A Mutual Friend Read online

  Hands on hips, King said, “You’ve got some kind of psychology job.”

  I ignored him, asking Flannery, “Did you notice anything else strange this morning?”

  “Yeah,” he said immediately. He wriggled his nose like a rat. “There was a huge rotten egg smell in my room.”

  “Like sulfur?” I suggested.

  “Yeah!” Flannery said brightly. He was really getting carried away by the idea of ghosts. Maybe he could be helpful. “Sulfur, exactly! Like the stink when you shoot black powder.”

  That stench of shit was not associated with earthbound spirits. I figured we must be dealing with a diabolical spirit, a thing that never once walked the earth as a human. There was only one way to find out. “Who knows Barclay the best? Who does he trust?”

  Flannery snorted. “I’ve never given that weirdo the time of day.” He looked down at Lily, who had stopped pounding on his wall of a chest. “I keep saying he should go back to the Bent Zealots. He’d be more at home there.”

  Lily flashed her fiery eyes. “We don’t worship the devil, you anus brain. Loving other men isn’t even a quirk nowadays. It’s a fact of life.”

  King butted in. “I made somewhat of a connection with him last night. You want just the two of us to check in on him? Antonio and me?”

  That was the best idea I’d heard all month.

  Flannery grumbled, muttering something about “fetid cans of black caviar,” a reference, I presume, to the stink of shit. “I’ll stay on our side of the building. The cool side.” And he lumbered off.

  “I’ll wait in the lobby for Twinkletoes,” said Lily.

  Of course I had to say something. There was nothing wrong in the slightest with anything the Zealots did, but I had to admit, some of their names were funny. “He’s a good dancer?”

  Lily frowned. “He’s got multiple sclerosis.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat. “All right, King. Let’s take a look-see.” We meandered down the hallway that led past the cubicles of a couple other white supremacists.

  King said, “If anything, it’s the black arts, nothing too demonic about it.”

  I was fairly certain the black arts might’ve brought the demon on, and now it was too late. “A ghost can manifest at any time, but a demon occurs more often without natural light. You’ll notice disturbances start after sunset and end before sunrise. Nothing odd has happened since we’ve been awake.”

  King snorted. “Maybe because we’re awake. They’re hiding from us.”

  “Wait, you just said ‘they’re.’ I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts or demons.”

  “Well, I think it’s the effect of the chanting or the tarot cards or whatever it is he’s doing. You know, how people say ‘they’ in a general sense.”

  My nostrils flared at the scent of sulfur. Barclay’s office was so dark, a blanket must have been tacked over the window. “Unlike a ghost,” I said, wandering into the stinky room, “demons are black when visible. It can come in a large globular mass, blacker than a black hole. And if you’re afraid of it, it only enhances the atmosphere of fear. I’ve seen them leave behind pools of blood and other bodily fluids.”

  “Or maybe,” said King, lifting the blanket aside, “pools of pee and shit? Could that be it?”

  Yet we didn’t see anything like that. There were, however, three black candles of different heights. Picking one up, I looked at the label. “Darkly Artistic” was the name of the company. “I’ve seen things like upside-down crosses on walls, backward writing on mirrors, and yes, piles of shit.”

  “So, the piles are really shit? Like if you took it to a lab, there’s nothing different about it? Then it’s got to be the guy putting a hoax over on someone.”

  We jumped like gasping marionettes when someone said, “Hey! What’s up?”

  Barclay Samples was about to smile or whistle as he entered his room, towel around his shoulders, shirtless, a goofy air surrounding him. His crossed eyes looked a little shifty, as though he had nystagmus and the pupils bounced around independently of each other. He appeared harmless, but I instantly sensed a dark aura around his form.

  “Barclay!” said King brightly. “What happened to your hair?”

  Barclay answered, as though it was the most exciting thing since flavored condoms. “I shaved my head! Remember I told you last night the plates in my skull were moving? Then I realized you can’t see them because of all my hair.” He tilted his head downward, looking at King’s feet. “Can you see now? Now you can see why I need so much blood.”

