Chapter 31: Sunset

Chapter 31

Sunset

The Lipstick Killer slipped into Sandy’s hotel room easy, his dummy key melting the lock as the pins- uninformed- fell into alignment, yielding with no audible protest, tumbling to an even pile like dominoes, each with immaculate deniability: no single one of them could be blamed for tonight’s murder if they were all looking the other way. 

The knob, turned, opened and allowed him inside, where his nostrils were flooded with the smell of Sandy’s perfume, her desire, lilac and jasmine and something else... something deeper, lethal... something more female: a scent for which there would never be a name.

Dressed all in black he stepped past the nightstand with the unopened Bible inside, forsaking God, giving birth to the darkness, made his way into the room, seeing the bed fresh-made with its pillows and possibilities... tonight was going to be something special. He had been tracking this Sandy Cole for some time, something about her that got into his pores and made his skin white hot... Tonight he would show her his appreciation, how his passion ran like lava through his veins: tonight he would tell her that he loved her. His fingers clutched his chisel.

Across town, on the other side of Sick City, Tom Atari stopped at the Woolworth’s for a ginger ale, hoping his favorite jerk would be working, and she was. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but she was beautiful, hair like leaking ink and black-rimmed glasses, and they offset her glow in a way he found familiar. She knew just how Tom liked his sodas- the extra pull of ginger syrup on the ice before the seltzer. According to the tag on her apron her name was Leah, and Tom might have heard her one day telling her friend about how she wanted to become a nurse. Her smile, sweeter than the candy aisle, and besides he liked to watch her work while he read the Herald. 

Leah poured without a word, her mouth abloom cross her face like a flower in the warm, beaming at Tom both sugar and spice. He was just ready to ask for a cherry when she plucked one from the bin, plunked it in his glass where the bubbles swarmed it in appreciation. She gave Tom a wink. He looked away, stone-faced.

Some nights the sun just won’t go down: not from spite or anger, just a reluctance to leave the stage. Leaving a day this beautiful is as hard for a star in the sky as the men that walk the Earth. The sun took the long way home, meandering zig, ambling zag, bleeding the sky pink and blue, orange and a new kind of purple, the clouds above town soaking up the sweet while the moon found a parking spot. Spring had happened in Sick City.
The Lipstick Killer had stripped, sipped from the toilet bowl and scrawled a line across the bathroom mirror with Sandy’s Russian Red. He smiled while he applied a coat to his lips, puckering at himself in the mirror, his heart starting to buckle, his head hurling in rush. This was going to be everything wonderful.

Two blocks down the boulevard Sandy was at the Red Rose Lounge, on the clock, dancing with Carl Cassidy, a meat-packer in town from elsewhere. Carl- in his travel suit- determined to forget his wife with the company of a female escort, well on his way with Sandy’s charms against his chest, the music of the big city in his head,  taking liberties. He had danced with Sandy once before, on another business trip, two years gone and he still couldn’t get her smell out of his mustache. His hands found the curve of her waist, his heart submerged in the raging tide of her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to send him back to shore. Carl was in lust.

“Maybe we should...” He put his face into her neck while the trumpet player took a solo, the other couples on the floor moving in equally-metered foreplay.

Sandy, still alive, smiled. “It’s early.”

Tom never gambled- it was noise, foolishness- but he picked up the racing form just to see if his friend Lorenzo Vargas was still running Blood Sugar at the Speedway. 

He smiled, spotting the name, newsprint on his fingers. Son of a bitch. Tom checked his watch: still an hour before he had to drive Sandy to the doctor for her appointment. And afterwards, another late night, all alone. Leah, breasts like peaches in season, watching him reading, acquiring the taste for an older man.

Sandy said little on the walk back to the hotel, letting Carl marinade in his moment. He stopped on the cracked sidewalk- still hot- knelt to tie his shoe and for one golden moment she thought he was proposing, her hair bright violet by the sky’s impossible panorama, bulbs from the strip ballooning, her hand gone to her mouth in a shock automatic. They both laughed, knowing what it wasn’t.

The Lipstick Killer crept into the hotel closet, spilling seed on the carpet floor.

Tom watched Leah eat a plate of French-fried potatoes. With ketchup.

Carl held the hotel door for Sandy, spanking her as she raced inside.

The sun, nostalgic, feeling old, shrugged... finally surrendered.

Sandra, intoxicated, giggle on the bowl, in the dark, making spree while the Lipstick Killer severed Carl’s neck, mashing the eyes out his head like grape-pickers pick grapes off the vine, except entirely different...

Tom, into the Chrysler, engine idle into drive, stationary to mobile, down said street and off across the boulevard...

Sandy, emerging from the bathroom, only to see Carl’s hollow sockets, only to look into the eyes of the man above him, only to see how the Lipstick Killer looked just before the kill.

Chapter 66: Big Gook Meets The Cowboy

Chapter 66

Big Gook Meets The Cowboy

Anna Magenta gave good head: it was thoughtful, reflective. She let her mouth tell a story, a story of emptiness inside and the power of pleasure to make it numb. The girl let feel flow, sensation dictate: a loving stroke was followed by a pause- the notes she didn’t play- and Tom found himself smiling in spite of it all, unable to create a scenario for escape, too tired to deny the bliss. Anna’s cheek was swollen with pride.

