Maybe she simply wanted to know. Either way Three Times Blonde pushed him aside.
So who you been talking to?
Lots of people.
Who you been talking to about me, you swine? she asked, and on stressing the me scratched the Redeemer’s arm with a long red nail.
Not a soul. Why?
After you left my baby came over all keyed up wanting to yell at me, asking who’d I let in my house and I don’t know what-all.
That wasn’t me. That was the damn neighbor.
Three Times Blonde looked unsurprised.
I know.
So why ask?
Because men always talk. It’s like they have to report everything to their friends. Jerks.
Ouch. Three Times Blonde had taken a shot in the dark and hit him right between the eyes. And called the other asshole baby.
He left without even saying goodbye, she continued, looking mournful. The Redeemer stroked her cheek.
You feeling sad? he asked, suave.
No.
Three Times Blonde slid her hand under his shirt and stroked his chest, then suddenly slid it down into his pants and squeezed his cock, palming his balls, weighing them.
The condoms, she said.
The Redeemer pulled her in by the back of the neck and began to kiss her. She tried to pull away and oh did he not want that to happen, please no, and in his head he attempted to shoo the bugs and people and shuttered pharmacies, but inevitably Three Times Blonde pulled his arm off her and scooted aside and said Pull… out… a… condom.
The Redeemer donned a now-where-did-I-put-it? face and for a second fostered hopeless fantasies of finding an open drugstore, but before he could lie again, Three Times Blonde said You didn’t buy any. Stupidass neighbor. You didn’t buy any.
She did stick-em-up hands, as tho she couldn’t even bear to brush up against the Redeemer, opened the door, and said I got shit to do.
He begged and pleaded for a moment with his eyes and with her eyes she told him to go fuck himself, and so he went, pitiful and utterly dejected, and let the slam of the door push him home.
He walked in and threw himself down on the bed.
Some nights, when the black dog left, he imagined sleeping curled up inside some other animal, protected from the cold. But that night the black dog stayed.
4
In the faint light of his fitful sleep he saw Óscar’s outstretched hand, pointing, and suddenly sat up in bed because he knew somehow it contained a clue to how this grimreapery had begun. He called the Mennonite, explained what he was thinking and they agreed to meet on Lover’s Lane. Back to the Bug he went, back to streets buzzing behind closed doors, back to zigzagging around corners rife with aimed rifles, rife with thugs both uniformed and civilian. When he arrived the Mennonite was already waiting at the entrance to Metamorphosis. There were lights all down the lane and cars outside the cathouses but no one wandering from one to the next. They walked into Metamorphosis and he scanned the bodies below in search of Óscar.
The place was packed, placid but packed. There were people asleep underneath tables and asleep on top of tables — like really sleeping, not booze-induced sleeping. And those who were awake were conversing with the dancers. Normally they paid little attention, as if women taking off their clothes before a gaggle of drunkaneers was totally unremarkable; now they sat, chatting, nobody drooling, nobody tail-shaking. One lonely soak at the bar slurred It’s aaaaaaaall over, It’s aaaaaaaall over, again and again and again. Everyone else was cool and attentive, as if listening to hailstones on a tin roof.
They haven’t been out for days, he heard Óscar say behind him. Claim it’s too dangerous but you ask me, this is their chance of a lifetime.
I see you made use of those facemasks, the Redeemer said. One girl was dancing before a cluster of liquored-up fools, naked but for the mask over her mouth; each time she leaned close she made as if to take it off, and the boozers whooped in titillation.
Fuck yeah, said Óscar.
Óscar, the Redeemer said. The Fonseca kid. You sure bout where you saw him come out of?
Óscar glanced at him for a single second: long enough to draw up, read through, sign and notarize a confidentiality clause between the two of them.
Girls’ place, yeah, he said. He was referring not to these girls, the working girls, but to the customers.
Appreciate it, brother.
They left Metamorphosis and entered Incubus. The clientele was less numerous but more boisterous, only a dozen or so women, rorty and sloshed. They sat at the tables with two or three strippers, drinking. The floor was empty.
The Mennonite addressed the madam, a stout elegant woman with very black hair.
I’m looking for a boy.
Hm. We generally cater to a female clientele but it’s always possible to arrange something.
The Mennonite cast a glance around the tomcathouse, studying the handful of men, and said: I’m looking for one with a steady boyfriend.
The madam observed them distrustfully. Then she got it.
Must be that one, and she pointed to a young man, almost a teenager really, attempting to smile at the woman buying him drinks. He’s been acting all mopey. Must’ve had a fight with his boyfriend; guy used to come pick him up after work but I didn’t see him last night.