  “Ah, yeah,” King said uncertainly. “About that. Ah, I don’t think blood can turn to powder.”

  I was touching a vestment tossed over an office chair on wheels. Floor length and sleeveless, the robe featured an almost life-size skeleton looking up while standing on crowns, crosses, swords, and musical instruments. I said, “I don’t think it can either. What is this vestment for?”

  When Barclay turned to me, his aura darkened significantly. Although I was still dressed like a nerd in American Graffiti, he obviously sensed something about my occupation. I’d experienced that several times with possessed people.

  I realized I was thinking the word “possessed.” Had we already moved into that realm?

  “Who are you? Why are you in my room?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to say, “a psychologist,” but King beat me to it.

  “He works for the institution you were released from. They wanted to make sure you’re doing fine.” That was a good move.

  “Just checking up.” I reached out to shake his hand. “Antonio Primo.”

  “Barclay Samples,” said Barclay Samples, giving me a feeble, clammy handshake. “That chasuble is just a stupid thing my mother gave me.”

  King frowned. “Your mother?”

  That was odd, but I said, “What else did she give you? These candles?”

  “Yes, actually. She gave those to me a year ago, before I went into the institute. She doesn’t want me back now.” His aura became cloudy. “She says I’ve caused too much trouble.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Don’t you know? I thought you were from the institute. I was doing shit like injecting rabbit’s blood and stealing blood from therapy dogs at school.” He said it almost cheerfully, as though talking about a ceramics class. “It was my choice not to return home. My mother was trying to poison me.”

  But he’d just said his mother didn’t want him back. A mother who gave him occult vestments and candles. Well, that was the least strange thing about this guy.

  When he made a sudden movement toward a white plastic bag, King and I jumped back a few inches. But he was only reaching for an orange, which he brandished like a Magic 8 ball. “I can finally find out!” He held the orange on top of his skull. “Someone stole my pulmonary artery. Now I can absorb Vitamin C without my hair getting in the way.”

  I said, “You absorb it . . . through your skull?”

  “Yes, don’t you know about that? If you work at Mencken, you must know that. It’s one of the things I learned there.”

  Shadows appeared in the door that led to the fluorescent hallway. Lily, in her cowboy boots and miniskirt, leaned casually against the doorjamb. “Uh, guys? We’re going back to the clubhouse to retrieve Crusty.”

  The thuggish form of Flannery loomed behind Lily. They were going together? Wasn’t that a death sentence for Flannery?

  Lily answered my unspoken question. She hooked a thumb at Flannery behind her. “He’s going to wave the white flag, at least long enough to go in and out with the body.”

  I nodded. “Body’s going to be highly smelly, purple, and bloated.”

  Lily shrugged me off. “Takes a couple of days before a body begins to smell. Anyway, we have a doctor in our club.”

  I gaped. “That Moog guy who looks like an elf?”

  “That’s the one. He stuck Crusty in the freezer chest after injecting him with something—"

  “Injecti
ng?” Barclay said with wonder.

  “—so he shouldn’t be that bad. See ya.”

  It was hard to tell by the shadowy expression on Flannery’s face, but he seemed to be looking forward to spending time with the trans teen. Maybe that was my imagination, warped by so much weirdness that week.

  I was afraid King might come under the influence of the multitude of spirits that surrounded Barclay. Every second I spent in Barclay’s presence convinced me this was not a simple haunting. This guy was under the control of a malevolent demon, albeit one with a wicked sense of humor.

  A specter in the doorway convinced me further of this.

  I noticed it first. It was a formless thing, just a silhouette of blacker than black mass. Of course, it had no eyes, but I got the feeling it was examining us for a reaction. I looked from Barclay to King, from King to Barclay, to see if anyone else noticed it. It hovered in the doorway with an expectant vibration.

