Beautiful Blood

The confrontation between the two men occurred late of an evening in Rosacher’s sitting room, a narrow space with a sloping ceiling cut by pitch-coated roof beams, the plaster walls painted by the brush of time to a grayish cream, like egg gone off, and mapped by water stains the color of dried urine. Spider webs trellised the corners, belling in drafts that entered through a half-open bay window and, although the breeze carried a certain freshness (along with an undertone of sewage), it was unable to dispel the odor of innumerable sour lives. Rosacher had pushed sofa and chairs all to one end in order to accommodate an oak ice chest and a crudely carpentered workbench whereon rested scattered papers and a second-hand microscope; a cherrywood box containing vials, slides, and chemicals; a dirty dish bearing chicken bones and a crust of bread, the remnants of his supper; and an oil lamp that shed a feeble yellow light sufficient to point up the squalor of the place. Myrie, his pinched features shadowed by a slouch hat, clad in a greatcoat several sizes too large, stood by the bench, striking a pose that conveyed a casual disaffection, and Rosacher—his lean, handsome face, active eyes and glossy brown hair presenting by contrast an image of vitality—glared at him from an arms-length away. He wore a loose white shirt and moleskin knee-britches, and was holding out some crumpled banknotes to Myrie who, to his amazement, had rejected them.

“I need more,” Myrie said. “I thought my heart would stop, I took such a fright.”

“I can’t afford more,” Rosacher said firmly. “Next time, perhaps.”

“Next time? I’ll not be going back there soon. The things I saw…”

“Fine, then. That’s fine. But we had a bargain.”

“Too right we had a bargain. And now we’re going to have a new bargain. I need a hundred more.”

Rosacher’s frustration plumed into anger. “It was a simple thing I asked. Any fool could have managed it!”

“If it’s so simple, why not do it yourself?” Myrie cocked an ear, as if anticipating an answer. “I’ll tell you why! ’Cause you don’t much like the thought of crawling into the mouth of a fucking great dragon and drawing blood from his tongue! Not that I blame you. It’s far from a pleasant experience.” He stuck out his palm. “A hundred more’s still on the cheap.”

“Can’t you get it through your head, man? I don’t have it!”

“Then you’re not having your precious blood, either.” Myrie patted the breast of his coat. “Town’s full of crazy folk these days, all wanting souvenirs. Chances are one of them will pay my price.”

Fuming inwardly, Rosacher said, “All right! I’ll get you the money.”

Myrie smirked. “I thought you didn’t have it.”

“One of the girls downstairs will loan it to me.”

“Got yourself a sweetheart, eh?” Myrie made an approving noise with his tongue. “Go on, then. Ask her!”

Rosacher fought back the urge to shout. “Will you at least put the blood in the ice chest? I don’t wish it to degrade further.”

Myrie cast a dubious look at the chest. “I reckon I’ll keep it on my person until I see the hundred.”

“For God’s sake, man! She may be occupied. It may be some time before I can speak with her. Put the blood in the chest. I’ll be back with the money as soon as I can.”

“Which girl is it?”

“Ludie.”

“The black bitch? Oh, she’ll have it to spare. Very popular, she is.” Myrie’s tone waxed conspiratorial, as if he were imparting secret knowledge. “I’m told she’s exceptional. Got a few extra muscles in her tra-la-la.” He leered at Rosacher, as if anticipating confirmation of this fact.

“Please!” said Rosacher. “The blood.”

Acting put upon, Myrie reached inside his coat and brought forth a veterinary syringe filled with golden fluid. He displayed it to Rosacher with an expression of exaggerated delight, as if showing a child a marvelous toy; then he opened the chest, set the syringe atop a block of ice, closed the lid and sat down upon it. “There now,” he said. “It’ll be safe ’til your return.”

Rosacher stared at him with loathing, wheeled about and made for his bedroom.

“Here! Where you going?” Myrie called.

“To fetch my boots!”