THREE

As Christian watched Gates leave, frustration seeped up to overwhelm his thoughts.  He hovered between the visions he’d been trying to share, and the shock of Gates’ violent reaction.  It was encouraging that the man had taken the photo, and the mask, but would it be enough?

He reached out and grabbed the scotch that still sat untouched on the table in front of him.  Christian never drank anything stronger than wine, but there was no wine, only the whiskey, and he needed the drink badly.  He felt the unfamiliar fire of the warm liquor scorch down his throat, and he gasped.

He couldn’t give up.  Gates would come around, Christian was certain of it. He’d caught just enough glitter in Gate’s eyes to promise that their conversation wasn’t finished.  He had to find a better way to express himself. 

It couldn't wait, though.  No way could he wait, and call, and be rejected, and call again, until the man decided to help.  Christian’s nerves were on edge, and the tension that fluttered in his chest would not settle on its own.  Too much was at stake to just walk away. 

The best way to win Gates over would be to do something on his own, first.  The proposition was more dangerous, infinitely more difficult to arrange, but there had to be a way. If he showed Gates what he was after and proved to him that he was right, the man would have no choice but to help him.

A breath of sweet perfume cut through the stale smoke and sweat-fogged air to insinuate itself into his thoughts.  He glanced up from his daydream and met the gaze of a very young, very pretty woman with bright white hair and the reddest lips he'd ever seen. 

The vision at that precise moment was exquisite – the lighting reflected from the mirrored wall behind him, the swirling smoke of a thousand cigarettes, and the twist of her smile.  Perfect.  Another trapped vision, another lost masterpiece to be filed away with the others.  He was falling behind on his creations.  He wished he’d put another lump of clay in his pocket, and suddenly the loss of the mask he’d given Gates sank in. It was gone, likely forever.  That image had been lost twice.

"Can I get you something sir?" the girl asked.  Her words dragged him back to the moment, and he realized he’d been caught staring.  She didn't seem to mind, and somehow the warmth of the whiskey he'd just finished gave him the courage, for once, to speak his mind.

"Yes, I'd like another scotch, please.”  He hesitated for just a moment, and then added, “I was just admiring your face.  I'm an artist, you see, a photographer.  You would make a lovely model."

"Thank you," she said, smiling and swirling, letting the short length of her skirt flip up to show another couple of inches of thigh as she did so.  Her hips gyrated pleasantly atop long legs that ended in a pair of black stiletto pumps with ties that wrapped about her calves.  Yes, quite a pretty picture.  The outfit should have seemed cheap, but the energy in her step and the twinkle in her eyes when she smiled didn’t allow it.  She was very simply “cute”.

As she walked away, Christian drifted.  He drew the image of her face into inner focus, began with simple eyeliner and foundation, and then painted the mental picture to match his inner vision.  He changed the color of her mascara, flared it on the ends in a sort of Egyptian motif, and deepened the red of her lips to contrast more completely with the flashy white brilliance of her hair.  She could be so much more, so perfect.  In his mind, she held her face very, very still as he worked.

Christian sat back and pulled his thoughts into the present.  He watched the dancers on the very corner of the dance floor; the only portion visible from his booth, waited for his drink and continued thinking.  There had to be a way.  Destiny would not be denied, and he was destined to greatness.  The quick flash of the waitress’ beauty had revitalized his creative energy.

The meeting with Gates had been a disappointment.  Christian had thought that they understood one another.  Gates always showed a genuine appreciation for Christian’s work and an understanding of what made him unique. It was obvious now that it had either been an act to get at more of Christian's money, or that it didn't go as deeply as Christian had imagined. That was going to have to change.

His drink arrived, and he smiled at the waitress, accepting the drink and paying for it with a bill large enough to be certain she would have to return to the bar for change.  He enjoyed watching her move, the play of muscles down the back of her thighs, the way the lights danced on the snowy whiteness of her hair.  Very entertaining.  He pictured it as a series of photos that would capture each angle, the way she turned gracefully between tables, the way she leaned forward over the bar to place his order, lifting her skirt in back as she stretched.

He returned to his inner image of her and he filled in more stolen details.  He felt himself stiffening beneath the table, and he let one hand stray to his crotch.  He rubbed himself idly for a moment, and then let the image free once more.  He would have to stand up and walk to get out of the club, and the girl would return in a moment with his change.  The last thing he wanted was to be caught touching himself in public. 

To clear his mind and calm himself, he drifted back through the day to the two kids that hung out near his home, and to the momentary vision he'd received from the door of the corner market.  So many intense visions in a single day had to be a sign. 

He deliberately pushed aside memories of the boy and his callous remarks; it was the girl who interested him.  The colors in her hair had showed a talent, a hidden artistic ability that the child was no doubt ignorant of herself.  She probably thought she’d just picked the shades at random, but Christian knew better.  They were perfectly cascaded, clashing just enough with her clothing and each other to bring about a subtly pleasing effect.  She had probably spent a lot of time in trying to make her hair look as if she’d spent no time on it.

He admired her for it.  He admired her for other things, as well.  She was a masterpiece in the making, a girl who would break hearts, probably starting with that of the young punk who so arrogantly flashed her about like she was nothing more than an accessory to his own outfit.  It was inevitable; that's what women did.