  Barclay had to turn to view the thing. “There it is again!” he cried. “That fucking blob was here last night, too! Get the fuck away from me, thing!” He waved his arms as though flagging down a car.

  “Do you see it?” I asked King in a low voice.

  “Whoa, yes. It’s turning into a human.”

  Indeed, the thing was taking a human form, solidifying as we spoke.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Go away!” Barclay frantically waved.

  “Does this happen often?” I asked calmly, walking closer to the entity. I casually removed the cross from where it was under my shirt on a chain, waggling it before the . . . man? Yes, a man.

  “Yes! Too often for me!” Barclay cried. “Fucking ghosts! This whole building is infested with them!”

  “That’s not a ghost,” I said. The truth was stranger. “It’s a demon, projecting itself in human form.” As I wiggled my cross, the form became more indistinct.

  “It’s leaving,” said Barclay. “Keep waving that cross.”

  “Cross?” said King, suddenly more interested in my jewelry than the demon. The thing uttered one last dying sound, and I recognized it instantly.

  “Beelzebub,” it croaked.

  “Why you got a cross?” Barclay asked.

  “I used to be a priest,” I admitted, “before going to work for Mencken. Now I just counsel people.”

  I was surprised he took this so easily. “Oh. Well, whatever you did sure worked. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to the harbormaster. She’ll want to see my new haircut.”

  I could think of no reason for detaining him—after all, we couldn’t follow him everywhere. So Barclay got together his important stuff—bones, hair, that sort of thing you usually impress a date with—and took his leave. I, too, had to stop in my room to secure my dildo. The moment Barclay was out of sight, King pinched my sleeve between his fingers and whispered,

  “Beelzebub? Did I hear that thing right?”

  “Yes, I heard that too. He’s mentioned in Mark when the scribes claim Jesus drove out demons by the power of Beelzebub, prince of demons. Apparently Jesus knew the scribes’ thoughts because he said to them, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every household divided against itself will not stand.’”

  King tried to sound overly casual as I shoved my dildo in the very bottom of my bag. “I dreamt about this Beelzebub once, in one of those in-between states.”

  I stood at attention. “That’s awfully coincidental!”

  “At first I thought the demon meant the Michael Keaton character in ‘Beetlejuice,’ because I’d never heard of Beelzebub.”

  I had to guffaw, but quickly straightened myself. “He’s also identified in the New Testament as the devil himself, ‘prince of demons.’”

  “Hey, tell me something,” King said in a confidential tone, nodding at my duffel bag. “That thing’s not really to diddle girls with, is it?”

  I might as well be out front about it. “No, it isn’t.” I waited to see if he prodded further, and he did. He seemed highly interested, matter of fact.

  “So you use it on yourself?”

  I nodded.

  He took one step toward me. He looked adorable when he was shy. “So you . . . . slide it up yourself?”

  I was brash. “I fuck myself with it, yes. I prefer to be penetrated by the other guy.”

  “You’re . . . submissive?”

  I smiled. “Exactly. I prefer a dominant, a Dom, to be my partner. Although in the church, there weren’t many options that presented itself.”

  King pressed on. “So you fuck yourself with it while jacking off?”

  “Exactly. It brings me to climax faster.”

  I could tell King was practically drooling for more information. I had no idea if, like a typical redneck trucker, he’d use the intel against me later, or if it was actually turning him on. The growing bulge in his jeans told me it was the latter. “That must be a nice sight,” was all he said, grinning.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said modestly, and was the first out the door. I made sure to lock it securely behind me this time. If the vibrator showed up in another room, we’d know something odd was going on.

  But I think we knew that already.

  E

  W

  hat were you supposed to deliver to the Bent Zealots?”

  I was taken by surprise. I thought Antonio—I secretly called him Anton due to his exotic accent—was a prissy shrink sent here by the Zealots to rid themselves of this whack-a-mole running around shitting on beds. I didn’t think he cared about their other dealings. Of course, there was that whole anus dildo thing. What sort of head-shrinker carried around his own personal dildo? It was electric walking down the marina with a drop-dead handsome psychologist who diddled himself up the ass while thinking of being fucked by another man. At least, I’d taken it that way. Made sense the Zealots would hire a gay shrink, though. I’d had a permanent hard-on ever since he admitted the truth about the sex toy.

