Blood Sacrifice (18 page)

She hurries along, trying to vary her pace to hear if there is really someone behind her, someone trying to match her pace, so she won’t hear him or her. Home is still miles away, but it’s there, and it’s home. Never before has she thought of her little rat-hole of an apartment home, but relatively speaking, it’s
Little House on the Prairie
. Suddenly, it appears in her mind as a sanctuary, a shelter.

She wonders if the footsteps had been behind her for much longer than when she first noticed them on Greenview. But when she had first left the house, she was so distraught she probably wouldn’t have noticed a pit bull snapping at her heels.
Could
it have been that long ago? She imagined she only noticed the footsteps that mirrored her own…what? About fifteen minutes ago? Were they blotted out by her sniffling? Her quivering attempts to gain control of her breath?

The footfalls continue behind her, and she picks up her pace, not wanting to look behind her, not wanting to appear fearful. They draw closer, drawing a chill from her bowels up her spine. She can’t stand it, finally, and stops.

There is no one there. The street, at this hour, is quiet, with only an occasional
whoosh
as a car whizzes by, its occupants oblivious to her presence.

But someone, she feels, is
not
oblivious. Over the course of the next few blocks, she repeats the pattern: noticing the sound of footsteps behind her, turning to look, and seeing nothing. When the echo of her own footsteps on the pavement stops, so do her pursuer’s.

It wouldn’t surprise her if she were going insane. It wouldn’t surprise her if these footsteps were some aural hallucination, the beginning of a mental disturbance much more profound.

But for now, she doesn’t have the time or the luxury of imagining that someone following her is all in her head. She has to worry about the chance that this is very real. She has to safeguard herself against the flesh-and-blood, fully alive monsters that haunt the streets at this early-morning hour.

Wouldn’t the irony of this just be too rich? Elise thinks, quickening her pace. The footsteps behind her quicken accordingly. Irony: on the very night she has blown her opportunity for immortality, a streetwise criminal kills her. Perfect.

Her heart races, and in spite of the chill, a clammy sweat breaks out, coating her face, trickling down her back, tickling in a crawly, unpleasant way. She turns again, the panic rising like something hot and alive, and peers into the darkness. She sees the glow of a cigarette a block or two away; someone hurrying across the street. She doesn’t think that person is even aware of her existence. Besides, if someone is following her, his or her footsteps are much closer. But where is that person right now? Elise searches the shadows of apartment doorways, the spaces between buildings. The wind, picking up as it blows across the lake, mocks her, making her think she’s paranoid. Isn’t paranoia a side-effect of marijuana? She wishes she could laugh, but thoughts of pot and paranoia do little to allay her mounting terror.

She takes a few more steps. So does her stealthy friend. She whirls around to face a potato chip bag and some dust whirling around in a mini-tornado the sudden, cold wind has kicked up.

“Look. I know what’s going on, asshole.” Elise steels herself, refusing to let even the slightest quaver creep into her voice. “You need to find yourself another route. This one’s taken.” Elise looks around desperately; in a city usually teeming with life, it is, for once, lonely. Perhaps if she runs back out to Sheridan Road? At least the lights are brighter there, and she has more of a chance of being around other people. She can even hail a taxi, even though she has no money. She could let the driver take it out in trade. It’s not like she hasn’t done it before.

So she turns and runs. Beneath the blood rushing in her ears, the rasp of her breath, and the gallop of her feet on the pavement, she hears someone running behind her, closing the distance. She wants to scream. She wants to stop, drop, and curl into a little ball. Fetal, letting whatever is going to happen, happen.

When a hand grabs her shoulder, the scream is at last freed.

Chapter Eighteen

1954

Edward was a different person as he pressed key into lock just outside his tiny walk-up. It had been so long since he felt any kind of joy that his jubilance was akin to the effects of a drug coursing through his system.

