Tart and Soul

  Tart and Soul

  A Torquere Press Single Shot by Storm Grant

  To Chris for teaching me how to write.

  Harsh fluorescents lit cold, still forms. Unnatural limbs twisted in grim postures. Cam felt covetous eyes tracking his feints and dodges as he threaded his way through unfamiliar terrain. He reached for his sidearm. Shit. Shit. Shit! Gone, along with his military career.

  One of the locals approached him; he rebuffed her smoothly, unsure whom to trust. Desperately out of his element, Cam needed to reconnoiter the territory before attempting contact.

  Sweat dampened his palms, leaving faint marks on the things he touched in passing. His heart rate spiked; his breathing grew erratic as he passed anxiety on his way to full-blown panic. He spied a man waiting in ambush around the next corner. A khaki-clad woman advanced from Cam’s left. Footsteps clack-clacked behind him. He swung right in terror, frantic to escape, his grasp on reality slipping.

  A frontal attack then, a young boy with a chemical spray. Cam clawed at his eyes, mind racing through deadly possibilities: saran gas, napalm, cyanide. Which one smelled of lemons? Cam twisted ‘round, swinging, felling his assailant with a fierce right hook.

  His skin itched and burned and his eyes swelled shut even as he tore his chemical-soaked clothing from his body, gasping, choking.

  The enemy surrounded him now, a barrage of noise and fury. Cam, naked, weaponless and half-blind, struggled and fought. He kicked and punched at shadowy outlines until something cracked across the back of his head. His last blow flew wide as he folded in on himself, collapsing to the floor in slow motion. Black pinpricks danced across his vision, expanding and overlapping until nothing remained but darkness.

  * * *

  Cam swam into consciousness one nauseating sense at a time. The reek of urine assailed him, competing with the acrid taste of stale vomit. He gagged, the taste of bile sour at the back of his throat. He cracked open one eye while hunting through hazy memories, trying to sort dreams from the merely surreal.

  He lay on a cot of some sort, an old blanket over him. Naked beneath the blanket, Cam vaguely remembered being gassed, of ripping off his saturated clothes.

  “Cameron Julius Fairchild, you’ve been arrested and are being held for questioning. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Cam expected the cell and the interrogation. The familiar voice of the interrogator, though, shocked him. He rubbed crusty residue from his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. An elegant woman stood outside his cell, her arms crossed over her Chanel suit jacket.

  “Uh, hi, Mom?” Cam shuddered; a headache beat a rough tattoo behind his eyes.

  “So, Cameron. You want to tell me what that perfume boy ever did to you?”

  Cam forced himself to sit up, one hand on the mildewed wall for balance.

  “Should I call a doctor?” she asked, smoothing her hair with one manicured hand.

  Before Cam could answer, approaching footsteps drew her attention. She pressed a little closer to the bars of Cam’s cell as a guard passed by, escorting a manacled man in a bright orange jumpsuit.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” She smiled thinly at them.

  “Evening, Ms Fairchild,” the guard responded.

  “Evening. Grace,” the prisoner added.

  Cam fell back on the cot, wincing as his head hit the pillow. He fingered the back of his head, realizing his headache stemmed not so much from his mother’s presence, but more likely from the baseball-sized lump behind his ear. Blood stained his fingers, and he wondered if he should take Grace up on her offer of a doctor.

  He sat up again, slower this time. Draped across the bottom of the cot lay hospital scrubs in pale blue--baggy drawstring-type pants and a V-neck cotton T-shirt. Glad his clothing choices didn’t include an orange jumpsuit, Cam reached for the pants, at first trying to draw them on under the blanket. He raised his gaze to find his mother watching him.

  “Do you mind?”

  His mother looked simultaneously offended and amused. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, dear. A lot.” She didn’t move, so he waited. Eventually, she gestured dismissively and turned away.

