Mazarin blues, p.12
Mazarin Blues, page 12
part #1 of Hep Cats of Boise Series
Reed leaned back, picking out patterns in the popcorn ceiling. “I bet I’d have a tattoo—maybe even a visible one—if it was accepted.”
“Would it cause problems in your life if you had one? I mean, aside from it drawing attention to yourself? I once had a client so jazzed about a new tattoo, then come in a week later telling me she needed it lasered off. Her church group—church—told her it was glorifying gang activity.”
“What was the tattoo of?”
“A ladybug.”
“The medical examiner would have a coronary if he saw my socks, let alone a tattoo. It probably wouldn’t get me fired, but I don’t need any more fuel to add to the ‘weird technician’ label. I’m just so afraid of being judged. Analyzed like I analyze the bodies on the autopsy table.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
“The bodies?”
Jax laughed and sat down, handing Reed a mug of whiskey. “Yes, the bodies. That’s sure to help your reputation.”
“Definitely.”
Reaching down, Jax tugged up the leg of Reed’s jeans, peering at the record pattern on his socks. “Those are ace. Oh! That reminds me.” He crossed to an entertainment center filled with record sleeves and slid one out, then flipped it to face Reed. Faded red and yellow blocks framed Louis Armstrong’s face.
Reed took it gingerly, running his fingers over the warped, scratched cardboard. He turned it over, reading the song titles. He’d never been in a home where someone showed him their antique records—had never been in a home with antique records at all. Jax sharing this part of himself with Reed was better than sitting in the Gator Club, and that was saying something. There was an intimacy in handling another person’s belongings, and the fact that Jax’s interests were the same as Reed’s made that connection even stronger.
“You know that medical book I showed you? You’re only the second person who’s seen it. And the first one to care. I knew there were other decoists in the city, but ‘getting out’ for me consists of a weekly trip to Albertsons.”
Jax took the Louis album and slid the record from the sleeve. He placed it on an antique player on the entertainment center and turned it on. Crackling static and dreamy trumpets filled the room. He flopped back onto the couch. Vivid chrysanthemum petals unfurled out of the neck of his yellow cable knit sweater. “Have you always been like this? Keeping to yourself so much?”
“There was a time when I was a little more social. I used to live in Buhl and had some family around, a couple friends. They’d kick me in the ass to go do things with them. I’d slowly been amassing a collection of antique books and records. I had a pair of wingtips too. I didn’t wear them out of the house, but I liked putting them on at home. Then I met my ex. I thought he was deco at first because he liked colorful shirts and he had a couple of cassette tapes. We eventually moved in together, which was a huge mistake. He realized how into deco things I was, and used it against me. Anytime we were a little low on money, he’d blame it on my book collection, even though I bought most of them before I met him. When he was mad at me, he’d threaten to tell all our friends about what an ‘extremist’ I was. Which was mortifying.”
“That sucks.”
“The final straw was when he lost his job. He came home, already pissed at being let go, to find a package on the step. It was an antique book I’d won on an auction site a week before. When I got home, he’d smashed all my records and dumped all my paperbacks in the trash.” Reed’s face contorted. “There were ripped pages all over the kitchen floor.”
“What a dickhead. If he was so mad about your spending and worried about money, why didn’t he demand you sell the books instead of destroying them?”
“Because it wasn’t really about the money. He just didn’t like them. Didn’t like me the way I was. So I moved to Boise—a bigger city where I didn’t know anyone—and started over. But without any family or friends around to force me to be social, I just turned in on myself, not wanting to do anything but come home to my collection I was trying to build back up again.”
“I can’t even imagine. I’ve always had support with my interests and identity. Some of my clearest memories are being a little kid, on vacation to visit family in Mexico, and tracing all the colorful, blurry tattoos on my abuelo’s arms. Mexico is like another world. So colorful—the buildings, the music, the people. They aren’t decoists, though. That’s an American thing. So I never realized as a kid that there was a negative connotation around being colorful and tattooed. As far as I’m concerned, though, it’s in my blood and I don’t care if mainstream society doesn’t like it.” Jax leaned back and sighed. “It does make it hard to go certain places, though. I went into a coffee shop yesterday, and the old lady behind the counter wouldn’t serve me. Told me she’d call the cops if I didn’t leave.”