She squeezed his knees, the four of them in this private lounge, Gentleman’s West on the boulevard, Tom looking down at Anna enterprising, enjoying her career choice. She winked her eye and puckered, storming the shaft as Atari saw God. Beside Tom sat the Cowboy, the blowjob on his dime, his way of you’re welcome. Tom caught an eyeful of the Cowboy’s member: august & ebony- noble- choking a Puerto Rican preteen. As Atari climaxed he took a moment to ponder, to wonder to himself aloud in silence: ‘Is that all there is to the circus?’

After the girls had eaten the Cowboy rolled a smoke, happy as a Saturday but clearly affected by little Coco’s performance: his hands made shake with the tobacco in the rolling paper and the subsequent cigarette hung from his fat lips skinny. With his ten-gallon hat restored to its home atop his nappy hair he was back in the saddle, the Cowboy once more, gleaming bright in his blue suit, living a lie.

Antony “Tony” Dare- the Cowboy- grandson of a slave, sipping on a Cantarito: so black he was purple. He was the only beneficiary to his grandmother’s fortune, she the widow of white oilman and pariah Frederick Dare. Freddy had fallen in love with his black cook Abigail and married her just before striking oil in Lousiana. When he died his money had gone to Abigail, and when she died the greazy money oozed its way into the hands of her favorite grandson Tony. 

Idle, rich, the Cowboy had ambled out to Sick City several years on to piss his fortune away, reinventing himself as a Western hombre, ignoring his skin tone and speaking with a Texas accent, strange for a black boy from Louisiana. He tried his hand at producing independent features only to learn that Hollywood doesn’t like coloreds- even when they talk like John Wayne. After one incomplete Western he surrendered, his lust helping him settle on a career financing pornographic films, his days spent gambling the profits away and drinking in the sunshine. 

Also tequila. Lots of tequila.

“The filthier the Mexican on the bottle,” Tony Dare inhaled, “the angrier the tequiza.” Neither he or Tom spoke, and then Tony, hearing his own words, began to laugh, and eventually Tom with him. General Marder- the bearded bastard on the bottle of booze- looked at the men with low-key disgust, just waiting for the opportunity to slit their throats. Anna was at another table with Coco, both of them mentally counting the bills.

“Some little white kid came up to me on the street... he wanted to know if I’d come to his birthday party...”

Tom laughed.

“On my horse. Do you believe these people?”

The music from the main stage leaking in through the paper walls... circular jazz so the girls could grind.

“Your girl Heather Jasmine... she was never gonna be in the movies...”

Atari looked over, suddenly sobered, certainly confused.

“That was just used as a bait. Just to get her out the house. Away from the folks.”

Tom’s almost asked: ‘How do you know?’ but he thought better, knowing Tony Dare the Cowboy never had to lie.

Atari wondered: ‘One of a hundred?’ and Tony, as if reading his mind, said aloud, “One of a thousand.”

The Cowboy downed a shot of tequila. “Guy I played in a poker game? He told me so.”

Atari could feel General Marder running wild in his bloodstream, recruiting revolutionaries, raping women and children.

“He was a big man. Nobody tell me who he was until afterwards.”

Atari, unable to speak, didn’t.

“They said, ‘Tony, that Mr. Lerner? That’s Isaac Lerner, head of MCM studios.’ You can bet I look him up after that.”

“Isaac Lerner? The head of MCM Studios?”

“That’s the man. They recruit the girls and then...”

Tom- shot glass in hand- forced himself to swallow. “And then...?”

Tony nodded. “Half make the pictures, the other half Project Geronimo.”

“He said that? He said ‘Project Geronimo’?”

“His words.” The Cowboy poured another ounce of poison. “What the fuck does it mean, anyway?”

Tom sat up, the sight of Big Gook turning his blood green. The Cowboy, stoned, could barely swivel his head.

Big Gook, a bucket of chow mein in a brown paper bag, yellow skin, front teeth to fuck the Easter bunny, head like a hot-air balloon. His real name was Ming Hung and the fact that he couldn’t speak English didn’t stop him from trying. He would have been a load of laughs if he didn’t work for Ed Goffrey as a collector. 

As an enforcer.

“Good afternoon, gennerman.”

He had brought his friend with him, a short slope with cross eyes, a Fu Manchu, and his hand in his pocket.

“Oh no,” Tom Atari, reaching for his gun.

Anna and Coco- one of them surely having made the call- removed themselves from the room.

Big Gook laughed, showing off the blue of his teeth, Fu Manchu steady.

“Hello, Atari,” Big Gook, “don’t worry- today is not yo day today.” He smiled, a serpent unfurling, “We here for the Negro.”

Tom’s finger, rounding the trigger... Fu Manchu watching, ready to pull his piece.

Tony Dare turned to Tom, “You believe this shit? This is about gambling debts.” As if Tom didn’t know.

“You owe SO much money,” Big Gook turned over his shoulder to Fu Manchu, who found the subtle humor in the line without moving his eyes. 

Big Gook gave good chuckle.

The Cowboy licked his massive lips: “Chris Lee gave me to the end of the month.”

The smile was gone from the Gook’s face, faster than cars drive through Montana. 

“Chris Lee...? I don’t see him nowhere.” He stared at the Cowboy.

