Vida Nocturna Part 21

"Listen." Miguel pleaded, his thick Mexican accent disappearing into the paper walls. "I have to tell you this. You are going to ... what did you call it? Nothingness? Is that what you said?"

She stared blankly through the winds.h.i.+eld.

"Sara, you have to know this, okay? Everybody go to the nothingness sometime. But some people fall in, right? And other people, they jump in. You are jumping in as far as you can. Why? You have to fight it. You have to try."

"No, I don't. And anyway, weren't you the one asking me if I could get you some needles the other day?"

"I'm still losing the fight slower than you, my friend. How about you pick me up after work? We go to your place, we hang out when you make your little rocks. We can help each other to not do so much."

"When I make the rocks."

"Yeah. You always working on making the rocks. So maybe you want company."

"Company? Or someone to watch and learn how I do it so he can cut me out of my business?"

"Sara, I am not-"

"I'll tell you what, Miguel. I'll drop you off at work. You go do your job. And you let me do mine."

The receptionist's mouth hung open a little as she stared at Sara with wide eyes. She looked just like a victim in one of the Friday the 13th movies; if Sara had a machete like in the movies she would already be past the reception desk. The woman nervously licked her lips.

The fluorescent lighting burned through Sara like atomic radiation, cooking her. "I don't have time to wait any more," she said, leaning against the counter, afraid that she would collapse to the floor without it. She let the Jaguar keys dangle over the edge on the woman's side. "I'm very busy. My father knows that. He'll see me if you just call him."

What's her name? She's worked here for, like, forever. Calling her by name would help.

The woman looked anxiously over Sara's shoulder at the people in the waiting area. "Sara," she said quietly, "I told you he's in consultation, and he left specific instructions that he can't be disturbed."

"Yeah but that's for other things! I'm his daughter!"

The woman came around the counter to place a hand on Sara's shoulder, gingerly. When she grimaced and turned her face slightly away, the reason was clear - she was afraid of catching some kind of disease. She tried to steer Sara away from the counter, but Sara tightened her grip on its edge.

"Your father told all of us that we were not to disturb him with any contact from you, Sara. It was very specific. n.o.body from this desk is to transfer your calls to him or notify him if you show up. That's what he told us to do." When Sara didn't move, she said, "I'll leave him a note to tell him you were here, but he's not going to see you today." She sighed. In pity? Frustration? "You really should go home. It looks like you could use some sleep."

"Yeah, okay," Sara said. The woman released her. "I know I look tired. I know I'm skinny and my eyes are all dark, okay? But I'm still his daughter. I just want to say h.e.l.lo."

The receptionist returned to her post, mocking Sara with a forced expression of concern as she clung to the counter. "I'm sorry, Sara. There's nothing else I can do for you."

"I'm his f.u.c.king daughter!" Sara screamed. "He won't even talk to his own f.u.c.king daughter? What the f.u.c.k is wrong with him? What the f.u.c.k is wrong with all of you?"

The receptionist picked up the phone, dialing three numbers. Sara stopped yelling.

Two security guards rushed up and grabbed her by the arms. People in the waiting room craned their necks, watching, as she was dragged backward down the hallway.

"f.u.c.k you! f.u.c.king a.s.sholes. This is a thirteen hundred dollar dress- get your f.u.c.king hands off it! Think you're big s.h.i.+t, making four bucks an hour to drag me away? Protecting my father from me? You think he respects you for it? He'd cut your f.u.c.king hearts out, that's all you'd get, talking to him."

They pa.s.sed a cart with some medical supplies on it. Sara scanned it, hoping to see a few fresh needles, but saw none.

Not like I'd be able to grab them, anyway.

They dragged her - cursing and struggling, all the way down to the front entrance. They shoved her out the double gla.s.s doors as if she had been caught stealing from the place.

She clenched her fists and moaned. Just for an instant her fingers caressed the gun through her new Chanel bag's supple leather.

Yes. Teach them all. White words hung suspended on red again.

But no. This was a hospital. It was where normal, wholesome people came to get better when they were sick.

The sun was still out, but at least she was under the awning outside the front door. The light burned her eyes, even through the black Ray-Bans, and penetrated her long sleeves. How could she make it back to her car?

Angie appeared in front of her. Sara stared. Angie had cut her hair and gained just enough weight to look healthier. She was older now, without the awkwardness they'd both shared in high school. She was stronger, too, and more confident. Her father was probably taking her to lunch today.

So go ahead, b.i.t.c.h. Gloat. Laugh. Rub it in. Sara ran her fingers along the bulge in the purse again. Give it your best shot.

Angie's smile was sad. "h.e.l.lo, Sara."

Sara looked away, hiding her face. Even Angie is too decent now, unapproachable by the d.a.m.ned. That word hung in her mind: d.a.m.ned. Sara tried to straighten and look Angie in the face but the sun was too bright. She ended up slightly hunched over, peering up at her sideways. Angie took a deep breath. "I am so sorry, Sara. I just-"

Her voice ended abruptly with a kind of whine. Then she took another breath and tried again.

