The Resurrectionist

3

Every freak and his mother were out on the streets of Bangkok Park, running or hobbling as best they could to their sundry negotiations. In the daylight, the Park was an even greater spectacle of degradation, the freest of all markets, where bloody money and rough sex could purchase any commodity. In this tenderloin, more often than not, a flamboyant violence was the service fee paid on the edgiest transactions. And into this bazaar, strolling from the west, his hair greasier than usual, his bad knee acting up with the weather, and the crotch of his jeans tacky with drying blood, came the Spider.

If who we are is best defined by our bad choices, then Spider was the kind of raging fuck-up destined to ruin most of the lives into which he wandered. This morning, he was wandering down Watson Street, trying to remain inconspicuous in this sea of human detritus. And though he was not wearing his colors, the eternally pissed-off squint and the tattoo on his neck would have given him away to both rival and cop as a stone biker, if not necessarily an Abomination. So he hurried, bouncing the antique satchel off his bad leg, limping to his grisly appointment on Watson, like one more rancid pilgrim trying to slake a chronic thirst or score some dirty capital.

Made of gleaming black leather, handcrafted in Spain long before Spider fell into this world, the satchel looked like a doctor’s bag on steroids. But its bottom was growing damp as the biker made his way through the maze of alleyways and ruined factories and cryptlike saloons of the Park, toward a cross-dressers’ bar called the Grand Illusion.

Spider had intended to be late for his meeting, if not quite this late. But he’d been up half the night, running a hundred bullshit errands for Buzz Cote. And then, at dawn, there was one final errand of his own, which had taken a lot longer than he’d anticipated.

The thing was, most of Buzz’s chores felt like idiot work that even the Fluke could’ve done. Every now and then, Buzz got that way — usually before he decided to break camp and head for another farm. That’s what Buzz called the clinics — the farms. Where you pick the turnips for the soup. Buzz had a way of going all stressed and pissy before a move. And of making sure that Spider knew his place. “Remember,” Buzz would say through that fake laugh, “you’re the deputy, not the fucking sheriff.”

The truth was, it stung, and it was one of the reasons why Spider was willing to risk going solo into the Park to make a move on his own. He was tired of being second in command. Tired of following orders and running errands for Buzz Cote. And tired as all fuck of the arguments between Buzz and Nadia over where the family should go next. It was building toward something ugly no matter how they tried to hide it. Buzz mumbling all the time about how Nadia’d gone round the bend with all her “last clinic” bullshit. Nadia laughing at Buzz last week, saying his imagination was even smaller than his pecker. It was like being a kid again, back in one of the foster homes.

One of these days, Spider would split off from the Abominations, and then Buzz would know the cost of disrespect and thoughtlessness. But starting your own crew took money. Which was why Spider found himself jogging toward an eye-opener with a soggy-bottomed satchel, headed for a sit-down with the mad scientist.

The bar was a narrow hole that straddled the oscillating border between Little Asia and Latino Town. Jammed like a middle child between an abandoned appliance showroom and an abandoned rod and wire mill, the Illusion bathed the street, all year long, with its strange bouquet of lavender, sweat, skunk beer, and rain. No more than a dozen feet wide but running deep into the block, the G.I. was known to give even longtime customers the occasional sense that they were inside a dark train, swaying and hitching along the roughest of track. It was a good place to bring someone if, like Spider, you wanted to fuck with him a little before you took his money. And while there were other drag clubs in the Park that stayed open night and day, the Illusion was said to host the meanest transvestites in the city.

Spider entered through the rear door and stood in the shadows, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. A long black marble bar ran the length of the place, opposite a row of tiny, two-man booths mounted against the far wall. The ceiling was made of acoustic tiles gone yellow and brown and interrupted by a large circular vent, a broken paddle fan and a working disco ball. Two cement support columns split the narrow aisle between bar and booths, both columns wrapped in deep shag carpet, one pumpkin orange and the other a faded aqua.

There was no natural light in the bar. The windows up front were blacked out by velvet curtains upon which were painted nude portraits of the great belters of American cabaret — Ethel, Carol, and Judy. The juke, an old Wurlitzer, was tucked safely behind the bar and featured songs by that trinity and other, less well-known goddesses. The booths were wooden and scarred with a century of burn-and-cut graffiti. The tables were red Formica trimmed in silver and sporting disturbing patterns of gouges, and the seats were red Naugahyde and often sticky. The floor featured several layers of linoleum worn into a gully along the heavily trafficked path to the restroom, revealing what seemed to be lower geological levels.

And there, in the midst of this submarine gloom, was Dr. Peck, fidgeting in one of the booths that lined the side wall. The doc was dressed like an embezzler, in a pricey gray suit that needed a pressing. He had a charcoal raincoat folded next to him and a hat resting on top of it. And Spider wanted to kick his ass just for bringing the hat.

