Helluva Luxe Read Free Page B

boots. And the swirling floor.
    “My name is Nick.” I wasn’t really trying to make conversation. I was merely trying to remain conscious.
    “I’m Evilyn. And let’s just get it all out now, Upchuck. I see you’re a prime catch and all, with your sexy east coast accent and your skinny boy pants, but I’m not into guys who have more problems than me, so just take your tats and go sniffing up another tree. I belong to the bar.”
    “I was just being nice.”
    “I like nice even less.”
    So we hobbled down the endless hallway in silence.
    When number thirteen materialized, Evilyn fished a skeleton key from the crystal pouch around her neck and unlocked the door.
    “No one will mind?” I asked.
    “Who would mind?”
    “Rorke said it was her office.”
    “Because it’s where she hides her stash,” she said flatly. “Besides, she’s pissed and gone to bed by now. It’s after four.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
    Indeed, she did not.
    “Go lie down,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you when I finish the books. And take that shirt off. It was visually offensive without the vomit.”
    The door slammed before I could argue.
    I leaned against a blown up print of Julie Strain, shirtless, brushing her teeth in a mirror. The click of a deadbolt echoed through the empty room. It sounded rather final, and it was followed by the haunting hum of silence.
    Bitch had locked me in.
    I sighed. Then I saw a pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on an ashtray by the futon, and had a change of heart. I plucked one from the box, fumbled through my pocket for a light and gazed up at the beast towering over me.
    Someone had gutted a grandfather clock and converted it into a bookcase. All the tricks and trinkets that were once on the inside of the clock had been dismantled and glued down one pane of the side glass, like the pieces of time had all tumbled out. The clock had a high bonnet with a split pediment painted up like the wings of a rising phoenix. The moon dial was mounted at its feet. Fire licked up the corners, along the wooden casing, and the toe molding looked like it had been scorched. The bottom front glass was removed for easy access to the books, but the top front glass had a smoked key lock door. I couldn’t see what was in there without climbing up the shelves. It looked like more books.
    I took a couple of long drags and wondered how something so incredible slipped my notice when I was in “the office” before. I assumed because there was a girl in the room. One Helluva girl. But then I decided I didn’t care about the bookshelf and sank back into the arm of the futon.
    The lamp next to me flickered with a little hiss.
    I glared at it.
    If it went out, all I had was a Zippo.
    The lamp was clearly pieced together from a couple of antique shop jackpots, the kind of lamp that would complement sexually suggestive dishtowels. The base was black wrought-iron vinery, twisted around a slender body of ruby glass. The shade, deep red satin with black tulle overlay. The overall effect on the room was something akin to my fantasies of an opium den.
    A few moments passed with the light still on, and I started to relax again, fancy myself lucky even. Then the bulb rattled. It screeched and turned slightly, metal on metal. I looked under the shade, and that’s where I found the frantic flowers scratched into the lining. They looked like the work of a razorblade, but I was too tired to freak out.
    Instead I thought, What the hell are those flowers called? As I concentrated on them, the throbbing in my head stilled, like I’d eaten a pill. I lit another cigarette and unlaced my boots, took my socks off, and grabbed the black fleece throw from the back of the futon. It was so soft, like somebody skinned a teddy bear…
    Of course I nodded off with a smoke in my hand, an act nightmares are made of. Sometimes I’m just not that bright.
    I dreamed I was in an altered version of Rorke’s