"I wanted to call, but your phone was disconnected. I couldn't call your parents, n.o.body from school had ever seen you ..." She sighed. She started to cry but stopped herself, pursing her lips and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.

"That day when I saw you weren't helping me stand up for you, it made me mad, you know?" She sniffed. A few more tears spilled down her cheeks as her eyes took in the wreckage that had once been her best friend. "And then I was kicked out of your house, and your mom called my mom and yelled and screamed. And my mom was convinced you came from a bad family and banned you from my house, too ...

"And I knew how miserable your life was, but there wasn't anything I could do for you."

She sighed again. Sara couldn't make her eyes focus on Angie, even to watch her as she turned to cardboard. All she could manage was a few quick glances at her face.

"Then the night of the party, you didn't show up, and Josh and I both just ... We let ourselves be mad at you." She cried for real this time, with real sobs, as her hands wrung the burgundy Aigner bag she carried.

She sniffed again, blinking hard as she fought to control her voice. "And ... and later in the summer, we talked about it. And we realized that all we'd really wanted was an escape from your life."

A new look crossed Angie's face. Anger, maybe, or pity. "We were so young. All of us. And we were graduating and moving on, and ... and we just couldn't stand to be needed so desperately. And we couldn't stand to watch you wither away, and we felt so helpless whenever we were around you- it was like you were draining the life out of us.

"And talking like that, we saw that what we'd done was just trying to break away- to get as far from your life and your family and all your issues as we could, and to make it permanent."

Sara stared straight ahead. Angie spoke again.

"Once we figured out why we'd done it, we knew there was nothing between us. Nothing but guilt and shame, anyway. We broke it off, and then we traded letters a few times- mostly just asking whether we'd heard anything about you, or if you'd heard about it. But you never did. You never talked to anyone or went anywhere, and you just kept on needing. And I felt so bad ... so I tried to help, still. But I knew you'd find out somehow. Or figure it out."

Angie's hand appeared on Sara's shoulder. Another ginger touch, but at least she didn't cringe. She tried to look into Sara's blackened eyes but Sara couldn't focus. When Angie spoke again, it was just a whisper.

"I'm so, so sorry, Sara."

The one you're talking about is gone. I'm something new, now. Something powerful. Something that needs only to feed.

Sara shrugged away from Angie and stumbled out into the parking lot.

All those hours. Can't even smoke at the club, let alone slam. It's like living on rat blood.

Finally, finally, finally she was home. The deals were done, the club was closed. Again she'd drawn in enough to survive. Again it was time to feed the need.

She washed down a Valium with a few swigs of Beam. She couldn't let the shakes f.u.c.k it all up now. Blowing the shot and slamming into muscle was more than a waste: Last time she'd blown it she'd had to keep her arm wrapped in Saran Wrap and a hot towel, trying to make the swelling go down.

The works called from the counter. She gathered them up: the mirror with a little c.o.ke and a little heroin, razor blades, rubber tube, bottle cap, syringe, needles- d.a.m.n! No fresh needles.

She sat down on the old red velvet couch, s.n.a.t.c.hing up a book of matches from next to the candle on the coffee table and finding the newest-looking needle of the four spread out on the mirror. At least she'd rinsed them before the blood had dried inside. The matchbook was almost new so the sandpaper on the back was still fresh. She stroked the needle point against it, back and forth, grinding the very tip as sharp as she could manage. She stared at it a moment, antic.i.p.ating the stab, breathing heavily.

The stab; the bite. Reaching down deep inside, fixing what's wrong, right inside. Changing the chemistry, fixing the problem.

Her palms were sweating. She had the sudden urge to drive the needle deep into her thumb, just to get that thrill of the spike, but doing so would dull the needle. She stood up instead, going to the sink and rinsing away the grit. She filled a small gla.s.s with water and grabbed the spoon from the sink where she'd left it last time.

f.u.c.king cheap Mexican tar. Even Weasel's s.h.i.+t was better than this. She shook her head. But Weasel only made it two months.

Mexican black tar heroin had to be heated to make it mix. Some of the purer stuff wasn't supposed to need heating but this was all she could get her hands on right now. Heating made the process more complicated.

She sat back down, lighting the candle and dripping a few drops of water into the tall bottle cap she'd saved from a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. Her c.o.ke, of course, was absolutely pure: It dissolved in the tiny bit of water that half-filled the bottle cap. But the s.h.i.+tty black tar had to be cooked in the spoon. She drizzled a little more water into the spoon and added a pinch of the black stuff, lifting it toward the candle.

s.h.i.+t!

She set the spoon back down. There was no cotton here.

She searched around the place. No more cotton b.a.l.l.s. No tampons. Cigarette filters- even clean ones- had something in them that made her veins itch. She had a few Q-tips left. She slid the cotton off of one.

The candle melted the stuff and she sucked it up into the syringe through the cotton, then squirted it into the bottle cap with the c.o.ke mixture. Then she drew the new mix into the syringe and pulled the cotton off the needle point.

