Karl Edward Wagner - Deep in the depths of the Acme Warehouse

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DEEP IN THE DEPTHS OF THE ACME WAREHOUSE

I think I want to be raped,” Lucy touched her breast and said. She

stretched slowly against the plastic lounge chair. Her sunscreen smelled hot

and buttery. Her brain was clouded with sun and ‘ludes.

Lucy Minx tugged her thong straps further down her hips, exposing just

the shaved beginnings of her mons. She turned her head and flipped up her

mirror shades, flashing her wonderful Italian eyes.

“I think I want to be raped by you.” She slid back her sunglasses and

shivered in the sun. Languidly she reached for her white wine spritzer, sipped

from the straw.

Mina Rush chugged her beer. It was tepid and tasted like the plastic

poolside cup. She glanced at Lucy, wondering: What next? Mina was wearing a

black one-piece and wishing she had Lucy’s figure and could get away with a

chartreuse thong bikini.

“Say, what?”

A black man in a dark blue jumpsuit was pushing a red vacuum cleaner

across the lighter blue poolside carpet. Mina stared at his crotch. Breeze

fluttered across the pooi, whipping false waves through the chlorine-drugged

surface. A slight bit of crumpled newspaper rolled against her bare feet. Mina

picked it up. Elvis had been seen in Brazil. Elizabeth Taylor was pregnant by

Prince Andrew. Rock Hudson was assassinated by the CIA. Plastic extrusions

from flying saucers had raped a nun in France.

Lucy examined her straw, flicked it behind her shoulder, followed it

with her cup. She had a luxuriant mass of black hair with a lazy natural curl,

and she liked to toss it about for emphasis, just as she liked to flash her

eyes. Tossing and flashing, she pulled and twisted bits of her bikini, fussed

with her bag of things, and then she left for the shower.

During all this, Lucy said to Mina, “Or forget it.”

There was a dead thing in Mina’s beer cup. She said, “Shit.” And then

she repeated it, really meaning it this time. Lucy was a nut case, but Mina

had dreamed about her too many times not to have scored. She knew that Lucy

knew that she wanted her, and she knew that Lucy enjoyed this sense of

control. Lucy might tease and flirt, but for Mina she never gave more than a

mocking smile and a brief heartless kiss. “A prick-tease,” their drummer had

once confided.

Mina Rush was a henna-head with expressive if narrow green eyes and a

Prince Valiant haircut that did little to help her rather angular jaw. Her

right upper front tooth had been broken when someone lobbed a

Jack Daniel’s bottle early on in her career, and she flashed a neat gold

cap with an inverted pentacle when she smiled. She had long legs, boyish

hips, girlish breasts, and a bad attitude. She was maybe the finest white

female blues singer since Janis Joplin, but she couldn’t hold a group together

for more than one tour, and her next album was a year late.

On the edge of superstardom, Mina Rush made only three mistakes:

She had a weakness for cocaine, she had an obsession for Lucy Minx, and

she had an encounter with Kane.

Something was blocking the sun. Already testy, Mina raised herself on

her elbows and glared suddenly upward.

It was not as large as a refrigerator, but only just. He wore denim

cutoffs, a black Hawaiian shirt with palm trees and dancing girls, and mirror

shades. He was carrying two tall frosty glasses with tiny umbrellas on top and

some opalescent liquid inside. The sign at the hotel pool gate commanded: No

Glass.“Drink this,” he said. “There’s a bug in your beer.”

Mina accepted the glass automatically, and he reclined upon Lucy’s

vacated lounge chair. The plastic and aluminum creaked, but held. Mina

wondered whether he would sink in the pool like a stone. The man seemed to be

a solid block of muscle and bone, very roughly hewn, and was probably in his

early thirties. He had a neat red beard, slicked-back red hair, and when he

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Karl Edward Wagner - Deep in the depths of the Acme Warehouse

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