Tony Dare, sloshed, stood, and in a bolt of lightning Fu Manchu’s gun was pointed directly at his heart. Tom had let his guard down, fatal, would have been dead before the orgasm. 

“Christ!” The Cowboy.

“Sit down.” Big Gook as traffic cop, turning to Fu Manchu, “No no.”

The gun must have had a mind of its own: Fu Manchu nodded in understanding but the Smith & Wesson didn’t move a muscle.

“We friends here. All buddies." Turning to Tom, "Right, buddy?” 

Atari nodded, knowing when to fold. He put his gun on the table and sat back for what was next.

“Right, buddy?”

The Cowboy- hands in the air- lowered them slow, and then, tense, “Right.”

Big Gook pulled up a chair and sat across from the Cowboy. “Only in movies they shoot everybody with pistols. You no good to Mr. Goffrey if you dead. Don’t be a silly!”

It was the way he said ‘silly’ that made Tony laugh, kicking up his boots as his body shook, and then Tom was laughing too, exhaling, taking a much needed shot of General Marder’s righteous nectar. Tony lit a smoke.

Even Big Gook smiled as he pulled out the bowie knife: “But I do have to take you testicles.”

Chapter 44: My Bloody Valentine

Chapter 44

My Bloody Valentine

Sandy was the first firework you saw in the sky. She was precious- better- a diamond so pure that most men were blind to her glow. She was the prize- his reason for fighting. Tom woke up in the midnight blue, Sandy in his arms, feeling her skirt against his khaki pants, watching her breast rise and fall as she slept, her blonde hair bunched beneath his chin, their shoed feet making dangle from the office couch.

Atari was hard- always hard around Sandy- and he thought of the infinite delight that would come from being inside her, from putting himself in her sweet spot, from being where he belonged.

He didn’t dare.

She stirred, opening her eyes, full of sleep and relief, blinking at him. Tom looked into her eyes, eyes that held the ocean- storm, rage, sweet and salted- and it was, as always, his first sip of whiskey. She smiled at him and then those round eyes closed again, taking her back to sleep. Part of Tom went with her.

Sandy’s past would make you cry your eyes out, and no one wants to cry. She was subject to torturous, inhuman scenarios- nightmares to shock even Atari. But somehow she was still here- alive, real... she had overcome: she had survived. He tried to think back when he had met her- she was working as a hostess on the strip, riding the laps of gentleman customers and taking her turns in the backroom. He had walked in one day and Sandy had seen him- her eyes like curveballs- walked up and put her arms around him, as if she had known him forever, and Tom couldn't say he felt different. He felt her crying against his collar, felt her chest heaving, and he was so overcome he almost... well, he almost.

Since that day they couldn’t stay out of each other’s lives... not that they gave it any effort. Any given part of the girl stopped him cold- on this February Friday she was giving off steam heat to warm him, and tonight he needed her warmth. Sandy was pulse, in harmony, he could feel the blood running through her veins and it was primal: pump. She was the proof he was waiting for, a series of green lights, unfolded origami, steak seared to perfection. Sandra Marianne Cole: the exception to every one of his rules.

He had made the rule just after they met- not to take her to bed. The last thing she needed in her life was another man after her ass, and he had held strong through a lifetime of temptation. It made him ache: there was something about this baby... something. Tom could only shake his head and let himself wonder. The curve of her neck took his eyes on an endless Sunday: picnic at the foothills, champagne at the slopes. The slow golden curls falling from her head dangled, entangled her into him in ways she could never know, couldn’t comprehend.

It was the end of another dirty night for both of them, another sweet taste of their death- and too much taste will kill you. He knew they were safe here- temporarily- and still his gun was clutched sore in his hand. He knew she would try to go back, try to retake her money and some strand of dignity: he knew he couldn’t let her. When she woke up he would tell her what he wanted to, what he had to, what he had been dying to say- driven to- by the pounding of his own human heart. He would use that foul word, if only to shock her, to ruin her like she did him.

Green neons- outside the office window- shown good shine down the brown leather sofa. Sandra turned and- sound asleep- rubbed herself against him, hugging him backwards with her bottom and shoulders. He felt the soft meat of her arm against his chest and something inside him shattered without a sound. He allowed himself to see this alternative to reality, a variation on a theme: the long vacation as an absolute possibility. The house and him inside it, Sandy Cole at the sink wringing out the rag with his ring wrapped around her finger. Just her turning, just the one smile sliding across her sculpted lips, making it all right, making it- it’s bliss- all worthwhile. Peach pie baking in the oven proud, apron draped around her waist, black coffee in the cup- could something dumb be so sublime?

The dream dead, now dying, now back in the box on the shelf, now back to this dimension and his timeline so untidy. Still, Tom took the trip back slow, lingering through over-exposed photographs and the haze of cumming, through the hot fever to tell of the crush and delight, across the scuffed white surface, waffle-board ceilings, through the cloud of smoke and continuity, down the stream of independence, barely looking up her dress, and over the waters, soul in the deep, grace below the surface, love in the dark of night: the longest hour.

Sandy woke up, stretch, yawn and dawn.

She whispered through the smile: “Tom...”

Atari punched her face as hard as he could, blacking her eye and knocking her unconscious.

