\n<\/p>\n
By Three I STOP!<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n DON\u2019T The \u201cJaysus, I \u201cShite. \u201cIt\u2019s \u201cNot \u201cNo. \u201cYou McCauley \u201cHave \u201cYeah, McCauley *<\/span><\/p>\n I The I I The \u201cYou\u2019re \u201cYour \u201cSave \u201cLet\u2019s \u201cI A \u201cAre \u201cHow The \u201cPeople \u201cI\u2019d \u201cAnd \u201cAll \u201cYou \u201cExploited.<\/i> Good word,\u201d I say, wondering how \u201cDo *<\/span><\/p>\n We\u2019re \u201cHere \u201cThanks, He \u201cI \u201cNo \u201cCassie \u201cI \u201cI I \u201cWhat\u2019s \u201cHorrid Felicity\u2019s \u201cSnap \u201cYou \u201cThe Felicity\u2019s \u201cWhat\u2019s \u201cA Her As *<\/span><\/p>\n I\u2019m \u201cThis She \u201cUnzip I *<\/span><\/p>\n The \u201cSit, \u201cI \u201cLet \u201cWhy \u201cYou\u2019ve *<\/span><\/p>\n Not Late *<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMeet \u201cSure. Felicity \u201cYo!\u201d \u201cHey, I\u2019m \u201cCome \u201cTr\u00e8s \u201cI\u2019ll This \u201cI \u201cYou \u201cNothing \u201cHow \u201cWow. \u201cHow \u201cHey. God \u201cWhere \u201cSome His \u201cFive Frenchie\u2019s \u201cYou It He Quel \u201cWhatever, \u201cI As At \u201cOf \u201cI \u201cWe \u00a0How \u201cWhere \u201cSame My \u201cMaine,\u201d \u201cBefore \u201cIt\u2019s According \u201cMy She \u201cYou \u201cThis Is \u201cDo
\nStephen Myer<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n
\nkills in a day. A month ago, a week? Memory stumbles running from conscience.
\nBack then, Nausea wrapped her stench around me as the Wolf loped through my
\nbrain like a troupe of vicious ballerinas. Maybe the little demons have found a
\nnew stage, and Nausea a new lover.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfinish my beer and check the clock. The night shift at the mortuary starts in
\nfive minutes. Plenty of time. O\u2019Neill rings up the tab on the cash register and
\nblesses my soul for the generous tip. It\u2019s a quick jaunt to the prep room. I
\nslip into my gear, roll the slab out of the icebox, as old man McCauley calls
\nit, then slowly pull back the shroud, exposing a pair of lonely feet. They look
\nfamiliar\u2014crimson toenails and curved arches sculpted by the cruel slopes of
\nseductive shoes. The shroud inches up, revealing well-formed calves and thighs.
\nAt the sight of her breasts, a shock of recognition hits as I stare at the
\ncorpse. Cassandra? I toss the shroud across the room and explore her body. She\u2019s
\nas graceful in death as in life. Yes, there\u2019s the bullet hole just above her
\nnavel. Of all the joints in the city, Cassandra Hayes winds up here. Is remorse
\na sign of weakness or cause for celebration? I look away. My eyes are drawn to
\nthe sign on the wall.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nEVEN THINK<\/i> ABOUT IT.<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n
\nserene and lissome Cassandra sets desire in motion. In this room, passion is
\nbound by no law. McCauley walks in, dressed smartly in a tweed jacket. I hardly
\nrecognize him without his bloodstained apron.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nMartin,\u201d he says, pointing to the sign. \u201cWe went over this when I hired you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ngape at McCauley, the owner of this deadhouse. \u201cNothing happened,\u201d I say,
\nbuttoning my frock.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nThere\u2019ll be none of it while you\u2019re on the clock. I\u2019ll lose my license. Find a
\nfrosty princess someplace else, eh?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\njust that we were\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ninterested. There\u2019s work to be done.\u201d He examines the body. \u201cYou haven\u2019t drawn
\nthe blood yet. Christ, do I have to primp this woman myself?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ll take care of everything.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbest have her ready for tomorrow\u2019s sendoff.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nlooks into the mirror and straightens his tie. He smiles at his reflection as
\nhis thick fingers rake his silver mane.<\/span><\/p>\n
\na date tonight?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwith the Pint Sisters. I\u2019ll be at O\u2019Neill\u2019s,\u201d he says. \u201cTrying to drown the
\ndepravity of what I just saw.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nturns and walks away\u2014shaking his head and muttering some Celtic curse or
\nprayer\u2014then slams the door behind him without looking back. I finish up.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwelcome the small group of bereaved attendees as they file into the funeral
\nparlor. The corner organist, as usual, is inebriated, slurring sacred hymns
\nlike a choirboy in God\u2019s secret gin mill. His fingers fumble at the notes or
\nmiss the keys entirely. McCauley puts up with him\u2014and me. Anyone else would
\nhave fired us long ago.<\/span><\/p>\n
\npriest notices the mourners fidgeting in their chairs. He revs up his eulogy,
\nquoting lines about resurrection he swears are from the Bible. No chapter and
\nverse I\u2019d ever read. He sounds like a car salesman, only making his bones off