  “What? Oh, I was given some heroin to transport, but was held up by some neo-Nazis. That’s all they took. I suspect them of being Death Squadders, but don’t tell Flannery or the others. I’m kind of hoping to recover it before I’m forced to tell the Zealots.”

  “You are a very interesting man.”

  I frowned and smiled at the same time. Was I really? Interesting? I didn’t think so. I’d had a pretty downtrodden life. I tried not to be angry that I hadn’t had a chance at an architectural degree but sometimes it just really stung. “I don’t feel very interesting. I live with my father and sister in Inglewood, California in one of those tiny fifties houses. My father started losing his memory when I was halfway through to getting my degree at UCLA, so I had to stop and become a truck driver to make money. That’s about the extent of my interest. I drove truck so much I messed up my lumbar. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Have you tried cannabis for the pain?”

  “Pphh. I’d love to, but I get drug tested by the company. Listen, where you from? I’m sure you’re tired of people asking about your accent.”

  “Not at all,” Anton answered grandly. That was it. He had this grand manner about him, gracious almost. He’d said he’d been a priest? How did one stop being a priest? “It’s a Catalan accent. I’m from Barcelona.”

  I had studied some Spanish architecture in my time, so I felt I had a handle on this. “Have you been inside la Sagrada Familia Basilica?”

  I loved his sly smile, as though he was pondering on something devilish, and wasn’t about to tell me. “Of course. Just thinking of the altar in the apse gives me the shivers.”

  I was dumbfounded. The basilica was probably on my top ten list of buildings I wanted to visit in my life. So far I’d only been inside one. The Gamble House in Pasadena. “And you’ve been inside the nave?”

  “All five of them,” he said smugly.

  We’d stopped walking by then, about to step into a section of khaki sand where a dozen college students played hooky,
already drinking beer at eleven in the morning. It was a shining, airless day. I felt almost like an actor in a movie walking in the sand alongside this buff, swarthy stud. I could easily picture him in a priest’s collar and robes. I dry humped a priest. I was in a permanent state of arousal around this guy. How much worldlier was he than any hitchhiker or trucker I’d met on the road? Ten thousand times more.

  I wanted to get to know this man.

  We wound our way through the hollering teens. Anton asked, “Your father has Alzheimer’s?”

  “They haven’t really differentiated between Alzheimer’s or dementia. It’s more than short-term memory loss. He forgets that he bought the house thirty years ago when he was a cop in Watts. He thinks it belongs to us. ‘What a lovely house you have,’ he says. When I’m home, I mow the lawn and barbecue—in the backyard like regular people, not the front. I make sure Duane doesn’t wander off and into traffic. Only now that I spend most of my time on the road, my sister Eliza does that.” I speared my fingers through my mop of hair. “It’s a shitty life for her, but we can’t afford to put him into a memory care facility. Medi-cal would come and take away our paltry house to compensate for that.”

  “What’s Medi-cal?”

  “It’s the state healthcare plan my dad is enrolled in. It makes up for what his policeman’s pension won’t pay, which is a lot. Again, it’s ironic that we can’t afford to lose the house because we could never buy another one, especially in that neighborhood. Eliza gave up her nursing program to take care of him.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d told Anton this much. I guess truckers don’t normally run around talking about their family life, unless it’s to say how hot their wife is or how Republican they are. But a priest turned psychologist? Anton was used to listening to people. He feigned great interest, walking with his hands entwined behind his back, occasionally looking sideways at me with curiosity. I was disappointed when his phone rang. He was going to ignore it, but I said,

  “Go ahead, answer. Doesn’t bother me.” Although I really did hate it when people answered the phone, especially in the middle of a stimulating conversation.