Reed shook his head. “Well, I happen to think you’re the bee’s knees.”
Jax smiled. His fingers grazed Reed’s wrist. “So, you need to go home and feed your cat anytime soon?” His black liner was applied heavier tonight, smudged and smoky, accenting the tiny music note tattooed at the edge of his eye. A lock of dark hair had escaped captivity from his pompadour, curling across his cheekbone.
Reed swallowed. “She already ate. I think she’ll be okay without me for a while.” And I’ll be okay here.
“Well, if you want me to call you a cab, just say so.”
Reed traced his finger over the ‘R’ on Jax’s pinkie, then the ‘E’ on his ring finger. He caressed the tiny line art moons, roses, and dots on his distal segments, below his black lacquered nails. “I bet these hurt.”
Jax snatched Reed’s hand and pulled him forward. “They did.” His scent—vetiver and myrrh and sandalwood—rolled against Reed’s senses like the fog of a dark forest, and he was hopelessly lost in it.
How long had it been since something had felt so right? They weren’t criminals, extremists, or gangsters. They weren’t part of the scuzzy underbelly of a so-called pristine society. He and Jax weren’t hurting anyone. They were just two men trying to live their lives the way that made them the happiest… and Jax was the epitome of everything Reed wanted. He was saxophone in a hazy bar, the grain on a shellac record, and patent leather spectator shoes. Knowing that not only was Jax kind and considerate, but a colorful, kindred spirit against the background radiation of oatmeal couches and white walls, made Reed’s desire achingly strong.
He parted his lips, heart pounding, and Jax seized the invitation. Reed kissed him back fiercely, stubble scraping across his chin. Jax’s tongue prodded his open mouth, his hands sliding through Reed’s hair. A spring jabbed Reed in the back as he leaned into the couch, adrift in a sea of cologne and cool piano. He hooked a leg through Jax’s, anchoring their hips together. Jax’s breath, warm and whiskey-laced, puffed against Reed’s neck, his calloused fingers eagerly working under clothing.
“Jax…” Reed breathed.
“Yeah?”
“Your couch is really lumpy.”
Jax barked a laugh. “I know. Want to go back to my bed?”
“Yes.”
Strong hands pulled Reed to his feet. He turned for the hall, but Jax pressed against him, backing him into the wall. Whispering low in Reed’s ear, Jax said, “You’d better get out of that shirt before I break off all the buttons.”
Breath catching, Reed silently cursed his trembling hands as he struggled to push the buttons through their holes.
“Want some help? I can do this one.” He yanked open Reed’s belt and popped the snap on his jeans, pushing them down.
“You’re not making this easier.” Reed undid the last button and ripped off his shirt. His pant legs caught around his ankles as Jax pulled him toward the bedroom.
Moonlight cut through a gap in the curtain, carving a silver path across the rug and purple sheets on the bed. Skull votives hung on the wall, flanking a starburst mirror. Tiny sketches—insects and plants and scrolling banners—were tucked into the frame.
“The gothic-thing is working in your favor,” Reed said.
“Oh? You like it?”
“Yeah. Ginchy.”
Jax pushed Reed onto the bed, then pulled off his sweater, exposing a tattooed torso teeming with flora and fauna that would have made Thoreau jealous.
Reed traced the branch of a maple tree on Jax’s ribs and the bill of a crow on his abdomen, Jax’s skin softer than the paper in Reed’s antique tomes and more beautiful than the drawings. “If you were a book, I’d read you every day.”
Threads of light weaved across Jax’s lashes and flushed cheeks, and softened the chiseled contours of his face. The solidness of his muscles was comforting in their strength rather than intimidating; brawny arms that could envelop Reed and banish his anxieties like evicted ghosts.
Jax dragged his lips across Reed’s stomach, then went lower, gripping him and leaving exploratory kisses. “And if you were dessert, I’d ask for seconds.”
