Kiss Me, Judas Read online

  A special agent in the Internal Affairs Division.

  Moon is whistling softly as he works on the knot.

  I stare at the Blister. And you hate IAD. What’s new?

  You were assigned to investigate Internal Affairs from within.

  The rat among rats. I was never even sure where my orders came from.

  You must have had some problems with trust.

  I must have.

  The Blister puts a cigarette in his mouth and smiles.

  Have you got another one of those?

  No. I don’t.

  I’m sorry about your face, I say.

  How did you lose your shield? says the Blister.

  Moon growls. Is this shit really necessary?

  I shrug. It’s okay, Moon. Tell him.

  Moon shrugs. Nervous breakdown, he says.

  The Blister laughs, looking at me. I read the incident reports. You lost it on the firing range and started shooting at imaginary people. You took an ounce of crystal meth from an informant and later spooned it into your coffee. You locked yourself in the cage with a female prisoner and allowed her to urinate on you.

  It’s an uncommon sensation. Try it sometime.

  I don’t suppose your kidney was removed by imaginary people?

  Fuck you. Take your wrecked face and go home.

  The Blister steps close to me. His eyes are slitted and he looks dangerous.

  Moon, I say. I don’t like your friend.

  Then who did this to you? says the Blister.

  I don’t know.

  Wasn’t there an accident involving your wife? says the Blister.

  I open my eyes wide. My face feels blank, a piece of ice.

  A hunting accident, I think it was.

  Okay, says Moon. Shut the fuck up.

  The Blister forces a smile. Well. Let’s save that for later.

  I sit on the floor for a long time after they leave. I hear myself whistling and it occurs to me that I never did see the Blister’s badge. He might not have been a cop. He had poor Moon squirming under his thumb like a bug, though. He could have been a fed, an assassin, a bill collector. It doesn’t matter, really. I’m sure I will see him again. Jude is my problem. I put my shoe on and look out the window. It’s snowing, small hard flakes swirling in the dark. I don’t want the cops involved. I have nothing to hide. I just don’t like cops.

  I wonder how long a kidney will keep on ice. Human tissue surely goes bad in a hurry. If I were receiving a foreign kidney I would want it to be fresh.

  I poke my head out of the room cautiously. I have a vague idea that I might ask the police guard for the correct time. Engage him in some friendly banter. Invite him into my room to watch Letterman do stupid pet tricks. Smoke cigarettes and argue about hockey and which nurse has the best pair of legs. Lull him to sleep with a song. Then disarm him and leave him hogtied in my tiny bathroom. Something like that. But he’s gone and I’m not sure he was ever there.

  *

  I’m gathering myself to leave and a single word chimes in my head: antibiotics. My poor torso is surely alive with infection. I decide to improvise. I leave my things in the room and wander down the hall. Two doors down I get lucky. A woman lies unconscious and alone. She’s a burn victim, on heavy life support. There’s a med cart beside her bed. Ordinarily I would grab condoms and sterile gloves and other novelty items, but I ignore this shit and look for the drugs. I find a tray of ampoules marked penicillin. Pills would be better but what can you do. I take a handful and start looking for needles. The thought makes me ill. I’m going to fucking faint every time I have to shoot up.

  I turn to go and the woman stirs. Is that you, Joey?

  I hesitate. Her face is heavily bandaged and she can’t see.

  It’s me, I whisper.

  Did you feed my Groucho? He likes his milk warm.

  Of course, I say.

  On rainy days I give him the canned salmon.

  Don’t worry about a thing.

  I’m so afraid, Joey. Will you pray for me?

  She extends a veined hand the color of stone. I have nothing to lose.

  I crouch beside her bed and stumble through the only prayer I know: now I lay me down to sleep and pray the Lord my soul to keep. It’s appropriate, I think. And still I feel worthless. I want to comfort her, to chase her fears into the snow. But sympathy is buried in me, like a stone in the belly of a goat. And the goat is the rare animal that will eat garbage. I hold her hand until she falls asleep, then steal fifty dollars from her purse.

  three.