\nthe dead. What he offers isn\u2019t enough to keep his audience from nodding off in
\nboredom. If every word were a dollar, muses the priest, I\u2019d be a goddamned
\nmillionaire, buy a one-way ticket out, then hire the recently deceased to serve
\nme cocktails on a private yacht. No one hears the truth that lurks beneath his
\nhomily\u2014except me.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ncan\u2019t blame the man for his errant thoughts. It\u2019s the job. The same drivel, day
\nin and day out. Words recycled into monotonous platitudes for the
\nunknown\u2014comforting spirits, good or evil\u2014still, all losers for not making it
\ninto this year\u2019s Book of Life. Call me to the stand as a character witness. I\u2019ll
\npraise Cassandra\u2019s perfect breasts, her unwholesome mind, and her exquisite
\nduplicity, now confined to the vagaries of memory in this sad world of our
\nmaking. That\u2019s what mourners sitting on their swollen veins want to hear.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\nkeep my distance from the drunken organist, blending into the dark curtains
\nthat match my suit. In the front row sits an attractive woman in a black dress
\nand a thin veil. Our eyes meet and hold. She fidgets with her handbag,
\ncontemplating drawing a gun, then offing the padre and the bored mourners. I
\nlower my head to hide a smile. This woman understands the possibilities of the
\nday. Please, don\u2019t use a gun to drive the bile back into the bodies. Use a
\nshiv. Slice the flesh to release the blight, then banish it to another sad
\nplanet. Her purse remains closed. None but I know how lucky they are.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nservice ends with the organist dragging his arm across the keyboard. Its
\nderanged tone cluster startles the torpid mourners, herding them toward a table
\nnear the exit, where petit fours conclude the festivities. The veiled lady
\nsashays past me with purpose; her arm brushes mine. I follow her as she
\ndisappears behind the blue curtains, my faith in the world restored by the sway
\nof her hips.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nto blame for all this,\u201d she says. \u201cNot that my sister didn\u2019t deserve it.\u201d There
\nis no anger in her voice.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsister?\u201d Good Lord. <\/i>\u201cSo sorry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\npity for the needy,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndrop the pretenses. Cassandra was a crackpot,\u201d I reel off. \u201cShe killed her
\nfather and almost killed me. Dammit, I miss her, madly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndo, too, though she was<\/i> a wolf in sheep\u2019s clothing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nWolf?<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou planning to turn me in?\u201d I say. \u201cMy crime was loving her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsentimental. You don\u2019t seem the type.\u201d Her fingers glide along the edges of my
\nsateen lapels. \u201cI\u2019d never squander your talent.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndangerous scent of her perfume lingers in the air. Walk away. She lifts her
\nveil. \u201cCassandra?\u201d I murmur, incredulous. Then who\u2019s in the coffin?<\/span><\/p>\n
\noften get \u2026 got us confused. \u201cYou can\u2019t be sure who anyone is until you sleep
\nwith them. Even then \u2026 I\u2019m Felicity Hayes. Nine o\u2019clock, Wooster Coffeehouse?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nrather the L-Shaped Caf\u00e9. Better menu.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe worst reputation,\u201d she adds. \u201cA barista was murdered there. Surely you\u2019ve
\nheard about it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nright,\u201d I say, admitting nothing, careful not to irk the Wolf.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nseem nice enough, Martin Morse. I can\u2019t imagine why Cassandra exploited your
\nkindness.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nshe knows my name.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou think I look good in black?\u201d she asks, tugging at her lace collar. \u201cI can\u2019t
\nwait to get out of these morbid clothes.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsitting at the Wooster. She wears a red dress; the woman is a ringer for her
\nsister.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou go, Felicity and Friendo,\u201d says the indolent waiter holding two espressos.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nFrenchie,\u201d she answers in a sardonic tone.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsets the coffee on the table, then quietly stands in place\u2014arms folded,
\nboyishly handsome, his weight balanced on one thin leg, the other foot tapping
\nthe floor as if waiting for an invitation to join us. Something about this guy
\nfeels familiar.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nalready said thank you,\u201d says Felicity. \u201cRun along before my gentleman friend