Breath quickening, Reed murmured, “You’re off the cob.”
“And dizzy with you.” He took Reed into his mouth and Reed gasped, leaning back into the pillows.
Illustrated fingers slid across Reed’s thigh, leaving pink contrails in their wake. The white light from Reed’s interface shined on Jax’s glossy hair, falling into his eyes.
Mazarin was in sleep mode, wasn’t he? It was too late to tell him now, if he wasn’t. But the nav anticipated things and acted accordingly. He would have seen this coming and gone into standby, right?
Reed squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on Jax, determined not to let worries seep through the cracks in his enjoyment. He moaned and brushed hair from Jax’s brow.
Sitting up and reaching across Reed, Jax pulled open a drawer in the nearby nightstand, rattling the knick-knacks on top. He pulled out a bottle of lube, a pair of furry handcuffs, and several objects that were too hard to make out in the dark.
Reed raised his eyebrows, breath shallow. “I’m—I’m not trying to escape, just so you know.”
“I’m just looking for the condoms.” Jax chuckled. “I think they’re still in a bag in the kitchen.” He slid from the bed and headed for the door.
“Hey… Can you put on another record? Sounds silly to ask, but I’ve never had sex to jazz before.”
Jax smiled. “Of course, daddy-o.”
MAZARIN
The steady tick of Jax’s analog clock on the bedside table couldn’t quite be drowned out by his and Reed’s combined snores. I increased my receivers to full volume, the sound of blood gushing through Reed’s arteries washing all the other noise away.
Though I’d promised not to be present for Reed’s date, I’d peeked through my proverbial fingers several times, just to check that everything was okay. The last thing I wanted was to be woken up by another callous mod dealer who didn’t understand Reed’s anxiety.
I happened to check in at just the moment Jax leaned in for a kiss as they sat on a couch in his apartment. Reed’s heart was in overdrive, his body a quaking mess. I went back into standby, silently cheering at the fireworks exploding in Reed’s brain. After that, it was plain to know what had transpired just by monitoring his bodily reactions.
But as the night deepened and Reed fell asleep, a bitter feeling swallowed me—the ugliest blacks and saddest grays. Reed was happy, which was all I ever wanted, but thinking about my pilot snuggled contentedly against Jax made me want to go into standby and never come out.
Why did I feel like that? I couldn’t make Reed happy the way Jax could. Jax had a face and childhood memories and warm skin. Jax could hug Reed with his tattooed arms and cook him breakfast in the morning. Jax could protect Reed from drunken bar patrons and punch people who called him a wimp. What could I do? Other than annoy him?
I was only a navigator, and no amount of love I showered on Reed would make up for the fact that I wasn’t human. I wasn’t even real.
I had let Em take a copy of myself—a criminal act!—to help keep Reed safe. I’d do everything in my power to protect Reed.
But it didn’t matter.
I wasn’t even real.
REED
Gray light pierced Reed’s eyes as his alarm chimed in his ear. He blinked, fumbling with his interface to find the off button. Jax lay next to him, one forested arm thrown over his face. Reed snuggled against him, running his fingers through Jax’s chest hair.
Stirring, Jax rolled over and opened his eyes. His shiny hair was a tangled mess, squashed against his forehead. Pushing it out of his eyes, he said, “You look happier than anyone has a right to first thing in the morning. That smile for me?”
“Yes.”
Reed nuzzled Jax’s neck. “That’s alright. I’m sure Jax will let me use his shower. Right?”
Jax wrapped his arms around Reed. “I dunno. I kinda like you dirty.”
That was a problem. Going anywhere besides the Gator Club in deco clothes would be mortifying, and that went three-fold for work. What would Ambrose think if Reed walked into the autopsy suite with that bubblegum pink bowler shirt on? Would they fire him for “suspicion of illegal activity?” Even if they couldn’t find anything he’d done wrong, things would never be the same there again. The coworkers who disliked him would have all the more reason to, and he would never hear the end of Olive’s enthusiasm for him being himself—he wasn’t sure which was worse.