Chapter 17: Crime Scene

Chapter 17

Crime Scene

Tom was fast to the crime scene, fast enough to catch Detective Ryan Cahill fucking the dead girl’s body, which might have been too fast after all. He was ultra early thanks to his criminal car and a courtesy call from a female police officer, a friend of his, but that’s a story from another file.

The victim was a stripper, 21.5, Anna Magenta, and every man in the city knew her name and cup size. She had been on the scene about nine months, all bubbles, guided downtown by invisible wranglers, gently sifted onto the boulevard, drifted downward to the void of carnal depravity, the sincerity of ejaculate. She justified because she was making good green and only dancing in order to pay for her college education, which would lead to a husband and wholesome Christian existence.

Fuck you.

Tom tapped the apartment stairs- up five flights- because he didn’t trust elevators. Down the long hallway he could see Anna’s naked body, light by the white of the morning sun, Cahill on his knees, the girl’s leg over his shoulder, the cop’s belt buckle jingling, hammering hard and fast, pushing himself inside her, so foul that even his partner Bobby Jones turned his head and, “Awwww...”

The crime scene photographer was blind to the romance, took pictures of the lipstick scrawled on the wall:

“GOOD MORNING BYUTIFUL” [sic]

Jones, pen to pad against the window, “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Cahill, gleeful, still dripping cum while buckling his belt: “Gimme a break... there are kids starving in China.”

The cop spotted Atari and the smile fell away. “How did you get in?”

Jones turned to face Tom: “Atari. Lemme guess: the family hired you. Sobbing Mom... Arkansas... Omaha...”

Tom stepped to the body- a child again in death, forgiven, eyes frozen closed in torment, her naked body gray and water-logged. Her hands were gone, hacked away with a blade sharp, rainbow spaghetti hanging out the stumps. 

“Nope,” Tom said a silent prayer: “I’m doing this pro-bono.”

Cahill, halfway through a Lucky, with a bucket of smoke: “Christ Almighty, Tom Atari’s on the case: I guess we can go home now, Bob.”

Tom, turning to face him, Ryan Cahill, pale Irish potato, three-day beard because it was always there, because he believed he was cool breeze. He was crooked as a crap game, and Tom would have hated his guts if he had any. 

“This is Anna Magenta.” 

Jones, tall, oblong, warning, “You’re not supposed to be here, Tom.”

Cahill watched Atari close. “We don’t need your help.”

“She’s dead, yeah? If that’s lipstick on the wall it would make her the seventh victim of the Lipstick Killer. You count to seven? Sound like a lot... sound like you need all the help you can get.”

Cahill, coughing, “Fuck off.”

Bobby Jones stepped over the black high-heel traced in chalk on the fuzz apartment carpet: “Ryan, enough with the language.”

Atari, quiet, “What happened here?” He gave them a look that came from inside and for a moment both men were detectives again, spines aligned, on-duty, reporting to him like a Captain.

Cahill: “What do you think- guy broke in, fucked her something awesome, cut her neck and took her hands as trophies. It was the Limp-Dick Killer- if you believe he exists. I say the papers made such a fuss of that first girl that we got a bunch of sick maniacs playing copycat.”

Tom, to himself, “Tesla.” 

Jones, shaking his head at his partner, “I told you it’s the same guy- one copycat maybe, not five.”

Atari stepped around to Anna’s feet, crossing behind Cahill, who had to turn his neck. “Why do you find it so hard to believe that it’s the same guy? He’s out there. He’s no good.”

Jones nodded, brave, “It’s one guy. And he’s good at this.

The photographer got Anna’s mangled body, Atari’s tattered shoes in the bottom of the frame. For color.

Cahill was looking in his partner, disbelief in his voice.

“Listen to you. Lipstick is a creation to sell papers. It’s probably one of the crime writers doing this himself, wouldn’t surprise me.”

Tom, watching the detectives, husband and wife. “How’d she get in the hallway?”

Cahill, snorting, cigarette dangling, “She danced her way out here.”

He had found his partner’s inner hog: Jones started laughing. Ryan, on a roll, “That’s what she does, you know, Tommy... titty dancing.” He shook his chest in mocking stride, Anna’s eyes looking up, asking why.

“Lipstick has never taken them out of their apartment before,” Atari nodding at the wall, “and he’s never written on anything other than a mirror.”

“So he’s branching out. Changing his style.” Jones, curious.

“How the hell do you know all this? Get the fuck out of here, Atari.” Cahill pulled another cigarette from his pack.

Tom cleared his throat. "Some people say he's a cop."

Cahill: "Some people say he's Tom Atari."

Jones: "He's branching out."

Tom had enough. “He’s not branching out- he’s getting sloppy. I say he’s ready to be caught. Now he wants it.”

Jones’ eyes, locked on Tom, rolled slow to Cahill.

Cahill lit, spit a bit of tobacco from his lip to the carpet. “You say? You’re not a cop. And we don’t need your help.”

Tom eyed the doorframe of Anna’s apartment. Doorknob and lock intact, untouched. He pled.

“Give me fifteen minutes- I promise you there’s something here- at this scene- that will lead you directly to the Lipstick Killer.”

Detective Ryan Cahill hitched up his belt, sniffed, and looked into Tom’s eyes. “I’ll give you fifteen seconds to get out of here before I kick you in the ass.” The stank from his shit-eating grin stunk the hallway awful.

