Latent Murder at the Midnight India

I was walking down India in Little Italy when I saw her in a red
dress (or maybe it was black, but it smelled of blood no matter what
color). She had her hair done up in a spiral bun that sent shivers down
my spine. A lot of men got lost up there, I thought. She had lips,
alright. Powerful lips. Glossy and wet, long, wide lips. Not thick, but
hey, they could do the job just fine. Don't know what hit me, but it
was big; felt like bricks but I can't be sure. She hit me, I guess it
was, right in the chest. What was it I felt first? Groin? Head? Heart?
All one big blast, head to toe, as I remember. We talked a lot - well,
she talked, I mostly listened, and when I did talk it was the kind of
performance I give when I want something to be more than it is. Yeah,
you could say we bullshitted each other right off the bat.

There was a great floor there, I remember. She really had great
floors. All kinds of Chinky decorating, with rugs and pillows strewn
about. There was even a hookah next to the big bench (which was doing
its best impression of a couch; I banged the back of my head on the
backboard, though, so the jig was up).

She was Greek - in that kind of 'launch a thousand ships' kind of way.
Girls like this? Damn the armies and damn the men who fight for 'em;
they're not worth the skin they're printed on. But boy do they know how
to draw us in. Us&;#8230;our type, mine. Maybe not you. Lord
willing, you're a smarter guy, or gal. Which reminds me&;#8230;well,
I'll get to that later.

She was saying all kinds of stuff but the real story was in the
pauses. She had that way of staring as I spoke that told all kinds of
stories. Firstly that gorgeous face just went pale-blank. Not an
emotion would twitch a muscle as I ranted or commented on what she'd
just said; nah, I just wasn't as interesting as her. But by God I can
get her jobs done, so she knew goddamned well to listen up and make
sure to look interested. By the way, I lied about the red dress on
India; never saw her there in my life.

So what's this all about? Well, this gal, she drew me in good, and if
I were as smart as you are - hopefully - I'd have gotten out a lot
sooner, but I'm counting whole buckets of lucky stars that at least I'm
getting out now. A man could drown in a woman like that, and I can't
imagine how many boys' bodies are lying at the bottom of her river. I'd
have gone swimming there, if I'd just been a little dumber, a little
more manly. But hell, that's just not me, never will be, I
figure.

Sitting across the table from her and her gal-pal felt like having tea
with two drooling lions; I figured they weren't hungry enough or they'd
have devoured me right then and there. Thinking back now, I guess in
their own way they did. Took me apart real good, messed up a few organs
and rearranged things a little before closing me back up again. Good
hands on those gals, and strong. What were they, really? I swear now I
can see candles burning brighter than natural in her eyes. If I were
one of those imaginative artist fellas I guess I'd say they looked
damned like demons sitting there across from me. Hungry ones, too.
Guess I lied about that, too: they were goddamn hungry. I'm glad the
rigatoni was good.

Took me apart and put me back together, just like that. Had to get out
of there, had to wash my shirt 'cause it smelled like some pussy-flower
poison of some kind. Oh, I could breathe inside of that cloud of
perfume alright, but I just couldn't think. What do they call that
stuff, pheromones? Heard animals use it, maybe even us humans, to
attract and mate. Powerful scents we don't even recognize. Well, I tell
you I walked out of there in a pussy-haze so thick I was having
imaginary conversations with Greeky for a week. Some of 'em weren't the
kind of conversations with a lot of talking, either.

Well, her partner, ol' sexy-legs was all stretched out on her couch
night before last and we were chatting up a storm when the tramp
herself shows up dressed to kill (I had body armor, thank God). One
thing leads to another and pretty soon I'm talking to two former
lesbian lovers and wondering just what the hell I've landed in this
time. I've gotten in a scrape or two, but it's these smelly woman-traps
that always clip me on the back of the head. I'd rather have it out
face to face with some mug swinging a two-by-four and twice my size
than go twelve rounds with some dame in an evening gown and no bra.
Maybe that's nuts, but it's how I see it. Some fellas, they just waltz
right in and mess with a gal's head so fast she don't know what hit
her, but me? Just don't have the brains for it.

Yeah, these were two sassy broads and they had me wrapped up nice and
tight, ready for their evening feeding. Goddamn me for having that
drink. Guess I lied again; I wasn't wearing a vest, but I shoulda been.
I tell you one thing: I thought I was on top coming in that afternoon
but I dropped back to third place so fast you'd have thought there was
two of me. What's a fella gonna do in that sassy predicament? Pray to
God, some do, but I never went in on that religion stuff. Turns out
maybe I should've, 'cause right quick something happened that'd make me
real thankful. Ol' sexy-legs' folks waltz in from up North and snap me
right out of it, like a gallon of ice water down my trousers, brother.
I warmed up those heels fast hitting the pavement. Looks like I got
another bucket of lucky stars to count, huh?

Like I said, maybe you're a smarter guy than me. Maybe you're thinking
right about now what an idiot I am. You got every right, brother, every
right. But the face of every clock has a lot of numbers and I'm not
stuck on any one of 'em. I can hold my own in plenty of scraps, and I'm
a pretty smart guy in my own right. Got a head for quite a few things,
it's just that everyone's got a soft spot, like that guy from the Greek
story, what is it? The Trojan War. Hell, that's a coincidence, ain't
it? How it all comes back around like that? Wasn't it that Greek gal I
was just saying earlier "launched a thousand ships"? So there you have
it: she's that Helen broad and I'm the fella who gets it in the heel
for her. Now I remember - Achilles, that's the fella's name. I'd like
to make the story a little different this time around.

Looks like I got my work cut out. Gotta get the jump on these broads
before they take me down. Gonna be a tough one - I ain't never said I'm
hot on giving the slap to women of any kind - tramps or not. But when
it comes down to it, I can't be good for anyone if I'm six feet under;
that perfume's gonna wear off eventually and I'll start smelling bad,
real bad.

By the way, I lied about that religion stuff. I go to confession twice
a week, and you're the priest, brother, you're the priest.

-

William Bourassa Jr. August 18/September 30, 2001

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The preceeding story has been written as a satire of
personal experiences in a film noir idiom and should be disregarded as
anything of substance. The stereotypes therein have been written with
much love, bemusement and casual humor - especially the narrator.