A Place Without Music

by David Henson

A lightning bolt tattoo on her forehead makes her appear to be splitting in half. Her eyes are black with red specks. She knocks back the shot and raps the bar with her knuckles. I pour another.

She calls herself Denise, and she’s a mismatch for Sid’s, which puts the drab in dingy. There are a handful of wobbly tables, and the bar stools squeak and hurt your ass. It’s the kind of place where people come to drink alone and go home alone. A place where nobody cares when the jukebox conks out.

Denise tells me she’s been drawn to Sid’s because she senses Satan’s here. Holy-rolling, anti-boozers believe any tavern’s the devil’s altar, but it’s more than that with her.

Denise says the real Satan is here, and she should know ’cause she’s been eyeball to eyeball with him. She claims that, a while back, Satan took her soul without giving her what he’d promised in return. Since then, she’s been a soulless she-demon.

She asks me to tell her about the folks in the bar ’cause she’s looking for the right person to kill. I think about calling the cops, but curiosity grabs me, and I play along.

I tell Denise the headlines about people but not the details that make or, in the case of Sid’s patrons, break lives.

She fixates on two. A guy passed out, head down, at one of the tables. I tell her he staggered in drunk, and I’m letting him sleep it off.

Denise also takes an interest in Ralphie Peters, a regular who lives nearby. I say all I know is he’s a local singer with dreams of making it big. Ralphie fronts for a garage band and also sings at weddings to exercise his range. The only range he should bother exercising is when he bakes a frozen pizza. He’ll do whatever it takes to become a star. Sorry, kid. Ain’t gonna happen.

Denise stares at Ralphie and then says, “I need to make sure about passed-out guy first.” She slow-walks over and reaches for him but jerks back her hand. She returns and puts her palm to my cheek. “Feel how hot,” she says. “It’s him.”

I lean back. “Who?”

“Satan. When he stole my soul, he was a little man with a stupid red bowtie, but he can assume any shape.”

Stupid red bowtie? I have to admit a passed-out drunk would be a good disguise. “So, he’s the one you’re going to kill?”

“Please. You think Satan can be killed with a gun?” She clumps her purse on the counter and opens it.

Holy crap, she’s got a pistol!

“The singer’s mine.”

“Why him?”

“Satan hates people with dreams. That’s why he’s here. To steal that kid’s soul. I won’t let him have the pleasure.” She turns toward the passed-out guy. “Hear that, Satan?” The red specks spin in her eyes. Call me strange, but I find that alluring.

Taking out the pistol, Denise strides toward Ralphie. I shout and wave my hand. The passed-out guy slumps to the floor; Denise trips over him, throwing off her aim as she fires. The bullet strikes Ralphie in the arm. He jumps up, sees the gushing blood and faints.

Denise stands and kicks the passed-out guy. “Damn you, Satan!”

I hurry to Ralphie and put my hand to his throat as if checking his pulse. Then I squeeze. The kid gags and claws at my arm.

“You!” Denise says to me. She catches on fast. “Then who’s this?” She kicks the passed-out guy again.

I decide to give Denise a thrill and have her grip my wrist while I grasp Ralphie’s. He gasps as his soul flows out of his body and goes to... wherever souls go when I remove them. I truly have no idea.

I look at Denise. “Feel that?”

Her body quivers. “Again... Do it again.”

“Sorry, he had only the one. Same as you.”

Passed-out guy groans. “What’d you do to me?”

I help him to his feet. “Sorry, Sid. Just needed to borrow your place a while. You can have it back now.” I prefer higher-class joints anyway.

Ralphie sits up. “I thought we had a deal,” he says in a whispery squeak. “I’ll never sing again.”

Do re mi.

His eyes roll back, and he faints again.

“Crushed his larynx?” Denise says.

I smile and motion for Denise. “Or are you still mad at me?”

“Will you let me feel it when you steal another one? What a rush!”

“We’ll see.”

She hooks her arm in mine. “Why a dive bar?” Denise says as we stroll out into the night.

“Ralphie’s choice. He thought he’d be safer meeting me in a public place where he’s known.” Humans are so stupid. No wonder I hate them. I think back on something Denise said and turn her toward me. “You thought my red bowtie was stupid?”

She shrugs. “Very.”

I don’t take criticism well. I stare at her and imagine wisps of smoke rising from her blouse. Then I notice the red flecks swimming around her pupils and decide to give her another chance. I prefer not to close those alluring eyes unless I must.

When sirens approach, I grab Denise by the wrist, and we’re sitting at a sidewalk cafe. “How do you like Paris?”

“Whew! I’ll tell you when my head stops spinning... Why Paris?”

“My next appointment. A fellow who dreams of being a famous artist. Wait till you see my disguise.”

“Why the silly disguises?”

“You ask a lot of questions. If you must know, disguises are part of the fun. I enjoy my work.”

“Just don’t wear that embarrassing red bowtie.”

OK, that does it.

As I leave the cafe, I tell the waiter to clean up the pile of ashes I’ve left behind. Then I put on my bowtie and head for my next appointment.