  He stood with his back to her, swaying a little with the head rush. His head throbbed, but he managed to yank the pants on. He struggled into the top, which, despite being “XL,” pulled taut across his pecs. He turned again to find her facing him. “Nice ass, Cameron,” she said. “You get that from me.”

  His mother’s casual attitude toward nudity reminded Cam why he’d left home at sixteen to join the Marines.

  He crossed the small cell to the sink where he rinsed his mouth, the rusty pipe flavor preferable to the bitter taste of bile. He checked himself out in the polished steel plate that served as a mirror. Of course Cam couldn’t see the back of his head, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He twisted his head, poking at the lump.

  “Come here and let me see,” Grace ordered.

  Obediently, he spun around, and immediately wished he’d moved slower since his stomach and brain kept spinning long after he stopped. He leaned against the bars, feeling warm fingers move slowly over his scalp. He closed his eyes and leaned into his mother’s touch, gentle and soothing until she pronounced him fine and knuckled him on the temple.

  “Good thing you’re hard-headed. That you get from your father.” She wiped her fingers on a tissue. “You should grow your hair out a little now that you’re out of the navy.”

  “Marine Corps, Mom.”

  “Whatever. Khaki’s not your color. All wrong for your skin tones.” She pushed her hair back behind one ear, light winking off an impressive diamond stud. “Now then, your charges include three counts of assault and bodily harm, plus a hell of a lot of damage to Diggs Clothing Emporium.”

  Cam stared at his bare feet. First a medical discharge from the Marines and now a mental breakdown in the middle of a department store. He shivered.

  “But…” his mother continued. “I called Frederico Diggs, the controlling shareholder, and told him we’d counter-sue for…” She paused dramatically. Cam rolled his eyes, but that just made him dizzy again. “Assault with a deadly weapon. Perfume sprayers should ask before they spritz you.”

  He’d had one of his weird allergic reactions, then. And they sometimes triggered his post-traumatic stress disorder. Cam hoped he hadn’t hurt anyone too badly.

  “Anyway, I spoke to Freddie Diggs and he’s willing to drop the charges.” Grace gestured to someone outside the jail cell and a guard appeared, checked on Cam and disappeared again. A moment later the electronic locks clunked and the cell door opened.

  Exiting the cell with relief, Cam faced his mother. “Thanks, Mom.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I really owe you.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Grace added. “You’re ordered to make restitution for the damage you did in the store. I’ve fronted Freddie the money, but you’d better work that pretty ass off to reimburse me. Grace Fairchild is not a free ride!”

  Cam groaned. Grace winked at him, linking her arm through his and guiding them toward the next locked door.

  As they waited for it to open, she finished outlining the terms of his release. “You’ve been remanded into my custody on the condition you move in with me. We’ll stop by your motel for your luggage. Let’s go home.”

  Home: warm and comfortable with mommy. That sounded nice.

  Or it would have, if Grace’s home weren’t San Francisco’s premiere brothel.

  * * *

  “For Christ’s sake, Cameron, please exorcise your moral dilemmas on somebody else’s time! Tuesday’s Child needs some new talent. A small recruitment run won’t kill you.” Grace Fairchild arched one eyebrow as she walked a fine line between irony and sarcasm. “You’ve done rec
ruiting before, right? No one’s asking you to kill or torture anyone.”

  Cam winced at her veiled reference to his former Marine activities. Three decades of running a brothel had certainly taught her how to influence people for fun and profit--mostly profit. Damn! He hadn’t squirmed in his seat in years.

  Feeling like an awkward teenager again, he gazed at his mother’s upside-down reflection in his teaspoon. Even past fifty, Grace’s beauty still shone. She wore her silver hair in a tasteful bob; gold earrings in the shape of teardrops framed her classic features. She more resembled a senior partner in a management-consulting firm than the proprietress of a successful bordello. The gold bangle dangling from her wrist clanked noisily as she slammed her hand down on the kitchen table. “Cam! Try and focus here!” Dents and scratches marred the table’s surface; Cam had thought it antique but wondered now if it was just ill-used.

