Читать книгу The Memory Killer - J. Kerley A. - Страница 11

The megaphone on the wall of the south Miami bar is a two-foot tin cone that legend has stolen from ancient crooner Rudy Vallee while on a swing through Florida in the 1930s. If true, it’s safe to say that while in Vallee’s possession the cone was not embellished on both sides with a twenty-inch-long penis rendered in pink glitter, the penis aiming toward the conic apex, making the user appear to be, well … the point is obvious.

The bartender pulls the megaphone from its pegs and climbs atop the bar. He’s wearing skin-tight black jeans and an orange bowling shirt. Those who notice begin yelling No! into an atmosphere of beer, sweat and a hundred lotions, potions, and colognes.

The disco music dies in mid-air. Sweat-dripping dancers flail for a few seconds as more yells of No! echo from the walls. The barkeep raises the megaphone to his lips to catcalls. “Last call,” he says, the peniphone giving his words stentorian depth. “We close in twenty minutes. ONE drink a person … None of this ordering five, you ladies hear me?”

The barkeep takes a showy bow. Good-natured hoots follow him to the floor. The music returns. A dozen young men rush to the bar as a pair of waiters race from table to booth to take orders. “A last drink, hon?” the waiter passing Debro yells atop the shuddering bass line.

Debro shakes his head and averts his face to tap out a fake message on his phone. The waiter sprints away as Debro pats his knit cap and turns his gaze to a young man beside a table. The man is wearing a safari-style shirt atop coral shorts and for most of the evening kept his tanned legs crossed as he entertained a succession of friends and friend wannabees.

But now the feet are on the floor and legs spread wide as the man clutches his belly. For the second time in five minutes he rushes to the bathroom. Debro presses the illumination on his watch: forty-seven minutes since slipping across the shadowy bar and – pretending to stop and read one of the racy cocktail napkins – squirting five drops of the mixture into the young man’s drink. Debro has also been watching the bathroom, empty until the man entered, everyone frantic for a final drink.

He pulls his knit cap tight and walks quickly to the restroom, hearing vomiting from the far stall. He checks the other stalls to assure no one’s hooking up, arriving at the final stall as the man exits, wiping his lips with toilet paper.

“You all right, brother?” DB’s eyes frown with concern.

The man leans against the stall divider for support. “I think I just puked up my liver. Jesus, all I had was three daiquiris. Ooops …” The man spins back for another round of vomiting.

“It’s probably Fraturna Mortuis,” Debro says, knowing Jacob Eisen has no connection to Latin or medicine. Eisen turns and blinks in confusion.

“What?”

“The virus causing it. Gut started aching ten–fifteen minutes ago? Dizziness? You feel weak, right?”

The man nods. “You a doctor or something?”

“An intern,” Debro lies. “You got a ride home, right?”

“Walking. I live eight blocks away.” Eisen turns green and grabs his belly.

“How about I give you a lift, bro?” Debro says. “This will pass fast, but you’re gonna be too sick to walk.”

“I … I already am. Damn … can barely stand.” Eisen’s head spins to the left as his eye widen to their limits. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Debro asks.

“I just saw a fucking parrot. How’d a parrot get in here?”

Time to move fast, Debro thinks. Eisen’s knees buckle and Debro keeps him from dropping. The attack passes and Eisen wipes cold sweat from his forehead and studies Debro through pain-tightened eyes. “You look fum-uliar,” Eisen says, his words garbled. He touches his throat with fear. “Wha- t’ fu? My froat … I -an’t – alk.”

“Laryngitis from the virus,” Debro says, pulling Eisen close. “Here, lean on me. We can go out the back.”

“Fanks, bruver,” Eisen chokes, grateful arms encircling DB’s neck like a sick child clinging to a parent. “Yura … life … saver.” He starts to stumble and knocks Debro’s hat to the floor. Debro grabs the hat, stuffs it in a pocket, then enters the alley. He has researched every footstep. They reach the street as a quartet of men pass by.

“Is your friend OK?” one asks.

“A little touch of the bug,” Debro says. He winks.

“I know that bug,” one says. “For me it’s wine mixed with margaritas.” The others titter like birds and continue. Inebriation is as common here as the cabs on the streets.

“Shhhh, Jacob,” Debro says as Eisen struggles to speak. “We’re almost there.”

Eisen turns to Debro and swallows hard to dampen his constricting vocal cords. “I din tloo- muh nm.”

I didn’t tell you my name.

“You just forgot, Jacob. You’re sick.”

“Nuh,” Eisen chokes. He tried to push Debro away. “Ehm-ee-co.”

Let me go.

Debro sees only the receding backs of the quartet. He opens his vehicle’s rear door and grabs Eisen by his hair. Eisen screams. Though veins stand out on his throat and forehead with the effort, all that flows from Eisen’s mouth is a stream of warm air. Debro pushes Eisen into the back seat and puts a knee into Eisen’s spine, easily pulling his struggling arms back for the handcuffs, the man’s muscles like boiled rubber bands.

“Do you see us, Brother?” Debro grins as he takes his position behind the steering wheel. “Are you with me tonight?”