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

found hundreds
more left on the tables, or under them. Everything from the smudgily printed, misspelled credo of a snake-handling cult from the Louisiana swamps to
a lurid pamphlet called Rock Music Is Worse than LSD! Christian was curious as
to what drew people to these religions; their obsession with their own
mortality intrigued him, and he read all the tracts.
                 But
Wallace didn’t offer him a tract. Instead, he changed the subject abruptly,
asking,
                 “Have
you had this place long?”
                 Christian
felt a touch of shame. He had misjudged the old man. From the looks of him,
Wallace needed all the faith he could muster. The pain seemed to pour from him.
He must be lonely, just trying to make conversation, and talk was part of a
bartender’s job.
                 “Twenty
years,” Christian told him.
                 “You
must have been a very young man when you opened it.”
                 “I
am older than I look,” said Christian, smiling slightly. His face had not
changed, had grown no older, had lost none of its narrow cold beauty since the
last night of Mardi Gras fifteen years ago, the night he had slept in the arms
of Molochai, his belly heavy and warm with Molochai’s blood. Christian had not
aged for a very long time.
                 “So
I gather,” said Wallace dryly.
                 Christian
paused, looking into Wallace’s face. Wallace’s expression was no different than
before; the eyes were the same, the hurt, frowning eyes, the lines bracketing
the mouth as weary and patient as before. Christian dismissed the remark as
meaningless—the man only wanted someone to talk to. He was lonely. Religious
people always seemed lonely; perhaps that explained their need to be among
great crowds of people who believed as they did. Such a great comfort, to be
among others of your kind, and such loneliness when there were none. How could
humans ever believe themselves truly lonely when there were so many of them?
                 “Another
drink?” Christian asked.
                 Wallace
tossed back a second shot of Chivas, then surprised Christian by asking.
                 “Is
business always this slow?” Then, realizing what he had said, he tried to
apologize.
                 “I
didn’t mean to be rude—I was only curious. It’s a nice place, a good location,
the French Quarter—”
                 The
man was babbling, and Christian realized that for some reason Wallace Creech
was terrified. The empty glass in his hand rattled against the bar; the ice
made cold little chinking sounds. The man seemed on the point of belting.
                 Christian
dumped the melting ice cubes, scooped in fresh ones, poured another shot. This
one was a double, but he watched Wallace put it away with the same practiced
motion, not even grimacing. Here was a seasoned drinker.
                 “Why
are you here, Wallace Creech?” Christian asked softly. “What do you want?”
                 Wallace’s
hand went to the cross at his throat. Then, as if trying to conceal the
gesture, he ran a finger around the inside of his collar, loosening it, though
the top button was already undone. ‘There was a girl, once,” he said. “Jessy.
Small, thin. Short brown hair. Black dress. She used to come here.”
                 Christian
felt a cold fist squeeze shut somewhere deep inside him. The fist twisted,
clenched; it was wrapped around some vital part of him, tearing him loose
inside. He licked his lips. His mouth tasted of sour blood. He pretended to
think.
                 “Jessy,”
he said. “Jessy. Such a long time ago… but perhaps I remember. She stopped
coming in fifteen years ago.
                 “Was
that after Mardi Gras … fifteen years ago?”
                 “I
think so,”