  “Yes, Sir! Er, Mother,” he replied automatically, his wandering awareness swimming back up to the brothel kitchen on a chilly spring evening in San Francisco.

  “I change people’s lives for the better, Cameron,” Grace reminded him, as she often did. “I rescue the girls from the streets; those poor kids who peddle their asses for some abusive pimp, getting beaten and addicted to drugs for their trouble. I provide them with a warm place to live, good food, pre-screened clients, and an opportunity to better themselves. We offer a dental plan, for fuck’s sake.”

  Cam shuddered at the language. A dozen years of locker rooms and barracks living had rid him of any modesty he’d ever had, but this was different. This was his mother, Goddamn it! She’d attended Bryn fucking Mawr. Majored in Eighteenth Century Romantic Poets. And Rhetoric!

  “Cameron Fairchild,” she said sternly, “I’m all in favor of mother-son bonding, but I run a business here at Tuesday’s Child, and everybody pulls their weight. I was happily suffering from empty nest syndrome until that nice chief of police called saying you’d destroyed a good portion of Diggs' menswear department. They had to use force to arrest you. You’re lucky Sid Cohen dropped by to see Savita tonight--the lawyer Sid Cohen, not the proctologist. Anyway, he arranged for your release into my custody. Jail isn’t a fun place, dear.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “And I hear a lot of gay sex happens there.” She sat back and nodded.

  Cam retreated to the special safe place deep in the core of his psyche, which was, apparently, a nice, little war zone.

  The rattle of imaginary artillery fire merged with very real sound of Grace rapping her gold bangle on the table again, yanking Cam back to the here and now. He fell back on his military training and stared off over his mother’s left shoulder, his attention caught by a small spider making its way along the dark oak plate rail circling the room. The plate and chair rails, the crown moldings, and the gumwood doorframes comprised some of the classic touches that made Tuesday’s Child such a charming and hospitable place. Also very profitable, according to his mother’s accountant.

  Grace Fairchild and her partner, Joy Gabor, ran their thriving house of ill repute from a grand, old Victorian mansion. That these beautiful, old homes were often referred to as “painted ladies” provided no small source of glee to Joy, who possessed a wicked sense of humor. Located in the Harbor District, it had originally been built as the manse for the local Methodist Church, something Joy also found amusing. The American National Registry of Historic Homes listed it as “The Sinner’s Respite,” but in reference to the old English rhyme Grace renamed it “Tuesday’s Child.”

  The two women had sat in the same kitchen in 1974, John Denver crooning “Sunshine on my Shoulders” from a worn eight-track tape. The rhythm of the song played counterpoint to the sound of rain rattling the old windowpanes. They purchased the great, old, dilapidated mansion outright, thanks to the generous bequest of a grateful, old, dilapidated client who’d passed away with a smile on his face. Over the years, the success of their establishment had outstripped even the schemes and dreams of the two young call girls seeking independence from cruel pimps and greedy madams.

  “‘Tuesday’s child is full of grace,’” the new proprietress had quoted.

  “Full of somesing, anyvay,” Joy had replied, her Eastern European roots showing. She’d voted to keep the original name.

  Several decades later, Grace rapped the table again. “Besides, Cam, you’re just not the kept man sort--you’re not in the Army anymore. I appreciate the handyman stuff you’ve done, and how you fill in as bouncer and bartender when Amber wants a night off, but frankly, recruiting makes better use of your talents and training. Now take your good looks and killer charm out there, and catch me some fresh meat.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Cam conceded, gazing into eyes so like his own, a little faded by time. He rose to his feet. Part sarcasm and part soldier awaiting further orders, he asked, “Anything special you want?”