“I can’t go to work in deco clothes.” Reed sat up and put on his glasses. Mazarin was right; he’d never make it home in time to shower and change without ending up late to work, and Ambrose abhorred tardiness unless it was a life or death situation.
Was there a Walmart on the way he could buy a shirt from? A quick glance at Jax’s little analog alarm clock told him there wasn’t enough time.
Jax rubbed his face and stretched. “What about your undershirt? It’s just white.”
“Too see-through. Having people see my nipple ring would be worse than showing up in a pink shirt.”
“I’m sure I have something you can wear.”
“I’m going to end up wearing your whole wardrobe here pretty soon.”
“Well, what’s the fun of being gay if you can’t wear each other’s clothes?”
Reed shook his head, heading for the bathroom. After a quick shower and a cup of too-hot coffee, he donned his jeans and the black v-neck tee Jax offered. It wasn’t an outfit he’d ever wear to work, but it would have to do. Maybe he could change into his scrubs before anyone noticed.
With a kiss goodbye and a promise to call, Reed rode in a taxi through the morning traffic—it was so much worse downtown—and made it to work on time. A meatwagon was backed up to the side entrance of the examiner’s: an unmarked white van with tinted windows that suggested if you weren’t already dead when you entered it, you would be pretty soon.
Olive and the other secretary, Arlie, stood outside the squat brick building, their icy breath billowing around their faces. Olive cocked her head, eyebrows pinched together as Reed stepped out of the cab and crossed onto the sidewalk.
“Morning,” Olive said. “What happened to your car?”
“Uh…” His gaze jumped between the two women. “Wouldn’t start. Gets like that sometimes when it’s cold.”
“Oh, that stinks. The cab must have cost a fortune, your commute is so long. You should have called me for…” Olive’s gaze dropped to Reed’s pants. “Are you wearing blue jeans?”
His face flushed. What could he say to that? That all his other clothes were dirty? That still wouldn’t explain why he owned them in the first place. “What are you two even—”
Olive squeaked, hands over her mouth. “You went out last night! To your secret club. And you took a cab this morning. You got laid!”
Reed hunched into his coat, trying to avoid Arlie’s intense gaze. The woman snatched up every tidbit of gossip like a starving vulture. “You said it, not me.”
“It’s obvious. I’ve been there, so I know. Not the secret club part, but—”
“What kind of secret club?” Arlie dug her taupe nails into his coat sleeve, her antiseptic-like deoderant assaulting his nostrils.
“Illuminati. Now that I’ve told you, I have to kill you.” Reed pulled his arm away, only to have Olive grab it.
“So is Mr. Sexy and Dangerous tattooed below the waist too?”
“He’s not dangerous.” There was a harder edge to his voice than he intended, but the women seemed not to notice.
Arlie squinted. “Tattoos…” She rubbed her plump hands together, either from the cold or because she’d just learned several juicy facts that would keep her sustained for a while. “It’s freezing out here. I’m going back inside.”
Olive watched her go, then turned back, hands in her pockets. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that, huh?”
“Oh, surely there will be something more interesting to talk about around the water cooler than how I got laid by a dangerous tattooed man I met at a secret club.” Reed sighed.
“I’m sorry! I’m just so excited for you. I’ll try to feed her some misinformation before she spreads it around.”
“She still thinks my name is ‘Rick’ so I’m probably safe. What were you two doing out here, anyway?”
“Oh! Yes. I don’t think you need to worry about Arlie’s gossip today because that’s juicier than you are.” Olive pointed at the white van by the side doors.
“Why? A celebrity die or something?”
“No. Suicide, but supposedly his nav told him to do it. Crazy, right?”
Reed clenched his jaw. “Did he have a beta?”
“Yeah,” Olive said. “And remember when we found those transcripts on your interface between you and your nav? Yonder corpse had them too, but he printed them all out and they were strewn all over his house. Cops said it was creepy as hell. All the messages from the nav were stuff like: ‘Kill yourself. You’re a worthless sack of shit. You’re not contributing to society. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. I’ll show you how to do it.’”
