Do You Come Here Often?

It asked him if he came there often. As it eased into the seat next to him at the bar, Rodman remembered the last time he killed one of them.

The Bahamas. Harry's American Bar, on the West End of Grand Bahama Island. He took the Queen's Highway out of Freeport, and after an interminable stretch of pine barrens dotted with shanties and rusted-out hulks of old Buicks and even older Ramblers, he saw the sign for Harry's, pointing up a dirt road that was littered with empty Beck's bottles and broken conch shells. There, he watched the Atlantic fling itself against the limestone quarry stones on the beach; he drank and he eyed the few tourist girls who had dared come there to lose themselves in rum punch and reggae.

It asked him for a light. Before the afternoon was over, he thought it would be getting more than just a light. But for now he tossed a lighter to the counter. The lighter clattered against the ashtray. It didn't know what to do. It was a stupid one. So Rodman lit its cigarette for it.

Yes. Harry's was where the last one approached him. The last stupid one, anyway. He'd gone there to drink. And look—just look. His modus operandi was to look but not touch, unless he was absolutely sure the other person was what she might be pretending to be. It was dangerous business these days. Everyone had to be careful.

Then the stupid one had approached him. It slid up to him on the bench, splinters digging into and snapping off in its flesh, and asked him for a light. Like this one. So he indulged it the silly getting-to-know-you ritual. It only knew a few words; even the newer ones would kill it if they came across it in, say, a bar, or a public restroom. He didn't need to look at its teeth to know it hadn't learned the wiles, the sophistication of the newer generations. So he let it ask him for a light and he let it ask him if he came there often.

And then he killed it.

Outside, in the parking lot. He clubbed it with one of the ornamental conchs Harry or whoever ran Harry's American Bar had strung in the fish net across the front of the building. He clubbed it, again and again, until the conch splintered into knives of broken shell. He drove a sharp wedge into its throat and worked the sliver back and forth until it could no longer ask him if he came there often. Somebody laughed nervously. "Give 'er one for me!" they said. And then he dragged the body around the side of the building and shoved it over the cement block wall, the one with broken glass set into the concrete across the top. He shoved it over the wall, and the body cartwheeled and broke against the rocks below, settling into a niche between two slime-covered stones, one arm twisted insanely behind its shattered skull, a leering caricature of a smile grinning up at him from its battered face. The tourist girls on the deck outside turned away. His shirt was a mess. He began to puke.

Afterwards, when he'd wiped the puke from his chin, he swore he'd never kill another one. Monsters or not. He'd never do it again.

It asked him if he came there often. He ignored the question and studied its face. Cool, pale flesh; eyes that lifted slightly at the corners, suggesting its lineage of victims included an oriental person. Shocking red lips, bloody-looking and predatory in the bar gloom.

It could never trick him into believing it was a woman.

The bartender, who was swabbing out a beer mug, ambled over to Rodman. "Hey pal," he said, "another round?"

Rodman shook his head no.

"C'mon, pal. Business is slow, you know? People are still skittish about bars." His fingers explored the racks of designer drugs and settled on a stress sheet of blue, octagon-shaped pills. "They're called Forget-Me-Nots," he said. "Temporary amnesia with a hallucinatory episode thrown in for the hell of it. Lots of fun. Just in from Beijing."

"Maybe later," Rodman answered.

"How 'bout you, lady?" the bartender asked. It was gazing raptly at Rodman. It did not move. Its eyes did not move. It seemed to not even breathe. The bartender said, "Lady?" and gave Rodman a quizzical look. Rodman shook his head, and hoped his eyes said all that needed saying. The bartender snorted in disgust. "Oh. Damn. I never spot 'em—and me, a bartender. Damn."