Peck hadn’t sounded happy with the choice of meeting ground but he was a smart guy and knew when he had no leverage. He’d been waiting for close to half an hour, nursing a sour coffee in a dirty mug while Jared, the former linebacker and current barkeep, done up this morning in a Balenciaga gown, played the juke — some Kurt Weill song by way of Anne Shelton.

Jared pulled a bag of trash from beneath the bar and moved for the rear exit, spotting Spider at the last minute and letting out a squeal before finding his balls and warning, “I’m strapped,” in a voice that insisted it was true.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” Spider said, amused and maybe even a little flattered. “I got a business meeting, that’s all.”

Jared looked the Abomination over and thought about this. “You even raise your voice,” he said, “I’ll start shooting.”

Another time, Spider’d have told him he’d be shooting out his ass, ’cause that was the only place he’d find his gun. But this morning was business, so he let the threat go and walked past the barkeep, sliding into the booth opposite Dr. Peck and noting that, aside from Jared, they had the place to themselves.

“You’re late,” Peck said.

“And you’re an asshole,” Spider said. “It’s not a perfect world.”

Peck leaned forward and asked, “Why here?” in a low voice.

“Change of pace,” Spider said, starting to enjoy himself. “I worry about you, Doc. Stuck up on that hill all day with the turnips.”

“The turnips?” Peck said.

“The sleepers,” Spider explained. “The coma people.”

“My patients are not vegetables,” Peck said, as if talking to a dim journalist. “And, technically, they’re not asleep.”

“Yeah,” said Spider, “but they’re not exactly square dancing either, are they?”

Peck knew going in that the biker was insecure and moody, probably dangerous, possibly psychotic. But until this moment, he hadn’t realized that he was dealing with a moron.

“I was in the middle of a meeting when you phoned,” Peck said. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t call me at the Clinic.”

“I doubt there’s very much you and I agree on, Doc,” Spider said. “But just so you know? I’ll fucking call you whenever and wherever I need to fucking call you.”

“Look,” Peck said, “I don’t want to argue with you—”

“That,” said Spider, “is the first smart thing you’ve said this morning, Doc.” Then, before Peck could respond, Spider lifted the satchel and placed it on the table.

Peck looked from the bag to the biker and back again.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“That,” Spider said, “is the merchandise.”

“The merchandise?” Peck said, confused, and then, in an instant, not at all confused. “Good God, you’re telling me. .”

He trailed off and suddenly reached for the bag, but Spider was faster and swatted Peck’s hands away from the latch.

“You don’t touch it,” Spider said, “until I have my money.” He paused and let the gravity of the moment settle in. Then he sat back in the booth and added, “And you don’t look inside until you’re back at the farm.”

“This is outrageous,” Peck said.

Spider put on a surprised face and, in one casual motion, picked up Peck’s cup and tossed the remains of the coffee on the doc’s suit. Peck reared back but didn’t make a sound. He looked down on his shirt front and then up at the biker.

“You don’t know outrageous,” Spider said. “Now stop fucking around before you piss me off.”

Peck sat in silence for a few seconds, trying to think. Then he eased up off his ass, pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket, and started to dab at his collar and lapels as he stared at Spider, who hung his head forward, smiling and waiting.

“This,” Peck said, gesturing to the satchel with the handkerchief, “is not what we agreed on.”

“You saying you don’t want it?” Spider asked.

No one spoke to Dr. Peck this way and the experience was upsetting the rhythms of his thought and his speech.

“What we had agreed. .” he began, then stopped suddenly and regrouped. “I was to perform the procedure.”

“That’s right,” Spider said, “and I saved you the trouble. You’re not careful, I might start thinking that’s worth a bonus.”

“You don’t understand,” Peck said, his anger not yet in the voice but visible in the face and in the way he was holding his hands. “There’s a protocol. There’s a way that things need to be done for a successful harvest.”

“Successful harvest,” Spider repeated. “Jesus, listen to you. Successful harvest. That’s a fucking riot, Doc.”

“There are questions that I needed to ask,” Peck said. “Blood tests and tissue samples.”

“You’re a detail man, Doc,” Spider said. “I can see that. You take your work seriously.”

“There are time constraints,” Peck said. “I don’t even know when —”

“About five this morning,” Spider said. “And you know what? I just decided you owe me a new pair of jeans.”

Jared the bartender appeared at the table.

Spider startled a little, looked up, and said, “You’re like a fucking cat.”

“All those years of dance,” Jared said. “You want to hear the breakfast specials?”

“Get out of here,” Spider said, amused and delighted. “You serve food in this place?”

Jared just stared down at the biker, hands on hips, tired but smart and, always, professional. Dr. Peck stared at the black bag.

Spider asked, “What do you got? You got any eggs and hash? I’m in the mood for some eggs and hash.”

“We don’t have any hash,” Jared said. “Do you want to see a menu?”

“Fuck it,” Spider said. “Just bring us a couple of hairy knuckles and some doughnuts.”