  The weight of my suitcase pulls me slightly off-balance and stretches my damaged skin. If I put it down I will have to bend over again. I ride down the elevator grinning like a jackal. The emergency room is so silent it makes me nervous. Two morose students in green scrubs sip coffee and stare at the clock. I get the feeling they’re waiting for a truckload of bodies. One of them is looking at me, staring at me. She has dark, crooked eyes and red hair. Her skin is like milk.

  Can I help you, sir?

  I hope so. Would you call a cab for me? I was just discharged.

  Gladly, sir.

  Please don’t call me sir. It depresses me.

  She smiles, a shadow. She picks up the phone as I sit gingerly on a bench.

  A few minutes later she taps me on the shoulder. I’m sorry, she says. The cabs are swamped because of the snow. It’s going to be at least an hour.

  Oh, I say. I’m in no hurry.

  Are you all right?

  My forehead is sweating ropes and I feel shattered. I’m fine, I say.

  You don’t look well.

  I just want to go home.

  She presses her lips together for a moment and when she pulls them apart they look frozen and pale as a scar and then the blood rushes back into them. She fingers her stethoscope like a rosary. She stands on one foot as if it helps her think.

  My shift is almost over, she says. I could give you a ride.

  Do you know karate?

  No, she says. Why do you ask?

  I might be a strangler.

  Oh, yeah. You look pretty feeble. What happened to you?

  My kidney was stolen by a prostitute.

  She laughs, nervous. No, really.

  I have an irregular heartbeat and sometimes it just stops.

  Well. Then you had better come with me.

  What’s your name?

  She holds out her hand, the fingernails unpainted.

  I’m Rose White, she says.

  She carries my suitcase for me. The parking lot is slippery and I take small birdlike steps. The snow stings my face and it feels good. Rose jingles her keys and points at a little black Mustang.

  This is me, she says.

  She unlocks the passenger door and her car alarm begins to whoop.

  Did you steal this car?

  Rose doesn’t laugh. She whispers to herself, oh you motherfucker. She fumbles with the keys for a long angry moment and the alarm finally stops. She smiles and puts my suitcase in the backseat. My head throbs.

  *

  The car hums quietly over the fresh snow. She hasn’t asked me where I’m going. I can’t breathe and I crack my window. She lights a cigarette and mutters an apology. I want one but don’t ask. I don’t like this at all. She’s either a cop or a freak. The Blister knew I would run. He pulled the fat uniform from my door because he was too easy. He threw me a knuckleball: a nurse with eyes like a virgin. Or else she’s a freak. She looks like a schoolteacher but she’s really a pervert. She has a fetish for nearly dead strangers. She takes them home and euthanizes them on red satin sheets. I remember a piece of soft porn I saw years ago. A sweet young girl with thick glasses and a nervous stutter and a body like a centerfold. Her father rapes her when she’s sixteen. He visits her bed every morning and one day dies of a heart attack upon entering her. The girl goes slowly insane. She leaves the corpse in her bed and begins to bring home men she finds sleeping in alleyways. She kills them in her father�
�s bed. She waits until they roll away from her and begin to snore, then stabs an ice pick deep into their ears. She believes she is retrieving her virginity.

  I’m curious. Why did you bother with me?

  I don’t know what you mean?

  Do you know me?

  Rose glances at me then away. Her cigarette glows bright.

  No, she says. You haven’t even told me your name.

  And no one assigned you to watch me?

  She blows smoke. I don’t like this conversation.

  Are you really a doctor?

  I’m a medical student.

  I thought cigarettes would kill you.

  They do, she says. But it takes a long time. What’s your problem?

  I want to know if I can trust you. Why did you offer me a ride?

  She stops the car suddenly and we slide onto the sidewalk.

  Because you have a sweet face. You look like someone broke your heart.

  Then this isn’t a sex thing.

  She laughs at that. I’m not sure I like you.

  The engine dies and we sit in cold silence.

  My name is Phineas.

  It’s nice to meet you, Phineas. Do you want to walk home in the snow?