She licked her lips. Her eyes widened. She set down the spoon and took a few more swigs of Beam as she stared into the hazy potion inside the syringe. Gingerly she set the loaded syringe on the table, carefully picking up the tubing to tie off and letting her left arm dangle toward the floor.

She looped the tubing under her left arm, making an X inside her elbow and tucking a little hook of slack from one end under the X as she drew it tighter. She splashed a little Beam onto the site- one she'd overused, but she wasn't about to switch arms and blow it after a night like tonight- and rubbed it with a couple of fingers in a token cleansing motion.

The syringe, smooth and translucent as she held it in her palm to warm its contents. The needle- bevel up. A few deep breaths. Inside. Inside. The stab, overcoming the resistance of the scar tissue that had formed around the puncture wound.

Register.

She pulled back the plunger, making a beautiful, complex pattern inside the syringe as the red blood bloomed into the drug mixture.

Perfect!

It was dark red, not bright, not foamy. Definitely a vein and not an artery. Definitely inside, ready to fix it all. She stared for just a moment more, pulled the slack end of the tubing to untie it, and then pushed the plunger home.

The vein constricts, hard and white and numb. She pulls out the needle, numbness expanding from the left arm, rolling over her like a fog. Now she knows those models were wrong- those red and blue models of the circulatory system she'd seen growing up. Blood vessels are white and black, cycling together in an endless loop, from the heart to the tiniest capillaries and then back to the heart ... or to the lungs, for the blood to get what it needs. She is only a set of black and white blood vessels, existing on their own accord. Flesh merely fills the s.p.a.ce between them.

She floats on a cloud, impervious. Her own cloud: soft, comfortable, black as tar. The power surges through her, white, fast, forked. She sees all, knows all, feels all. The tiny cellular o.r.g.a.s.ms are there, even the tiny cellular voices screaming in terror, but the cloud blocks those voices out. Or cus.h.i.+ons what they say. Or makes it all irrelevant.

The energy. "Awake!" it says. "Awake! Alert!" Infinite pleasure, it gives. Infinite wisdom. The power, rus.h.i.+ng through every last microscopic capillary. Her vision and hearing are enhanced to the point of endless blurs and echoes but this, too, is fine.

The calm. "Rest, relax, stay," it says. "All is well."

Somewhere between the extremes is the tedium. These feelings are ordinary, now. Of course she rules the world. Of course she feels the power, the tranquility, the delight, the panic.

She stares. At nothing. At everything. She sprawls on the ma.s.sive throne, full, satisfied, and complete.

The formal living room stays clouded in darkness but she sees it all. Moonlight s.h.i.+nes brightly in through the windows, making her squint, but she keeps her eyes on the vampires.

Her father, his black suit perfect, impeccable, stands at the window, not caring enough even to ignore her, staring out into the night.

Her mother's black dress is even darker, sopping up the moonlight around her as she sits stiff-backed in one of the tall antique Georgian wingchairs, also staring out the window.

"Give it back!" Sara says. The room swallows her words. Neither vampire turns toward her. "It's mine. I need it."

Her father vanishes. Her mother moves to his place by the window, staring at something outside as she speaks. "You'd only waste it."

And Sara is alone again.

Benny's new BMW 735i smelled like it was still sitting in the showroom. It was maybe brown or gold- she hadn't cared enough to make the distinction as she got in. The deal was the only important thing.

Because of the crackling sound they made when they were smoked, Benny had begun referring to the rocks as "crack." The name had caught on.

Sara freed the giant wad of plastic from her duffel bag. "Nine hundred grams. Where's my thirty thousand?"

Benny gestured to a duffel bag between them. "Here's twenty-five g's right here," he said.

"Deal was for thirty."

"Deal's changed. Somebody new sellin' crack cheaper now. Lil' red-headed f.a.g at the club, walkin' round with a couplea bodyguards."

She sat still, thinking. "Yeah. I heard about that." She sighed. "All right. I'll take the twenty-five. This time."

"Every time."

"We'll see." She got out of the car. Benny sped off as soon as she closed the door.

She started the two-block walk back to the club, the cocaine drip making the back of her throat feel cool and numb, like fresh air through a puncture wound. No deals at the club anymore, of course. No reason to f.u.c.k around with piddly gram deals now. But the ego rush she got from being the biggest player there was worth subsisting on powder for a little while.

Her head snapped to the side as a car door opened across the street. Some sleazy-looking dude climbed from the pa.s.senger side of a new yellow Corvette. The dome light was on: A blond male sat behind the wheel. Neil. The sleazy guy walked quickly away.

Neil was not moving. He was looking away from her, which he certainly wouldn't have done if he'd noticed her. Maybe he was counting his money or taking a quick snort. She snuck quietly across the street behind the rumbling Corvette, freeing her new gun from her purse. It was a Beretta nine-millimeter she'd picked up through some guy Benny knew, holding fifteen rounds in the clip and another in the chamber.

She studied the door handle, figured out how to pop it open, and lunged inside, gun first. "Hands on the wheel or I take your f.u.c.king head off now."