Free Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite

it had been on that
last night of Mardi Gras, that night of blood and altars. That delicious night.
                 One
of the stained-glass windows had been broken in a fight, on a rare evening when
the bar was crowded and the liquor flowed too freely and tempers reached a
sodden white-hot pitch.
                 Christian
never found a replacement for the antique glass. The window was covered with
black cardboard; it kept the sunlight out during the daytime, kept the shadows
in at night.
                 Upstairs,
in Christian’s room, the bloodstains Jessy had left on the carpet grew pale
brown and edgeless as Christian walked over them in black leather boots, in
slippers, with his bare, long-toed, knobby feet. Fifteen years of his footsteps
wore Jessy’s blood away.
                 The
wood of the bar lost its sheen, grew dull, scarred. Christian forgot to replace
the light bulbs in the imitation Tiffany lamps—a curse of excellent night
vision. The tawdry, alcoholic, glorious life of the French Quarter went on way
up Chartres, far away. No one ever came in before ten.
                 Later,
Christian often thought that the man who called himself Wallace should have
appeared at Mardi Gras. There would have been a symmetry to that, a sort of
correctness. But of course life was messy, Christian had lived long enough to
know that.
                 The
man came to the bar one night early in September, during a late heat wave. He
had rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt, and the cloth at his
armpits was circled with sweat.
                 At
first Christian thought he was an old man, by the usual standards at any rate,
a very old, sad, tired man. Then he looked again and saw that the man could not
be much older than fifty.
                 But
this was a man who carried himself as if expecting blows, a man turned inward,
looking out at the world through guarded eyes. His clipped curly hair was only
beginning to go from brown to gray. He had a face that might once have been
kind—deep careworn lines, brown eyes that had seen too much pain. There was
still warmth in those eyes, but it was warmth dampened with weariness and
watchfulness. Christian thought that whatever this man chose to drink, he would
take it straight, and he would take a lot of it
                 “Scotch,”
said the man. “Chivas Regal.” Christian poured it over ice. The man held the
glass up to the light, frowned into its amber depths. Then he brought it to his
lips and tossed the whiskey down in one practiced motion. Christian heard the
ice chitter against the man’s teeth.
                 The
man spat it back into the glass. Then he looked at Christian and said, “My name
is Wallace Creech,” and held out his hand.
                 “Christian,”
said Christian, taking the hand. He looked straight into Wallace’s eyes.
                 Wallace
stared back, unflinching. Most people started at the touch of Christian’s
fingers and withdrew quickly, rubbing their hands against their clothing to rid
themselves of Christian’s icy touch, glancing away from the cold light of
Christian’s eyes. But Wallace looked steadily back, grasped Christian’s hand
harder, and said, “A fine name.”
                 Only
then did Christian notice the small silver crucifix that hung on a chain around
Wallace’s neck, glinting in the dim light of the bar. “I’m afraid I’m not,”
                 Christian
told him.
                 “I
beg your pardon?”
                 “I
don’t belong to a church. I’m not religious.” It is possible to live too long
for such comforts, Christian thought.
                 “Ah,”
said Wallace knowingly. Christian expected him to reach into his pocket for a
tract.
                 Over
the years, Christian had been given hundreds of them and had