The apartment was cold. Edward hurried to the window, closed it, and listened for the hiss and clank of his radiator. He turned to survey the paintings he had leaned against one wall, trying to decide which eight he should show. It was a tough choice. The show at Anima/Animus gallery would be his professional debut, his first steps into a different world from the one he now inhabited. He didn’t want to be overly optimistic, but this show could be the key to a whole new life, a life that did not include living in cold-water flats in ghetto neighborhoods. One that did not include working at menial jobs to make barely enough money to cover the rent with hardly enough left over for essentials, let alone luxuries. Most importantly, a new life could also include validation and professional respect for his work—and that was what was really making him jubilant and hopeful. He already felt inspired, wondering if he should whip off his clothes and pull out the paints and create new pieces for his show.

Hold on now, you’re getting ahead of yourself
. Edward turned in the dimming light (dusk approached earlier and earlier each day) and thought what he needed, and what he deserved, was a celebration. The Tiger’s Eye was only a few blocks away.

Who knew what would happen?

Edward arrived early at the Tiger’s Eye. Outside, the night sky had faded from lilac, slate blue, and orange to blackness, yet it was still too early for most bars to be doing a brisk business, even ones like the Tiger’s Eye that specialized in poor alcoholics whose dreams had been shattered. Even they, it seemed, preferred a later hour to begin their imbibing, at least in public.

No matter. The place would fill up. Edward slid onto a stool and lit a Lucky. There was still the smell of beer and cigarette smoke to inhale, the multi-colored hues of liquor bottles behind the bar, and the sound of Eubie Blake playing soft in the background (with Charlie Thompson, the “Lily Rag”). When the bartender approached him, looking particularly delicious with his crew cut, T-shirt and tight black pants, Edward smiled, feeling the kind of confidence that had always eluded him. He only had a few dollars in his pocket, but the way he felt right now, he was certain he would not have to pick up the tab for many of his drinks. Not tonight. Not on this special evening, poised on the brink of the
future.

“I’ll have a Canadian Club; put a beer back on that.”

“Sure thing.” The bartender appraised him and Edward could tell by his smile he liked what he saw. Edward watched the tip of his cigarette glow in the dim light as he waited for his drink. In a minute, the bartender was back with a squat glass half full of amber liquid (a very generous shot) accompanied by a tall, sweating glass of cold beer, its golden hue topped with a head of white foam.

“What do I owe you?” Edward dug in his pockets.

“Nothing. The gentleman at the end of the bar says to put this on his tab.”

Edward pulled his hand slowly from his pocket, wondering whether he should feel his lucky streak was continuing, or if he should be worried. He had thought the bar was empty when he entered. Even now, peering down the length of the bar, illuminated mainly by the soft light over the liquor bottles behind it, he found it difficult to see anyone. He stared, letting his eyes adjust to the low light level and finally saw him, dressed completely in black, stool positioned perfectly so his smiling face greeted Edward.

Edward turned back to the drinks on the bar, heart thudding. Terence. Edward picked up the shot glass and downed it. Holding up the empty glass, he shouted, “Another, please! And put it on the gentleman’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

He slid from the stool, very uncertain as to whether this turn of events was a good thing or a bad one. The bartender followed him down the bar, shot glass in hand, waiting to see where he would light. He sat next to Terence, staring into his dark eyes for what seemed like a long time, but was really only a minute or two. The bartender slid his beer down and placed it in front of him. Edward smiled, the corners of his mouth quivering. He breathed in deeply. “What brings you out tonight? Slumming again?” Edward felt a low simmering anger and wasn’t sure from where it was coming. He had wanted a wild evening out, to perhaps meet a boy and take him home. He wanted to laugh and drink. He wanted to be human, and enjoy the company of others of his kind: ruddy-cheeked young men bent on fornication. Terence—and his subterranean world—didn’t apply. Terence was more like something out of a dream…or a nightmare.

He wanted to be among his own kind. Part of the anger, he realized, came from the fact he knew he would throw all these semi-wholesome pursuits away in favor of being with Terence. It felt like, when Terence was around, choice slid from his grasp. He didn’t understand why.