Jared nodded and walked away.

Peck waited a second, then folded his hands on the table in front of the satchel and said, “I don’t think you understand my situation.”

“I think I do, Doc,” Spider said. “I don’t think it’s that hard to understand. I think even a shit-for-brains retard like me can understand your fucking situation.” And then, below the table, he gave the doctor’s shin a quick but solid kick. Peck grunted and lurched forward, but he kept his hands on the table.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Peck said.

Spider kicked the other shin and said, “Then you fucked up, didn’t you?”

Peck was careful to nod. “I suppose I did,” he said.

“I suppose so, too,” Spider said.

They sat in silence until Jared returned and transferred two highball glasses and a plate of chocolate-glazed doughnuts from his tray to the table.

“Will there be anything else?” the barkeep asked.

“Anything else for you?” Spider asked, leaning toward Peck.

The doctor shook his head without shifting his eyes from the satchel.

“Then pay the man,” Spider said.

Peck looked flustered for a moment, then shifted his body, rummaged in his pocket, and came out with an antique clip filled with neatly folded bills. Spider reached across the table and grabbed the money from him, handed the wad to Jared uncounted, and said, “You keep the change.”

Jared remained placid, accepted the bills, and moved back to the bar. Spider slid one glass in front of Peck, lifted the other, and said, “How ’bout a toast? How’s that sound to you, Doc?”

“You’re generous with my money,” Peck mumbled.

Spider laughed, spilling some of the drink. He put his glass down in front of the doctor and picked up its twin.

“I’m about to get real generous with an ass-kicking, too,” he said. “What the fuck do you care, anyway? You got more money than you’ll ever spend up there in the clinic.”

“The majority of my money,” Peck said, “is poured into my research.”

“Yeah,” Spider said, “me too. That’s why I’m in need of a grant. You aren’t the only one with big plans, Doc. So gimme my money and I’ll let you have a doughnut and we can both call the morning a success.”

“Why would I pay you,” Peck asked, “when you didn’t do what you promised to do?”

And in this way, the time arrived for Spider to get serious.

The biker sat back and wiped a hand across his mouth. He let his head fall back on his neck until it bumped against the back of the booth.

“You take that tone with me,” he said slowly, “and I hear it as disrespect. And you need to believe me here, Doctor, you do not want to disrespect the Spider. Sooner or later, that is always a fucking mistake. And in your case, it’ll be sooner.”

Peck was stubborn enough to fight his own good judgment. He made Spider wait while he stared at the satchel and pretended to think things over. Finally, he gave a single nod of the head and slipped a bulging envelope out of his coat pocket. He placed the envelope on the table and slid it toward the Abomination.

“I’ll pay you,” Peck said, “because it’s in my interest to pay you. And because it’s possible that I can use something of this harvest. But our business is finished. If you’d performed the way we agreed, we might have had an ongoing relationship. But apparently you’re not a man who thinks about the future.”

“That’s where you’d be all kinds of wrong,” Spider said, leaning his chest into the table, reaching down into his boot to pull and open his Buck knife, and jabbing it into Peck’s thigh, just enough to puncture trouser and skin and draw a run of blood.

This time, Peck yelled out, a shocked little scream that, for a moment, drowned out the jukebox rendition of “Night Has a Thousand Eyes.” The doctor pressed a hand against the thigh, took it away bloody, grabbed his soiled handkerchief, and applied pressure to the wound.

“You stabbed me,” he said, as if Spider didn’t know.

“I stabbed you,” Spider said, “you’d be holding your guts in that snot rag. I poked you’s what I did. Just to show you I’m thinking about the future right this minute. I’m thinking about how I’m going to come up to your turnip farm one of these nights and cut your dick off. And I’m thinking about how I’m going to use it to choke the life out of that bitch daughter of yours. And I’m thinking how after that, I’m going to burn your fucking clinic to the ground along with all your fucking sleepers. How’s that for the future, shithead?”

On the last word, he picked up the envelope with his free hand and slapped Peck across the face with it. Then he got out of the booth, stood in the aisle, tucked the envelope into the front of his jeans, tucked his knife back into his boot, grabbed two doughnuts, and limped out the bar’s back door.

Peck sat still for a minute, then looked across the aisle to Jared, who was wiping down the bar and humming along to the juke, unconcerned, lost in a familiar daydream. The wound was starting to burn, but Dr. Peck couldn’t help himself. He pulled the satchel down onto his seat and unfastened the hasp carefully, as if disarming a bomb. Pushing both flaps back on their hinges, he took a breath and peered inside at the fetus. It had taken on a blue and purple hue and he guessed it was roughly four months gestated and had been terminated about five hours ago.

Whoever had performed the procedure had done an adequate job. The fetus appeared normal and very likely harvestable. Peck closed up the satchel, relieved, and exited the bar, bleeding his way out the front door, suddenly excited despite the hole in his leg.

Behind him, Jared began to sing something bold and brassy.