He compared the two visions, the young girl, the slightly older, more experienced waitress.  One with the glitter and flash of youth, a vitality that couldn't be quenched, the other with grace that was maturing, with endowments the younger girl would only be dreaming of for several years to come.  It was a pleasant contrast, but the younger image slowly won out as his favorite of the day. 

Except that it wasn’t.  He thought of the girl, Dorinda, the submission in her eyes and the pliancy in her form, and the beaten expression of the mother close enough beside her to use as a palette of pain to highlight the rough spots.  The girl on the corner, even with her beautiful hair, and the waitress bouncing jauntily across the dance floor, were full of life, and life was about decisions.  As long as those decisions did not belong to Christian, the models could not be trusted.  He thought, given enough time alone with her, that Dorinda would give him that control.  He wondered how it would feel just to take it.

When the waitress returned, he took his change and watched her walk away for the final time.  His head was already fuzzy, and he had another scotch to get through before leaving.  Having paid money for it, no way would he leave it there untouched.  It would be a waste, and nothing he'd earned would ever be wasted.  There would be no more drinks after this one, though, not in Big Sid’s.

The dance floor was a blur of motion, and the smoke irritated his eyes.  The music was muted where he sat, but still soothing.  There was something special about the beating of those drums, something almost hypnotic.  The whiskey pumped through his bloodstream, and he fought to maintain his senses as he rose, downing the last of it in a gulp.

Music hadn't played a large part in Christian's life.  It was art, and he recognized the beauty in it, but it was distracting.  The wrong music was more than distracting.  It was dangerous.  It could bring memories he'd rather not be put through again.  Memories of his mother, the music she played for her men, for a lot of men.  The special music she'd played for Christian himself.

He rose too quickly, stumbled through the tables and around the bar, and skirted the dance floor carefully, avoiding all eye contact.  Suddenly the pleasant images of the day were gone, and the music was dredging up the wrong images.  He needed to get out. 

He didn't want anyone to take notice of him.  They would know he was drunk, and that in this state he was weakened.  Someone would see the opportunity, would want whatever he might have, and would take advantage of that knowledge.  His head pounded, and he regretted gulping the whiskey.  It was affecting his vision, and he knew the harder he tried to ignore the music and focus on placing one foot in front of the other, the more likely he was to tumble face first into someone’s drink.

Christian glanced at the dancers on the floor and was struck by how young they seemed.  Some of the couples gyrating across the polished wood appeared to be no older than the two that hung out on his street corner, and he was certain that those two weren't old enough to drink.  He'd seen them on more than one occasion trying to talk a wino, or a passing adult that looked promising, into going into the market to buy them alcohol.  Was he so old that he couldn’t tell the difference?

He cracked his shin several times, and nearly tripped over the frame of the door on his way through, but at last he made it back to the street.  He breathed the cool, fresh night air and walked slowly toward the back, where he'd parked his car.  He'd left it just around the corner, directly between the pole for one of the incandescent lights and a dumpster.  It was a brightly lit spot, and it was visible from the street.  No sense in supplying the enemy with cover.

He made it to the car without incident and slid in behind the wheel.  He sat for a few moments, trying to reorient himself to the outside world, to erase the echoing beat of the drums and the flashing, swirling negative flashes of colored light.   

He closed his eyes, and his mother’s face played against the screen of his eyelids. Her lips were blood red and her eyes were shaded in deep, dark purple.  She laughed at him, and he pressed the memory back, flattening it against the inside of his skull and denying it access to the present. 

He drowned that leering face in memories of the day and lost himself in the sensations they created.  He saw the waitress’ smile, the tilt of her head, and the swirl of her skirt as she turned and walked away.  Her perfume seemed permanently embedded in his nostrils.  His hand strayed again, but he caught himself and snapped it up to the wheel.  It was time to get home.

He turned the ignition key and the sound of the engine brought him the rest of the way back to his senses.  Now he knew where he was, and that he was drunk.  It was not good, but it was better.  Damn.  He made a mental note to never drink scotch in a public place again, and backed slowly out of the parking place.

He drove ten miles per hour below the speed limit, his heart trip-hammering at each flash of a light.  He was certain that he would be stopped, handcuffed and arrested, but he made it home without incident.  By the time he pulled into his small cubby-hole of a garage and pushed the shift lever into park, he was wide-awake and feeling very sober from the tension.  He slipped quickly from the car and into his apartment, praying nobody would see him, and not certain why.

The bottle of wine was waiting for him, and he poured a glass gratefully, tossing back half of it and sitting at the table.  The paper was still where he’d left it; the model's perfect smile gleamed up at him, and he stared at her in longing.

"Soon," he promised, standing and walking to the utility drawer by the sink for his scissors.  He came back, clipped the woman's photo from the ad and carefully taped it to the wall of the apartment next to some of his newer work.  Smiling at his handiwork, he poured another glass of wine and sat down to admire it.

The alcohol quickly fogged his thoughts, removing the evening's disappointment, and he drifted.  Finally he rose, stoppered the wine bottle and set it on the counter, then headed off to bed.  Tomorrow would arrive soon enough, and there were plans to be made.  It was going to be a very, very interesting day. 

On the wall, the woman's smiling eyes watched him as he left the room.