Terence eyed him, a slight grin raising the corners of his lips. It was as if he could read the thoughts warring in Edward’s mind as easily as he could the front page of the
New York Times
at the news kiosk just outside. “I wanted to see you. I heard that you had some very good news today.” Terence slid an ice cube into his mouth, crushing it into oblivion. He grinned at Edward. “Someone’s luck has changed.”

“How would you know about that?”

“Word travels fast in the artsy-shitsy grapevine. You’ve seen my home. I’m a collector. Don’t you think I have contacts? Don’t you think Soho is abuzz with your coup with Mr. Gadzinski? How you’re the next big thing? The flame and flicker of jealousy is already raising its ugly head. Tell me they’re lying when they say you gave access to your ass to Mr. Gadzinski in exchange for access to his gallery walls.” Terence placed a hand on Edward’s thigh, sending what seemed like a jolt of electricity through him.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh, I know it’s just envy and despair talking. I’ve seen your work. No need to exchange sexual favors for a break. You deserve it. Besides, that kind of sexual contact cheapens both you and Mr. Gadzinski. He can get a piece of tail easily enough; there’s no need to barter. Not with his influence.”

Edward was surprised word had already leaked out about his upcoming show, which was barely confirmed, let alone planned or anywhere near execution. He was also annoyed his elation over getting the show was beginning to be eclipsed by a heat in his belly and further south over the nearness of Terence. That alone should have been sign enough for him to rise, thank him for the drinks, and head back to his original seat, or even straight out the door and up the stairs. There were plenty of other places he could drink in Manhattan. Plenty of other places to find a warm and willing companion for a night of celebration that would ultimately present its logical climax. Even the most lurid sex conducted in an alley or gangway seemed almost quaint in comparison to the dark delights Terence promised. He should go. He should really call upon his willpower and get up and leave. There was nothing to stop him (even Edward wasn’t sure he believed this) and the night was young and full of promise…without Terence.

But even though he thought these things, he remained rooted to the leatherette stool beneath his ass, drawn to the wan face and exaggerated cheekbones of his new companion, a companion from whom he knew instinctively to flee. Edward felt he was in addiction’s grip.

Terence leaned in, his mouth close to Edward’s. Edward thought he would faint. Terence whispered, “We should make a night out of it, celebrate? Don’t you think?”

Edward leaned back. “I had kind of thought of being on my own tonight.” Even as he said it, he knew his thoughts “of being on his own” tonight were nothing more than good intentions.

“Nonsense.” Terence’s eyes sparkled, even in the darkness. “Believe me, young man, I know how to celebrate. If nothing more, you’ll take me up on my offer simply as a learning experience. Besides,” and here Terence looked deep into Edward’s eyes, “there’s no refusing me.”

The thought should have angered him. But Terence was right, Edward realized with a mixture of dread and desire. He was powerless, and the smart thing to do was to recognize that and go along with whatever happened. How bad could it be, anyway?

“Where should we go next? I’m in your hands.” Edward gulped down the second shot and chugged his beer. “Completely.”

*

Edward placed a hand to his churning stomach. When he closed his eyes, the room spun. He had reached the point in his consumption of alcohol where he wished there was a chance for remorse, to take back all the Scotch and beer he had downed as he and Terence made a tour of all the drinking establishments, both heterosexual and homosexual, in Greenwich Village’s narrow streets. It was hard to remember the number of places they had been. Time was marked by the number of cigarette packages now balled up in his jacket pocket (two; he was working on his third). Terence had been an unstoppable guide to nightlife; Edward thought it should be Terence’s picture appearing in the dictionary next to the term “libertine.” In addition to all the drink consumed, Terence had pressed cocaine on him, showing him, in various, quieter men’s rooms, how to snort the fine white powder up off of Terence’s long pinkie fingernail.

