My new sales pitch!
Behind the black and white snapshots of VE-Day celebrations and after the roar of the swinging trumpets dies down, a madman hunts his prey. Arthur Reilly hears jazz when he kills. Bebop is his sound of murder.
He sees souls exit bodies and can speak to them. Louie Armstrong, the sparkling voice of God. Miles Davis is the blue-toned growl of the devil. After being visited by a murderous angel, Arthur is set on a path of destruction with one goal in mind: get out of town and go where passion birthed music and murder, the one place that will set his soul free: New Orleans, The City of the Dead.
Until then, his life is a mess. His drinking is out of hand. Chloe, the dead French girl, continues to haunt him. Arthur’s mind is an abstract gallery of death and music—but where deviance reigns, his genius is awakened. However, as head chef at the best restaurant in town, it’s hard to keep out of the bright lights of high society—and it’s even harder to kill unnoticed.
And here’s a sample of the story. Also, I really like comments on stuff. Like, a lot.
I
The infancy of decay.
Arthur Reilly stood at his bathroom sink with his mouth foaming of cleanliness, he could feel the baking soda-infused toothpaste between canines; it tingled. The back of his throat bubbled when he touched the edge of the tongue with the tip of the brush, nearly making him vomit.
Spitting the refuse into the bowl, he noticed a few streaks of red mixing with the used gray of hygiene. The blood wasn’t from gum disease from a lack of oral hygiene, but from a shard of bone stuck between teeth. Tossing the toothbrush into the drawer, his eyes met the image in the mirror. Cold and soulless eyes stared back. A splash of water across his face and some wet fingers through his mess of scalp, Arthur was almost ready for the day. Routine. Routine. Routine.
His attention fell to the reflection of a body lying in the corner, near the tub.
Her face destroyed and beaten, the fragile frame covered in blueish-purple bruises and odd slashes and cuts. Where eyes should have been were now gaping sockets. The face of a sad, rotting pumpkin left to the elements after Halloween.
There was still much to do with her.
His eyes fell off the body and up to the clock on the wall. Time to get to work. He hoped it would be a slow day. Slow days meant he could leave a little early and get things done at home.
As head chef at Garrison’s, the best steak house in the city, Arthur had to shine. Everything he cooked had to taste perfect and everything had to be perfect.
He cooked for the social elite, from congressmen and ball players to pin up movie stars, and all high society in between. Money was to be made and Garrison’s catered to the clients who had it. If it wasn’t amazing, it wasn’t going out to the guest. Once a wedding had forgone the usual bland catering for their reception, only to request Arthur and his staff to cook for the party and their guests. Quite the task and very expensive, and Arthur’s boss was more than happy to accommodate.
Seventy-five meals and a truckload of stress later, Arthur was still trying his hardest to entertain as they slaved away in a cramped reception hall kitchen preparing an all-star cavalcade of enticing entrees’ while the usual fare sat unused in storage, jealous of the treatment the “fancy” food was getting.
A few jokes and a smile in between the chaos, his staff rallied behind him and prepared for the worst. Later when the drinks were flowing, Arthur bought the first few rounds.
On a dare from a friend, he took home economics while in High School. His skill bloomed from childish dare into outright genius. At first, the teachers questioned his desire, and more bluntly, his sexuality. It wasn’t the norm for a freshman boy to be the curious chef. Quickly, all forms of social moray had been quelled. He had mastered how to cook everything a high school program could offer. Even his sewing and cleaning techniques were impeccable.
And with the cooking came the girls. So much for the biased social theory that only a faggot would take a home economics course. Like cooking, he mastered how to converse with the opposite sex. Being the only boy amongst a room of girls, Arthur soaked in their secrets. While other boys couldn’t look a particular girl straight in the eye without stumbling over his words, Arthur made no bones. They fawned over him, begging to take them out for a ride or to go grab a shake. Devilishly rubbing their breasts along his arm or letting him see panties from across the room, Arthur loved the attention of girlish cartoon hearts drawn around his name.