\nrearranges your pretty face.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nneed to be rude, girlie,\u201d he says, then turns and shimmies away.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nalways threatened to kill Father for what he did to us. I didn\u2019t have the
\nnerve, even after growing up in a hive of incest. She must have told you about
\nour vile childhood.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nloved Cassandra, even if she was a schemer,\u201d I reply. \u201cShe convinced me that a
\nmonster disguised as a boyfriend was the cause of her troubles. She never
\nindicated the creep was her father. I was about to carve up the old man when
\nshe walked in and shot him. That wasn\u2019t in our plan. She would have shot me too
\nif the Wolf \u2026 Why wasn\u2019t it a double funeral?\u201d I interrupt myself. \u201cThey died
\nin the same place, minutes apart.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwouldn\u2019t let Father near her in death. Who\u2019s the Wolf?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsilently admonish myself for mentioning him. Felicity sips her espresso. I take
\na sip and almost spit it back into the cup. Her eyes fix on mine. I swallow the
\nsludge then slide the cup and saucer to the side of the table in disgust.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwrong?\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nstuff. We should have met at the L-Shaped Caf\u00e9.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhand slips from mine. My mind wanders. I\u2019m holding Cassandra. She\u2019s dead, and
\nwe\u2019re freefalling. We hit the bottom of a pit; her eyes open, and she leads me
\nthrough a land I suspect is her savage heaven or disappointing hell.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nout of it, Martin. She\u2019s not coming back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsitting there, it\u2019s almost like seeing her alive again.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndead don\u2019t give a damn about compliments\u2014for obvious reasons. Take me home. I\u2019m
\nnot done with you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwords of disdain growl in my ears. The Wolf stirs. His claws brush against my
\nskull and I clutch my head.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwrong, now?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmigraine, maybe.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfinger gently taps my nose. \u201cSilly boy. You should have ordered green tea.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nwe depart, Frenchie pouts and waves goodbye with his middle finger.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nuncomfortable in the brownstone apartment where her sister and father were
\nmurdered. I wonder whether Felicity seeks revenge by returning to the scene of
\nthe crime. I walk around the room where the bodies once lay. There is no trace
\nof malfeasance.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nplace is mine now,\u201d she says. \u201cWell, I\u2019m making it mine. I don\u2019t know if Father
\nplanned for me<\/i> to have it after his death. He loved all his children
\nequally\u2014in a disgusting way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nturns her back toward me.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmy dress.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndo as she requests in this house of horror and bliss.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmythic scent of sizzling bacon and percolating coffee pulls me off the bed. I
\nslip into my shirt and trousers, then head toward the dining nook.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nMartin. Breakfast is ready.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndreamt of Cassandra last night.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe dead rest. It\u2019s me you have to worry about now,\u201d says Felicity. She grins
\nas she tilts the coffee pot.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndid you lure me here?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nheard of love at first sight,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s in the Hayes\u2019 genes. Give it
\ntime, Martin. Cassie will fade from your mind, and you\u2019ll fall madly in love
\nwith me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nlong ago, the city sweltered in a summer heatwave. During those days, my
\ndeceitful wife, Ingret, died, and shortly thereafter, Cassandra and Eve, the
\nbarista at the L-Shaped Caf\u00e9, were all lost to the Wolf. In this ruthless
\ncity’s blistering heat, the Wolf counseled me, as did Nausea, my loving Muse of
\nSickness. Now I sense the possibility of remission, maybe even recovery. An
\noccasional nudge in my head and a distant howl are all that remain. Otherwise,
\nI am fine. Nausea, the vixen, likely found a new lover.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nautumn in the park: gusty winds have stripped the trees. Colorful leaves dance
\naround my legs, then shatter beneath my shoes. Dead and broken, these clusters
\nline my path. I crave being with Felicity all the time. She urges me to quit my
\njob at the mortuary. McCauley and the organist will be upset but will
\nunderstand my devotion, having seen this alluring woman at the funeral.