Tom, disgusted, looked to Jones, whose eyes went down to the body. Atari shook his head, took a step away and turned back to Cahill.

“Tell me, Ryan: do you fuck women with heartbeats or can you only get hard when they do?”

The cigarette fell from Cahill’s fingers as he reared back and punched Tom in the ear with all the force he could muster.

Tom, reeling, gasping for breath, inhaled and felt the air blow out his ear, knew what it meant: ruptured eardrum, the ringing so loud he couldn’t hear as Bobby turned to him and mouthed words with no sound.

Anna Magenta.

Tom, holding his bloody ear, staggering to the staircase, where Cahill kicked him from behind, sending him tumbling down the concrete steps, knocking his head on seven and two and landing on the landing in a heap.

The last thing he saw before blacking out was Jones and Cahill above him, looking down and laughing in a silent movie.

.

Chapter 78: Nino The Wino

Chapter 78

Nino The Wino

“You’re a fucking moron, Tom Atari, and what’s worse is that you’re too dumb to know how stupid you are.”

Tom didn’t understand.

“You think you’re a hero? You think you’re Superman? You’re ground beef in a bad suit.”

This was Nino the Wino, homeless, most voluminous boozebag in town- drunk- preaching from his stool at the bar, which might have been a throne the way he talked, hat tipped back to show the greasy strands, grinning like a cheetah, putting his finger in the air and announcing: “You couldn’t find shit in an outhouse!”

Benny and Asa- two of the regulars- sat beside him at the bar, laughing into hacking cough, enjoying Tom’s public humiliation. Nino raised his glass: “Salud, you horse’s ass!”

Nino had been a grocer once, Tom was pretty sure. Or something. Maybe not. It was a Monday night in the Wonder Bar, and Atari was only there for information- the abuse was on the house.

“You don’t act like a detective, you don’t think like a detective...” Nino looked to his left and right, boozy gleam in his eye, signaling his subjects before delivering the blast: “You don’t even DRINK like a detective!”

Benny and Asa- de facto round table- roared in hysterical laughter as Tom sipped his ginger ale. Nino stuck his face in his sour glass, soaking up the whiskey sweet through alcoholic osmosis. He emerged and swallowed, somehow in mid-laugh, looking side to side for appreciation.

“Don’t you see they’re using that little girl to lead you around by the nose? The cock and heart, too!”

Another round of laughter. Tom couldn’t find the punchline.

“You're a sucker.  Everyone knows that.”

Nino, little and Italian, wrinkled, pruny, could’ve been something if not for the bottle, or so goes the skipping record. He was sixty-something if not seventy, older than Tom, and unrelenting. His words were like a brick to the temple, but Tom knew that with enough sour mash the truth would come out. He signaled the bartender.

“Let me tell you a story,” Nino took off, and Tom settled back, “One night a man wake up- middle of the night. He’s in bed, alone except for his wife. And his kids is in the other bedroom down the hall. And you know what he wants? More than anything? Benny?”

Nope.

“Asa?”

Ditto.

“Tommy?”

Tom Atari- stillframe.

“It was cling peaches!”

Benny and Asa nodded, deep, this was understood, elemental and eternal- at least among men in this stage of intoxication.

“The man's got to have cling peaches! No matter what- don’t matter when, that’s part of what’s inside of him. So what do you think he do? He gets out of bed, goes downstairs in the middle of the night, in his kitchen, writes a note to his beloved wife!”

A tall man walked into the bar with an underage blonde on his arm, beaming, her mascara lashing Tom’s cheek.

Nino: “The note says ‘Dear Meredith, I love you more than life itself but I had to go out tonight for cling peaches. I hope you understand I needed cling peaches. I love you. And I love the kids too. Yours forever, Carmen’ He wrote this! He knows he’s gonna die but he goes anyway! What makes a man leave his wife and kids for a can of cling peaches?!?”

Tom thought about answering but didn’t. It was a rhetorical.

“He gets to the all-night market. He makes it! Can of cling peaches in his car! And he’s on the road back home! But God’s in the mood for a good laugh! So he puts an old man on the road- some drunk who can’t find the drive pedal- speeding away- and around the corner comes Carmen, driving home with his cling peaches and his head full of Heaven.”

Nino turned to Atari, smiling wide, “Am I going too fast for you, Tommy?”

Tom, sober, lost, shook his head.

“What do you think happens at the corner?  Carmen comes round the bend, the old man too, they hit- WHAM!- cars collapse like accordions, old man drunk is dead before he knows it, Carmen killed and the can of cling peaches busted open, side of the road, leaking syrup on the pavement- was it worth it? Was it worth it?”

And suddenly, somehow, in that timeless minute, Tom Atari transcended the drunk's meaningless babble, traveled back through his own timeline: back to medical school and his days at St. Vincent’s hospital, warm and cold in his scrubs, sitting in on his first autopsy with the other med students, his friend Charlie Scrabble vomiting in the trash can and Tom ignoring him out of respect, focusing on the body, as the rib cage was lifted away, the lungs removed and stored, the heart disassembled...

It was supposed to become easier the more you saw it. Maybe it did.

It was a hobo on the table, being torn apart out of curiosity... and the sight of the human being at this subatomic level was something you never forgot. Couldn’t forget. Not even Tom. He was handling it, blinking when he had to blink, fighting the head rush, the dizziness...