While he kept the clean exterior of the All American youth, he didn’t bother playing house with the faceless Jane’s who were hopelessly searching for their Dick. Arthur was busy making familiar with the girls from broken homes or the bad girls who wanted to fuck while their boyfriends were at football practice.
Today, as a grown man, the attention never stopped. Women chatted him up when they’d bump carts in the supermarket, astounded such a good looking young man wasn’t married with a nice wife. Men generally didn’t do the grocery shopping; he was in a world unto his own. They’d beg to set him up with a sister or cousin, or the occasional unhappy housewife would offer more than just nice conversation. More than once a lonely homemaker would march to his door wearing nothing but her overcoat. Sometimes he let them inside.
As always, he’d ask his neighbor, Roger, what was for dinner if he saw him standing at his grill when he got out of his car after a long day at work. Arthur didn’t like Roger, but he couldn’t be outright mean to him as they lived next door to one another, it was a simple marketing strategy when hiding secrets. There was no reason to actually like Roger; he was a disgusting pig who beat his wife regularly. He looked utterly Darwinian with a sloping brow and knuckle dragging tendencies. A fat grease stain of man whose fingers resembled sausage links and who’s body seemed to sweat constantly.
“Steak’s on Art, come on down if you don’t feel like cooking for yourself. Bea’s in the kitchen making all kinds of stuff, there’s plenty! I’ve got beer too!”
He did love that Roger always offered to cook. Everyone else expected him to do all the work. No one likes to take work home. Too bad he hated Roger.
Any time a neighbor held a cabana party, Arthur was first to get the phone call. He was quite the dance machine after a few cocktails. Another personal rule Arthur always stood by: Be fun. Everyone loves someone who is fun to be around. People are very trusting when the prospect of having a good time is possible. The ladies lined up to tango and Arthur was always the gentleman, ready to swing while the other men talked shop and spoke of archaic things no women could ever find interesting. While all the husbands sipped on beers, shamefully watching their wives, he played it cool as a fan. It wasn’t his fault none of the men wanted to dance.
Above all things in the world, his one true love was the tepid mistress. Jazz. She’ s the lover who kicks you out of bed for smoking after sex but begs you to fuck again. To think of a world without it seemed so bland and colorless. The fearless artistry coupled with a lover’s kiss that stains the soul. Arthur loved music; it was the one thing no one could ever take from him. When there was no one to scream at or listen to his hollow pangs of emotion, music was there. It was the depth, the moral anchor to his life, without it what could be left? Murder.
Standing at the helm of his backyard grill, Arthur looked over the meat laid out. Today, it was steaks cut from a young homeless lad. There was fresher stuff in the fridge but this would start to turn if not cooked soon. With a cooler full of beer, it was going to be a nice afternoon.
For two days, the meat soaked in a concoction of sweet and savory, the smells of the salts burning into the air made any passing mouths water with jealousy.
Piece by piece, he loved to hear the sound of meat tossed atop the open flame. The burning hiss as the heat turned the hunk of flesh into dinner. Only if someone else could appreciate all the work he’d put into this meal. It was going to be a damn near religious experience. The literal body to be savored and enjoyed instead of strictly consumed.
The annual block party was tomorrow. He did have plenty of human curing in the fridge and he could doctor something up. How would any of them know?
He could slip them on the grill and no one would be any the wiser. Everyone always trusts the chef’s judgment. People from all over came to eat what he decided was considered “good eating”.
Why not this? Why not open their minds?
Surely, the party could understand his desire to provide a quality meal.
The day of the block party, he sat in his lawn chair on Al and Betty’s driveway.
His eyes surveyed the suds of the beer sliding down the inside of the murky brown bottle.
Lost in the memory, he could remember it all, clear as day.
Perfume and blood.
A sneaky smile crept across his face, the kind boys get when seeing their father’s naked lady books for the first time. A dirty little secret. Al, his neighbor across and down three houses, sat next to him and continued to drone on about selling aluminum siding, again.
Al’s voice began to sound like the static from a radio far in the distance.
Arthur’s mind slipped into his memories.
