Dead Harvest

  I turned around. Behind me stood a working girl, shivering in a hot pink tube-top, a fake leather miniskirt, and a rack to match. Track marks traced the veins of her forearms.

  "Maybe," I told her. "But I'm not from around here. You got somewhere we could go?"

  She looked me up and down. "For you, sailor, I'd lay down right here."

  "I was thinking someplace a little more private."

  "I know a spot a couple blocks from here, long as you don't mind the hike."

  I didn't. She led me by the hand to a decrepit row house, nibbling on my ear all the while. I pretended not to notice. Inside, the place was a mess. The paint on the walls was discolored and flaking. The floor was littered with newspaper, empty bottles, and God knows what else. A smattering of stained and filthy mattresses were scattered throughout the front room. A few of them were occupied: junkies, mostly, sprawled amidst their needles, lighters, and scorched bits of tinfoil.

  My date dragged me toward the stairwell. I followed. At the foot of the stairs, a man was slouched against the wall. His sleeve was rolled up, and his arm was tied off with a length of rubber tubing. A hypodermic needle jutted from his arm. His eyes fluttered as we stepped over him, but he didn't stir.

  "Nice place," I said as we reached the landing.

  "I think the time for talking's passed," she replied, pushing me up against the wall. She kissed me, then. Her breath reeked of latex and menthol cigarettes. Involuntarily, I pulled back.

  "Whatsa matter, sport, you rather get right to it?" Her hand found the zipper of my jeans. I pushed it away. Her face read hurt and angry, but the emotion never registered in her blank addict's stare. Then her eyes filled with black fire, and her hurt expression disappeared. That's when I knew I'd found my mark.

  Quick as death, her hand found my throat. Her grip was like iron, crushing my windpipe as she lifted me off the ground. My teeth rattled as my head connected with the wall. She held me there, pinned, as my feet tried in vain to reach the floor.

  "This body isn't yours," she said. Her voice was suddenly raspy and hoarse, nothing like the treacly croon she employed out on the street.

  "I could say the same of you," I squeaked.

  "She gives it freely."

  "I'm sure she does." My feet kicked against the wall. My vision went a little gray around the edges. I hoped to hell we got to the point before I passed out.

  "Who are you?"

  "An old friend."

  "Most of my old friends would rather see me dead."

  "Can't imagine why," I replied. My face had passed red and was headed toward purple. Spots swam before my eyes.

  "Why are you here?" the creature speaking through her asked.

  "Because I need your help."

  She released her grip. I crumpled to the floor, gasping. By the time I'd regained my wits, the other had gone, and the girl was glaring at me with glassy-eyed disdain.

  "The boss'd like to see you," she said.

  "Yeah, I thought he might." I rose unsteadily to my feet, a hand on the wall for support. Without another word, she headed back down the stairs and out of sight. I stumbled after.

  She led me through the front room to a grimy kitchen, its broken, gaping window doing little to alleviate the stench of rot that emanated from the open refrigerator. In the kitchen was a door. The girl opened it, revealing a set of rickety stairs that led down to the basement. She descended. I followed.

  The basement was close, fetid. The only illumination was from a series of bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling at irregular intervals. Many were out, and all were so covered in grime they did little to dispel the murk. At the edges of my vision, half-seen figures writhed and moaned and wailed, in pleasure or pain I wasn't sure. There were people strewn everywhere, some shooting up, some grinding against each other in varying states of undress. One man, withered by drugs or disease or both, rocked back and forth, his knees tight to his chest. He'd scratched his forearms raw, and he clawed at them still, nails furrowing flesh. As I passed, I heard him muttering "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," again and again, to no one.

  My escort led me through this sea of human detritus to the far corner of the basement. The light was warmer here, brighter – the result of dozens of candles, casting tiny halos of light from every surface. A lush Oriental rug occupied the space, and the walls were lined with shelves, cobbled together from scrap wood and cinder blocks and adorned with thousands upon thousands of books. Also on the shelf was an ancient record player, which crackled with the sounds of some old jazz standard – Billie Holiday, I'd guess. And at the center of it all was a man, clad in a pale blue suit and a hat to match, his diamond tie tack catching the candlelight and casting tiny rainbows across his black silk tie. He was draped casually over a high-backed leather chair, a glint in his eye and a smile on his cold, handsome face.