But the brain.

Cling peaches.

The brain: sawing through the skull cap was bad enough but seeing the brain naked, bald, still full of thoughts and notions, bad ideas and romantic fantasy. It was too raw. It needed protection.

Cling peaches.

And then Dr. Ecker poked and that liquid fell.

Heavy syrup.

No gush. No gravity. Just a watery sigh.

Heavy syrup.

And then-

Tom was back in the bar, heart pumping angry blood. He stood up, kicked the stool out from under Nino the Wino, spilling him to the floor. The stumblebum took a good moment before he realized he'd been downed. The bartender, a good man, saw nothing, and Benny and Asa got mute.

“Are you gonna answer my questions or bore us all to death with cling peaches?”

Nino, from the ground, looked up at Tom, sorry.

Atari bent to help the old man get back on his feet. He handed Nino his hat. “I don’t need mythology and I don’t need symbolism... I need facts. I need help.”

Nino, blinked, clear-headed or as close as he got.

“Run 'cross the street to the package store and get me a bottle of Ten High...” Nino swallowed, “and I’ll tell you what I know about Project Geronimo.”

.

Chapter 1: Rebirth

Chapter 1

Rebirth

When the bullet struck Tom Atari’s spine he left us for a while. He was dissolved into whitespace, suspended in gaffa, absolved by the finer light and drowned in the ocean of space, and that’s when he saw it- a fuzzy cosmic cloud the size of a moth, and beyond that, humanity’s glowing future.

It was out there, beyond the horizon, a warm, pulsing sun, blinding in its radiance, biding its time and keeping quiet. Tom heard the beat, felt the heat on his chin, saw the schedule, the way it was supposed to be, and in spite of everything he knew he had to smile: was being alive so bad after all?

He woke up next in a hospital bed- wet hot with morning urine- to the nurses taking away his morphine: a woman, wordless, cutting the line with a knife, his blood suddenly lonely. He tried to remember he had really been there, had seen the future, but the body was a nuisance: the rage of broken skin came back into his head and he wrecked as his chest seized, sweat to kiss the tears as his forehead grooved apology.

The days went by, recovery taking time after time, and there were doctors repeating themselves, nurses polite, as he became ready to face Project Geronimo and all its gravity: the United States government enslaving its own people through mind control. Tom was resolved: they would be stopped, freedom would be restored, and he could finally get some rest, finally retire and play golf with tall Latin women. Down in Florida.

The Florida Keys. When it storms.

He reached for a glass of water, but no water came. He was wasting time on purpose.

Outside the hospital walls the Lipstick Killer was still running free, terrorizing the people, controlling them in fear. Tom wondered if he was just one man.

Sandy. She needed to be told.

Then his friends and family... he would do it slowly, gently. He eyed his revolver on the bed stand and laughed. Slowly. Gently. Saving the planet takes time.

One of the nurses came back and offered Tom a painkiller.

He turned her down.

.

.

Chapter 29: The Lipstick Killer

Chapter 29

The Lipstick Killer

---------------- 

The car accident that will kill Tom Atari 

is still days away.

---------------- 

Her name was Muriel Tesla, and tonight she would become the first victim of the Lipstick Killer.

Tonight- the night before Thanksgiving- was perfect: cool, calm, with a great surging fog, poisonous, intoxicating, falling slow from the hills like foam in a beer- overflow in slow motion. The city was alive with reunion, laughter, the sounds of kids out of school. In homes loving mothers stuffing turkeys for tomorrow’s feast, their cautious daughters watching, learning the requirements.

Muriel- neither mother or daughter- just a shop girl at Lavette’s department store on the corner of Century Boulevard, just voluptuous, round calves and thighs, lips so swollen with love that she had to bite them to maintain. She was blessed with dark hair, the eyes of a kitten that would blink and make a man a boy and back again the other way around. Ms. Tesla was used to the smiles.

Her days were spent in the camera department, and men would buy just to watch her say thank you. With her lips aligned and her dark hair parted she was angel cake, and her portrait was the first picture taken with every new camera once she showed her admirers how to load their weapons. Keith, her boyfriend, away at university, leaving her lonely, but Muriel never weakened. This weekend would be her chance, their chance to be together for the first time in forever.

She was off work for the evening, home in her fourth floor apartment, entering to the spotlight of her lamp, stretching her legs, letting the ache out for an evening alone. Tomorrow was the meal with the family but until then: her pocketbook tossed on the wooden chair, reading the mail that was bills.

On the street her murderer emerged from the bushes. The man was dressed in black, smoking with one hand, in his other his lucky charm: the paw from a white rabbit.

The man stood on the corner, using binoculars, a graduation present, watching the girl in the window. He could see her close, but she kept bursting out of frame, her breasts inviting him, crossing his wires. He tried to sort this out... but he was incapable.

Muriel, above, about her rounds, concerto on the hi-fi, unaware that for the man below this was a ballet, enticement divine: open season. Brushing her hair in the mirror and then, into the kitchen for a small glass of milk. What's good with milk is chocolate cookies, and so Muriel pulled one from the jar, secure in the knowledge that small bites don’t count.

And down below the man smiled, unholy and foul, the snarl, and he was into the building through the front door, his heart pumping new juices through his veins.