  No, I don’t. I would be dead by morning.

  She restarts the Mustang and revs the engine. Then stop talking crazy.

  Are you hungry?

  Rose smiles. Yes. In fact, I’m starving.

  Let me buy you breakfast.

  The diner is busy with people caught in the snow. The floors are slick and waitresses move in slow motion. Rose eats an omelet with bright yellow cheese. I look at her closely now. Her hair isn’t naturally red. She takes small bites. I have a Belgian waffle under a mound of whipped cream. My blood races with sugar and I remember that I haven’t eaten solid food in days. I ask Rose if she’s ever been involved in an organ transplant.

  She flinches. Why?

  I’m just curious.

  Not really, she says. I was on duty once when a donor died on the table. I held the sponge and bucket while the doctors harvested his liver.

  Interesting. What happens next?

  What do you mean? Rose reaches across the table and dips her fingers in my whipped cream. There is a birthmark in the shape of an hourglass on the back of her hand.

  She licks the finger quickly and smiles and briefly I adore her.

  I mean do you toss it in the freezer until someone needs it?

  Someone always needs it, she says. The organ is transported immediately.

  It’s packed in ice, though.

  Of course. But it has to be sterile ice.

  I guess regular ice from the foodmart is no good.

  She laughs. Ice from the foodmart is crawling with bacteria. The organ would be contaminated.

  And where do you find sterile ice?

  Why do you want to know? Her eyes are slanted and dark.

  Oh, you never know when someone is going to die in your kitchen with a perfectly good heart.

  No, she says softly. You never know.

  Rose drops me off at the Hotel Peacock. The snow has stopped.

  I’m sorry.

  What for?

  For not trusting you. I was rude.

  It’s okay, she says. You have to be careful.

  You remind me of someone, I say.

  Who?

  Never mind.

  She laughs. Who?

  My wife, I say.

  Is that a good thing?

  I lean over and give her a gentle kiss on the side of the mouth. Her skin is warm and I’m tempted to ask her up to my room. But I doubt she would be interested. I’ve seen myself in the mirror. I’m a fucking wreck. And I’m far too weak and distracted. I can see her in a small apartment with a cat; she watches television with the sound off and eats ice cream. She takes a bath before bed and masturbates.

  But she surprises me. Why don’t you come home with me, she says.

  No. I don’t think so.

  Are you sure it’s safe here?

  I’m not sure of anything.

  Rose gives me a phone number and says, please call me.

  Thank you, I say.

  She drives away, headlights swinging across the snow.

  Her hair is slightly askew. Like an ill-fitting wig. Maybe that’s why she reminded me of my wife, my dead wife. The hair sends echoes through my body.

  I still have my room key and I try to cruise through the lobby as if I live there. I don’t have a care in the world and no one pays any attention to me. I share the elevator with a little old man who loudly chews his lips. The door to my room is bright with yellow tape. Police Line Do Not Cross. I reach for my knife to cut the tape and I see that it has already been cut. A nearly invisible slit, fine as an eyelash. Maybe one of the cops forgot something. Maybe Jude came back for me.

  four.

  The room is unfamiliar. I might have been born in this room and I might never have been here before. It doesn’t even look like a hotel room and I realize this is because it hasn’t been cleaned. The sheets are ripped and dangling from the mattress. There’s a pillow on the floor and I pick it up. It smells and I turn it over. It’s been burned. The smell is scorched foam. Nothing else looks touched. I never slept in this room. I didn’t unpack and I didn’t use the toilet. I had twisting, violent sex with a woman and I had unexpected surgery. I get down on my hands and knees and crawl the floor like a dog. I find a spot on the rug that could be semen. I think of Rose, her arms white with whipped cream. I have a partial erection and I move my hips, trying to remember Jude.

  Skin raw and painful. She had a perfect ass, curved like an egg. No rubber between us and I didn’t want to bleed. She could be a carrier, or I could be. Her third eye staring at me, watching me.