Taking a slow cruise down a familiar alley in a not-so-good part of town, he noticed her. She said her name was Veronica. It was probably a lie. She appeared to be in her mid to early twenties, but her eyes told a much different story.
She had the look and body of a poor man’s Marilyn. A tangled mess of platinum blonde hair with eyes so dark they lacked definition of pigment. Thick in all of the right places, just the way men like women to be laid out. She was built like a fuck machine.
An angel who’d slipped off a cloud and landed in this pitiful alley amongst the loveless whores and junkies.
Rolling down the window, Arthur leaned out with a smile. She leaned in, smiling in return. Their elbows touched. Her gum smacked and popped as she spoke with a soft but scared voice:
“Say, you’re not the typical bum who wants to take a ride. What’s the deal pal? You a cop or somethin? You’re too cute for a girl like me. What are you doin’ out here? You should be at home with a nice dinner on the table waiting for you. Where’s your wife at? You gotta be a cheater or somethin’”
Her eyes beamed. He wasn’t the usual John she’d never fuck outside of the cash.
“Thanks, doll. You’re too nice. I’m just the regular lonely bachelor. I’d love to have a wife and the whole mess one day, but I’m fresh back from the war a few years. Then doing cleanup over in Paris, and ya know, just haven’t met the right missus, I suppose. I can’t just settle for anyone.” He spoke with his clean, educated city tone while stroking her doll-like arm.
“Yea, I guess it takes time to meet someone right. Nobody wants to end up unhappy.” Sincerity crept across her face as she spoke.
Without discussing payment, she hopped in and directed him to her normal motel over a few blocks. Immediately, Arthur knew this was a fantastic sign.
Hookers are cutthroat businesswomen, cash up front and ask no questions. If they’ve got pimps forget about any discount.
Touching her hand, he could feel the blood under her skin, the tiny skeletal bones. Her eyes studied everything.
“This is a nice car, mister.” She said with admiration and a touch of envy.
“Thanks, it’s my pride and joy. I love this car.” Arthur answered truthfully.
“What are you, some kind of politician or something?”
“Me? Nah, I just know how to save my money and buy nice stuff.”
“Sure looks like it. My pops used to own a body shop. I love nice cars, always have.” Veronica listened with exacting attention to the low hum of the engine as the car cruised the streets.
“I’m glad you think mine is nice, I spent a lot of money to buy this ol’ girl but it was worth it. If you like cars you should have become a mechanic or worked in a drag pit, something exciting!
With a pause, she offered the best answer possible:
“Cars are too dirty. I’m a better fuck.”
His balls were shrinking and his dick was getting bigger. Pulling up to their location, he noticed the rank smell of piss as he opened the door.
“Gotta love this fucking city,” Arthur said, crinkling his nose at the cities stench.
“I’m used to it, trust me. But, beggars can’t be choosers, buddy.”
Grabbing his hand, she took the lead toward the room. The streets were littered with garbage that clogged the sewers and old, disgusting men who sat on the corner smoking reefer and drinking in between shouting at one another.
The motel was seedy with a hint of overdose growling in the vomitous décor.
The sign read “HOTEL LE MOYNE” in faded red-pink letters. The sound of the neon could be heard if you stood under it, the low hum and the cracking ebb and flow of the gasses trapped inside.
It was the typical cheap format with the rooms on the outside and a concrete walkway that joined everything. The front office was around the corner and down a bit.
Arthur imagined the kind of person who worked at the desk at this hour, in this neighborhood. It made his skin crawl to think of all the filth. He may have done unsavory things but at least he was clean.
They passed the social misfits with their catcalls about sex, along with a roar of laughter. He could smell their foul stenches and see rotten teeth hanging in their mouths. While she led the way his eyes never left her ass, watching the muscles in the cheeks move left and right. Pulling out her key from her purse, it was the kind with a big plastic medallion on the end, as a reminder.
The room was dingy, tiny and looked like hell. Everything brown, the walls looked like they had been painted with shit. Instantly, he noticed the smell.