Muriel stepped lively, violin in her head, her legs warm, spinning in her bedroom with her new scarf wrapped around her neck and in front of the mirror... what to pair it with?

The building's door man was out, having a stroke, so it was easy for the man in black to slide on by, to press the elevator button and to cock his head to steal a headline from a discarded evening paper.

Muriel, lining up shoes, stacking folded sweaters, hair clips, miscellaneous monuments to her own natural beauty, which she would forever deny. Biting her lip... maybe another chocolate cookie?

The new elevators... they move so fast.

Back in the kitchen and a whole cookie now, but a glass of water this time, to balance.

The elevator arrived on four, smiling wide. The man, winking back, “Thank you.”

Muriel’s eyes as she swallowed, counting calendar blocks on the refrigerator magnet... one day... two day...

Chisel in the doorjam and-

Three day...four day... until the day that she and Keith could once again.

Hammer to the chisel, a splintering of natural wood. The cowardly door conceded, and the man was inside. The girl turned but there was no time.

The man in black put the chisel and hammer to Muriel Tesla’s head and began to sculpt. Gentle, loving caresses against her muted protests, carving through her sweet dreams and loneliness, through the bones in her neck and her love of horses. In only moments her head was in his hands, free of the body responsible, and the man in black did believe that she was smiling up at him, forever in love and allegiance. He sat on the sofa, stroking her raven hair, and across the room her toes wiggled for the last time.

He giggled, taking her lipstick to write “gobble gobble” on the bathroom mirror, hearing the rush in his head, twisting the tube and watching the red rise, applying a thick layer to his lips and puckering, kissing the glass cold. Then his member in his hand, standing among the blood and parts, smiling wide, dripping salty sweat, straining to catch his breath before soiling the floor, treating himself to a deep drink of toilet water, leaving the way he came in and sure of only one thing: he couldn't wait to do this again.

Somebody call Tom Atari.

Chapter 5: Adrenaline

Chapter 5

Adrenaline

---------------- 

The car accident that will kill Tom Atari 

is still days away.

----------------

There had to be retribution for Heather Jasmine. Tom was no hero, no policeman or judge, but at one time or another every man has the right to hold the hammer.

She was a child, an innocent soul brought into this world and tainted by angry humans, who misdirected her, used her as fuel and burnt her before she could stand on her own. That soul was now gone, forever, irretrievable, before it had a chance at awareness, before it got a day for redemption, and now Tom found himself suddenly sanctified, sitting in his Chrysler 300 outside the gates of MCM studios, loading his gun, singing along to the Diamonds’ ‘Little Darling,’ and feeling no fear.

His body alive with righteousness, this was God’s work, had to be.

The gates opened, slow, and from the driveway descended the new black Lincoln, the car of reputable producer Marvin Millser: talent scout, filmmaker, child pornographer. He was done for the day, having spent the last six hours creating wholesome motion pictures that would establish morality for the country, planet. The last hour of his day was spent with a ten year-old boy, naked and romantic, while the child's Mother waited blind in the lobby, praying to the heavens that her son might become a star.

Tom dunked the Chrysler into Low and that’s just what she did, purring slow on the cement behind the mogul’s creeping vehicle. Atari- on fire- followed good, one of his specialties, invisible at a distance, using billboards and the shark-fins of fellow cars to navigate the highway’s shallow waters and stay in the black Lincoln’s blind spot.

The usually impetuous Tom Atari was in complete control of his emotions, his hands steady on the wheel, his heart metered in beat, until turning off La Cienega Boulevard, when he suddenly heard Heather’s hot whispered breath in his ear: “save me.”

That’s when his car smashed into Millser’s, bumping it into a country club shrub. The hood plowed through to the other side of the greenery- the headlights getting to see how the other half golfs. Tom was out of his car even before Millser’s driver, who came at him with a swift drop of a tire iron. Atari countered by shooting him in the face.

The driver dropped it, and while the liquid adrenaline poured through Tom's body he opened the car door and took Marvin Millser out of the backseat. He grabbed him by the collars of his expensive suit and he shook him hard. And he shook him harder. And he shook Marvin Millser out of his spell and back into sanity. The producer- chubby, balding- was finding it impossible to catch his breath. He was in fact hyperventilating, his chest seizing and his arms shaking.

Tom spoke in a voice he didn’t recognize: “Tell me.”

Millser, afraid, could not have spoken if he had wanted to, his lungs fighting his body for air. There were tears in his eyes, and Tom- out of habit- wiped them away.

“Tell me.  Tell me who got to Heather. Why she was set up- why I was set up. Why did she have to die?”

Both men trembling on the side of the road, the deaf chauffeur smiling peacefully at the clouds.

“I’m not the one...” Millser gasped, his chest heaving involuntarily.

Tom shook his head, “It’s the whole goddamn studio, right? The whole industry?”

“Big- bigger,” Millser panted, “It’s Project Geronimo.”

A Cadillac, turning up the road, saw the accident and honked its horn, which was when Tom turned to look, letting the gun drop, giving Millser the chance to yank it away.

Tom whipped his head back to see Millser put the gun between his lips and take a sip of gunpowder. He fired and his skull exploded from below, splitting pretty and leaving an eye over each of his shoulders. The Cadillac carried on.