  I can’t find a drop of blood in the room. It doesn’t seem possible and I feel a peculiar ache like loneliness. My blood is missing. I have lost some blood and I want to see the stains. I want to touch, to be sure that it’s mine. I crawl into the bathroom and soon my head clears. I sit on the toilet staring at the claw feet of the tub. Jude was in this room. I glance at the mirror, half expecting to see her there.

  Blue and white tiles and the mirror gray with steam. Lightbulb hanging. Shadows of arms and legs stretching, melting into torsos. Naked on a sheet of plastic. Gloved fingers elegant and fierce. Mechanical birds. Smell of disinfectant and blood. The sound of television and someone vomiting. Dark reflection in a window. A fat man with sideburns, a cast on his arm. The glow of a cigarette and the toilet flushing. Jude’s lips touching my eyes soft as butterfly shadows. Her breath was tequila and smoke.

  A bathroom is the perfect place to torture someone. Hard shiny surfaces and mirrors and running water. Forced intimacy and screams falling hollow, trapped in a claustrophobic box. It will be months or years before I relax in a bathroom. I limp to the bed and realize I’m holding my belly. The pain is visual, an endless white space. I can go inside it and disappear and I wonder if it was a good idea to leave the hospital. I lie back on the bed and try not to think. I’m afraid to dream and I’m afraid not to. Sleep is effortless, merciful.

  Pale morning half awake. Tangled sheets between my legs. Noise of garbage trucks and a woman screaming far away fuck you fuck you. My face is wet. I’m crying and I can’t stop. My nose is bleeding. Jude is in the room. I can smell her perfume. She’s in the next bed pretending to be asleep. The next bed is a lifeboat drifting on a dead calm sea. Blank blue eyes and a naked yellow sun. Two people in the boat, a man and a woman. The man is drunk or catatonic and something is wrong with the woman. The top of her head is blown off and she has a gun in her hand.

  I search the room again and my missing gun is nowhere. Some idiot cop put it in his pocket. It wasn’t evidence. He picked it up and muttered, say hello to my new unregistered weapon. He filed the serial numbers down that very night. I tell myself bad dreams are good for you. My clothes stink. I need to bathe but I can’t face the bathroom. I open my little suitc
ase and stare at the contents briefly before closing it. Socks and underwear and a slightly less stinking shirt. I must have other clothes somewhere. Then I remember the car. My car is parked in a garage two blocks from here.

  Let’s just get our shit together, I say.

  I straighten my tie and tuck in my shirt and generally pull myself together. Outside the room I start feeling better. The hallway is painted a soothing mint green and the carpet is geometric green and white. A room service tray has been left outside the next room. I pour myself a cup of coffee and stroll to the elevator.

  The lobby is a wasp’s nest. Too many people and voices and I feel a panic attack coming. The sun is very bright through high windows and the floor is wet with mud and melted snow. I keep hearing a distant tinkling noise like glass touching glass. The noise is coming from me.

  May I help you, sir?

  What?

  I slap at my pockets to find the noise. I pull out a fistful of glass vials. The penicillin.

  Of course.

  Sir?

  For the infection, I say.

  The man staring at me wears a bow tie and a name tag. He must work here. His face is cocked sideways, waiting. I pull back and realize that I have instinctively drifted to the front desk. My heart is like a hammer. He presses his lips together and rolls his blue eyes at me.

  I have a sudden and arousing urge to claw those eyes out and I can’t help smiling.

  Do I have any messages? The name is Poe.

  One moment.

  I turn to face the lobby and take deep breaths. A cluster of tourists waiting for taxis and staring grimly at their luggage. A man and a woman groping each other on a sofa. Two salesmen with visible hangovers. One blond woman in black jeans and a leather coat reading a newspaper. Detective Moon sitting in a sunken blue armchair with a glum face. He sips orange juice through a straw and his cheeks are bright red. I force a mad grin but I don’t see the Blister anywhere.

  Here you are, sir.

  The desk clerk is brandishing a bright yellow envelope with my name on it. The handwriting is familiar and I recoil slightly. If you want to live call 911.

  Excuse me, sir?

  Nothing, thank you.