Throughout the evening’s libations and inhalations, Terence had teased Edward with the promise of a more physical connection than he had previously allowed. He exchanged meaningful, soulful glances with the smitten and hungry artist. He allowed the brush of a hand, or the press of a body against another, to linger beyond what anyone could deem accidental. Terence had even let Edward, after snorting a mound of cocaine off of his fingernail, impulsively kiss him, Edward both thrilled and repelled by the cold, dry lips.

And now, Terence allowed Edward to rest his head on his chest. The public display was all right; they were at Luke’s. At this late night hour, the only other men in the bar were those who would approve or envy.

Edward had just about summoned enough courage to slur, “Do you think you could come home with me tonight? Couldn’t I just touch you?” He had imagined it would be enough just to sleep next to Terence. But Terence had other ideas. Before Edward could sort and collate the thoughts racing around his fevered brain, Terence asked, “What do you think of that one over there?”

Through bleary eyes, Edward looked in the direction Terence had nodded. In a dim corner, a pale, skinny young man, almost waifish, danced alone. Alberta Hunter crooned and the boy was lost in her smoky voice, singing about “my man.” He moved his hips slowly and had his arms wrapped around his lithe torso. It should have been comic, but it was provocative, probably because the boy was so lost in the music and his movements that his immediate surroundings, Edward was sure, had disappeared. The boy had straight black hair falling into his eyes and his short red shirt had risen up to expose a white belly, sharply defined by muscles undulating just beneath his skin.

Edward breathed in deeply, both troubled by Terence’s interest and intrigued by it. Even though he considered himself worldly, he had yet to engage in a
ménage à trois
. Would this be his first? Should he look at it as a gift from Terence? Even though Edward was pretty sure Terence wouldn’t allow him to make love to him, perhaps he wouldn’t mind watching him with the dancer, directing and orchestrating their movements. The idea had its appeal.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m intrigued by him, by his apartness from everything around him and his lack of self-consciousness. He’s quite beautiful, in a coltish sort of way. Don’t you think?”

Edward nodded. The boy had opened his eyes and was now staring at both of them with what looked like complete knowledge of what the two men were discussing. His eyes, even from across the room, were both a welcome and a challenge. “Yes,” Edward mumbled. “I do think he’s beautiful.” He nudged his head closer into Terence’s chest and lifted his arm to surround his waist. “Are you just asking for my opinion, or did you have something more in mind?”

Terence grinned. “I had a little something more in mind. What do you think? Should we ask him to join us? Do you think he can appreciate the pleasures of alcohol and cocaine with two gorgeous men?”

Edward stared at the boy, wondering if what appeared lithe in the murky light of the bar was really malnourished and what he was seeing beneath his skin were not, in actuality, muscles, but ribs. Would they be offering him an evening of debauchery and twisted fun, or would they be exploiting the weak? He knew it was the latter, yet it didn’t stop him from wanting to please Terence and to assuage his own curiosity as to just where this meeting could lead.

“I think he would appreciate shelter! The nose candy would be a luxury thrown on top of it.”

“Oh, don’t become a social worker on me. Do you want the boy or not?” Terence lifted Edward’s head away from his body, fingertips under chin. “Hmmm? I can procure him for you, you know. For us. Come on, Edward, be wicked. This is supposed to be a celebration. Let me go talk to him. I’ll set everything up. You won’t have to do a thing, except enjoy him. He looks like your type.”

Edward felt abandoned, yet somehow his penis was rising, making his pants tight. It was engorged with blood, diverting the flow of it from his brain to regions south. “What if I don’t want to?” His breath eluded him and his heart raced. But Edward knew things had already gone beyond choice.

“You do want to. It will be fun. I’ll be with you. We’ll do this together.” Terence leaned in, his face closer, closer, and kissed Edward deeply, his tongue exploring the inside of his mouth. Edward grabbed and held on.

When Terence pulled away, Edward was even dizzier.

“Yes?” Terence eyed him.

“Yes.”

Terence was off his stool quickly, almost as if Edward had shouted, “Go!” Edward watched as Terence crossed the room, elegant all in black, his pure white skin a sharp contrast. He approached the boy, hands on his shoulders, and leaned in to whisper.