Tom would not remember getting back in his car and driving home, or the Marion Davies movie playing on television that night. He would not remember the aspirin, or the glasses of milk, or the falling asleep on the sofa in his suit and stocking feet. He would remember the words ‘Project Geronimo,’ and the look on Millser’s face when he took himself out of the game.

America watched Miss Davies on television skating sweet to the red mill, and Tom Atari fell asleep, wide awake for the first time.

.

Chapter 2: The Bloody Vermiglio

Chapter 2

The Bloody Vermiglio

---------------- 
The car accident that will kill Tom Atari is still days away. 
----------------

“You’re a doll, Sandy... an absolute doll.”

She sat across from him at the restaurant, smiling for once in her life, the depth of her beauty finally unfolded. Tom Atari, for a single, flickering moment, was happy.

“I didn’t do anything. I knew you needed a break. And everybody needs a char-broiled hamburger sandwich with some french-fried potatoes... so today you get the best of both worlds. You’re gonna love this food.”

They were in the new hamburger place two blocks from Tom’s office, at that perfect moment when the lunch rush has died and the dinner rush not yet arrived. The place was young enough that everything was clean: glasses that still sparkled. It was quiet. It was safe. Hamburgers were on their way.

Tom looked across the table, deep into Sandy’s ocean eyes, wondering just how much she knew, wondering if fucking her would ruin her grace. This wasn’t the first time he had imagined her body against his, her blond hair swaying across her bare breasts. He wanted to tell her what he learned last night, but it was too early in the day to tell this sweetheart that the government was a lie and her country a fraud. He hadn’t swallowed it all himself. Anyway, being here with Sandy made him feel good- why spoil it? There was something in the air, something almost warm. Almost right.

Sandy took a long sip of her strawberry milkshake. Through her straw.

Tom saw through her dress, into her heart- it was a rooster-shaped weathervane, spinning in the sea breeze- squeaky, fucking rusty on top of it- but surely pointing true north. He had thought about making her his own, getting out of this business. Then what? Retirement. And living life.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He wanted to tell her, was ready to tell her, but the waitress came with the food. Maybe later.

Sandy, cheese on her hamburger, french fry in hand: “Cheers. And if you mention Project Geronimo I’ll break your face.” They bit, eating, and the girl was right: one holy hell of a hamburger sandwich. She smiled, mouth full, “Try it with ketchup.”

Tom spotted him then: across the restaurant, sitting at a table and engrossed in a menu, in his respectable suit. It was Lou Vermiglio- the dirty ex-cop, three hundred pounds of hungry greed. Beside him was a mousy woman- his wife- and two young kids, a little girl and a little boy.

Son of a bitch

“What- who are you looking at? Tom, stop.” She saw the look in his eyes.

But Atari was already standing, already crossing the room. He couldn’t hear Sandy’s pleading: all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, the sound of anger overtaking. He could feel his face getting red as he got closer.

Rage.

Lou looked up and back down to his menu before looking back up at Atari, eyes going wide. He didn’t speak.

“Sgt. Vermiglio! How nice to see you!”

His wife looked over. So did the kids.

“Are you still a police sergeant? Or were you kicked off the force?”

Lou was frozen, caught in a modified nightmare. “Don’t do this.”

“Do the kids know? Do they understand why you were kicked off the force?”

“Why Daddy?” It was the boy.

“That’s enough, Jackie,” shot Lou.

"Does your wife know about the graft, or why you spend your nights kicking the shit out of private investigators?”

“Who is this man, Lou?” The wife, afraid.

“It’s just Tom Atari. He’s a longtime pal. We used to play cards. But he’ll be leaving now because he would never try to talk to me when I’m having lunch with my wife. And my kids.”

The eyes of the young ones- 9, 10- moved in unison from their father to Atari.

Tom bashed the butt of his gun into Lou Vermiglio’s nose, splintering it, spurting red blood onto his appetizer plate. Sandy was up and on her way.

Mrs. Vermiglio jumped to her feet but Tom kicked her in the chest, shattering her collarbone. Jackie- the boy- leapt in to help his mother but Tom punched the child in his jaw, breaking it and knocking out three teeth: one baby, two permanent.

Lou was on his feet, improbable, reaching for his piece but Tom socked him in his fat belly, letting him reel. Atari took this chance to knuckle Vermiglio’s face, repeatedly, flattening his nose, working his face into an angry pulp of ground chuck.

Vermiglio tried to fight back, but his left eye socket was crushed and he was blinded by the blood from his open forehead. His little girl wept, eyes closed, still seated at the table.

Sandy, hysterical, jumped on Tom’s back, trying to pull him away. When he reached back to peel her off the bloody Vermiglio staggered to the entrance, pulling blind until his hand found the door and he made his way outside.

Lou stuttered down the sidewalk like a robot taking his first steps, looking in vain for an ambulance, policeman, or God. All he could find was a fire hydrant, and he fell to his knees forsaken.

Then Tom was out the door after him, running to the end of the block, bending down to lift Lou’s head up by his hair, smashing the man’s face into the yellow fireplug, over and again, knocking out teeth, missing the sounds of the sirens and the shouting of the officer.

The cop shot Tom in the back, and the piercing of the bullet brought a pain so pure he could no longer see, no longer understand what it was all about...

What was it all about?

Tom fell to the sidewalk, bleeding quiet. Inside the restaurant his hamburger sat lonely in the empty booth.

.