\nMcCauley will joke about hiring a new man. The employment application will
\ninclude an additional question. Have you ever had the desire to fuck the dead?<\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou at the steak joint on seventy-second at 6 PM for drinks and dinner,\u201d she
\nsays.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ll make reservations.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhas an afternoon appointment, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I head
\ndowntown to the Village to kill time at a cozy bar near The Tropic of
\nLoneliness, the support group I frequented after Ingret\u2019s death. On my way, I
\npass the Wooster Coffeehouse entrance.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nFrenchie calls from the doorway. His arms are folded and his weight rests on
\none leg. Now, I remember. Cassandra\u2019s funeral. He was standing like that at the
\nrear of the parlor.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nman,\u201d he says. \u201cLet\u2019s rap.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nin no rush and wouldn\u2019t mind knowing why he flipped us off when Felicity and I
\nleft the caf\u00e9.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nin, man, the espresso is tray bong.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nbien,\u201d I say, correcting his butchered French. \u201cDo you serve green tea?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfind some. There\u2019s a secret staircase in the cellar that leads to the other
\nside of the world.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nguy is a nut. What\u2019s his connection to Felicity? She knew his name and
\nthreatened him with a beating by my hands if he didn\u2019t leave us alone.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\nscored some, man.\u201d He sets down a cup of green tea, then sits opposite me.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nseemed put off when I came here with Felicity. Did I imagine it, or am I an
\nunwanted third?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nlike that. I\u2019m not here to blow your cool\u2014just to warn you now that we\u2019re
\nalone. Watch out for this chick. She\u2019s nice, nice, then bam! She\u2019ll rip you to
\nshreds,\u201d he says, his fingers pawing near my face.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nlong have you known her?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nLike all my life.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nlong is that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nWhat gives, you a dick? She\u2019s my older sister, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndamn it. Does this Hayes family ever end?<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndid you grow up?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndipshit town in Maine.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nanswer jibes with Cassandra\u2019s.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nyears ago, Sweet Felicity juggled three lovers at once up there. Cool, huh?
\nThings turned sour in a hurry. What a kick.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhipster artifice and vindictive manner grate on my nerves. \u201cYou think I\u2019ll be
\nthe fourth?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndamn near were, with Cassie\u2014rest her tormented soul.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nseems that what one sibling knows, the others do too. \u201cBy the way,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cYour green tea tastes as bad as your espresso.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nshrugs his shoulders. \u201cWell, as they say in French, Kill DiMaggio.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ndommage,\u201d <\/i>I correct him.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nman.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nhave to go. Brush up on your French. It\u2019s tr\u00e8s bad.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nI leave, he gives me the one-finger salute. I head back to the brownstone,
\nhaving lost interest in spending a lonely afternoon alone in a bar.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe restaurant, Felicity asks me how I spent the day. I mention running into
\nher brother, who warned me about her sordid past.<\/span><\/p>\n
\ncourse, he blames me for all his problems. That lying bastard. Don\u2019t believe a
\nword he says.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ntake it you two don\u2019t get along,\u201d I say, chewing on a decent piece of steak.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nnever did. I wanted you to meet the creep to prove I was the only one in my
\nfamily who came out even halfway sane.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsane is halfway?<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n
\nare you from, originally?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nplace as Cassandra and Frenchie.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\ntongue dislodges a sliver of meat stuck between my teeth. \u201cAnd, that would be
\n\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nshe says. \u201cWho cares? Look, Martin. Here\u2019s the truth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nI hear your version, why do you call him Frenchie? No one names their kid
\nthat.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nAloysius. The little masturbator nicknamed himself after the French deck of
\npicture cards he kept hidden in his dresser. Aside from that, there\u2019s not an
\nounce of Gaul in him.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nto Felicity, Frenchie had been a suspect in the murder of three drifters. He
\nwas never charged. Because he was a juvenile at the time, their father arranged
\nwith the court for Aloysius to quietly leave town and never return.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nsister and I had already moved to New York. Father insisted we become our
\nbrother\u2019s keeper until he turned legal. You know, Felicity and Cassandra\u2014Patron
\nSaints of the Perverse.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmassages her temples, then takes a large gulp of wine.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nokay?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nconversation is upsetting me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\nshe ready to pounce, as Frenchie warned?<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou still want me, Martin, after hearing all this?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n