  Grace smiled. “Thanks for the reminder. Last time your father dropped in--” Cam shuddered, not wanting to think about his dad visiting his mother’s whorehouse. “He suggested I diversify. So see about enlisting some sexy stud to expand my stable. I understand the market for pretty boys is hot these days. I’ve had several offers for your ass lately. Interested? Hmm?”

  Not much shocked Cameron Fairchild, former Marine captain, son of Los Angeles’ most cutthroat entrepreneur and San Francisco’s premier madam, but this came damn close. He trudged off to his latest undercover assignment, wondering if he couldn’t just invade a small country instead.

  * * *

  Cam peered above the rim of his coffee cup, observing the patrons remaining in the bus station. He groaned inwardly at his own lack of creativity--the bus station. Ha! More like a recruiting station for Cam’s nefarious purpose. But where else would you “recruit new talent?” He had his orders, after all. He leaned his elbows on the long, U-shaped lunch counter, trying to ignore the miasma of diesel fumes and burnt coffee.

  He felt conflicted about this assignment, as he never had in Marines. Which was the worse sin, returning home alone, or coaxing some unsuspecting waif into his mother’s web? When had life developed so many gray areas? What happened to good guys and bad guys? And exactly which one was he?

  Only a few people milled about the station, no doubt waiting for the next bus to… Cam craned his neck to see the schedule board… Los Angeles. He sighed, almost wishing he could just go back there. Thirty-five-years old and contemplating leaving his mother’s house to live with his father again. What a choice! He wasn’t sure which shamed him more--that the judge had released him into his mother’s custody, or the reason for his arrest.

  He thought back to his episode with the overzealous perfume boy. Who named a perfume Agent Orange Crush anyway? Sweet, with a heady citrus top note, the ads proclaimed. The very thought made Cam’s head spin even all these weeks later.

  At least the arresting officer had treated him well--and what a knockout! Wouldn’t Grace love to get her hands on that fine little moneymaker? Oh, God, moaned Cam. Too much time spent with Mother!

  Weary from inactivity, he rose and stretched before re-perching himself on the metal stool. His lower back twinged from sitting too long and from the damp, rainy weather. He tried to shift the stool closer, but found it bolted to the floor.

  Cam pitied the young streetwalkers he’d driven past tonight where they huddled under awnings and overhangs to escape the downpour. Hed attempted to talk to one or two of them, but they, and, more importantly, their pimps, recognized him. The working kids hightailed it as soon they realized he was no john. Just talking to Grace Fairchild’s new flunky could earn them a world of hurt.

  Glancing around again and seeing nothing of interest, Cam returned to the novel he’d bought when he first arrived at the bus station. Surprisingly, he found it interesting. He’d just picked it up on a whim, rolling his eyes at the artsy-fartsy title. He’d misread the author as Harold Robbins, a familiar name, even if not quite his style. As a soldier, he’d ended up reading an eclectic assortment of
literature during the “wait” parts of “hurry up and wait.” He found the new writer, Tom Robbins okay, too--different, but not bad. He looked up at the sound of voices.

  The rich baritone of the young man across the lunch counter caught his attention. Cam found the tone melodic and soothing, although it changed to exasperated as the man pleaded with the counter clerk.

  “Cut me some slack here, guy. We’re taking just a couple of bucks! How ‘bout you give me just the burger without the bun or something? The bus ride from Los Angeles took forever and I’m starving!”

  Cam scrutinized the little drama unfolding before him. He watched the back of the counter attendant’s head as it shook “no.”

  “Need some help there, buddy?” Cam called as he rose, slipping a napkin into his book to mark his place. He sauntered around the counter and sat down, careful to leave an empty stool between them. He didn’t want the guy to feel crowded.

  He reached for his wallet, and withdrew… a wad of hundred dollar bills! He groaned and shoved the wallet back in his pocket, keeping one C-note out for his tab. His mother no doubt figured this would be good sales propaganda: Look! You too can be rich. Just say yes to hooking!