chapter thirty

The Hit Men

The café was closed to the public. This pleased Frank, firstly because Tuesday was normally very slow, and secondly because tonight a record company had hired the venue to celebrate the completion of an important project. Unfortunately most of those attending were vegetarians or even vegans; and Frank had gone to great lengths to impress upon his staff, Wibz particularly, that their dietary requirements were to be fully met. Only a few of the guests would be dining on human flesh this evening.

There was something else that excited Frank about this booking: he had made his reputation on providing a decadent dining experience for the so-called ‘Yuppies’ of the financial sector of the city, but he felt nothing for their trite materialism. Musicians offered an opportunity for him to let his few hairs down, and these were reputed to be some fairly exotic musicians indeed. He retired to his apartment to consider the fashion in which he would greet his guests.

After showering he stood before the mirrored wall and lifted his ponytail above his head. He teased the strands as he dried them and knotted several together. As they fell back to his scalp he was taken by the twisting forms and decided to fix them; defying gravity. He mixed a paste of lacquer and sand, scented it with Hermes, and began to sculpt. Seven was a good number, a prime number, and coincidentally the number of men he had killed at Los Cardales. It was also the sum of the complementary dots on his die; the one that contained the bone gas, so he gathered his few hairs into seven wiry clumps and arranged them into snaking lines over, and then falling around his head. He considered his image in the glass: he possessed, as ever, the body of a thirty six year old, his torso hairless, all extremities slightly elongated, including the part that was, as it were, redundant. The asymmetry of the tresses crowned it well, but he needed to strengthen the statement. He opened a tray and surveyed his father’s specimens: fragments of minerals, shells, bones belonging to various undiscovered species of sea creatures. He threaded some of these onto the hair, pausing to tint some with food colouring. This was much better, he was reminded of, and probably inspired by, the paintings made by Helen and Morris in New York in 1960.

He was experiencing nostalgia, but it was a strong, invigorating nostalgia. He selected a 12 inch record and placed it on the Linn turntable. ‘The Futuristic Sounds of Sun Ra’ suited the occasion perfectly, and the opening track was choreographed by his dressing in dark blue suede shoes, tight black slacks and a perfect white linen shirt. To create the appropriate atonality he chose a heavy ring given to him by the princess in 1896. He injected 10 ml of nutriment and drank a small glass of Janneau. When the girl knocked at the door to announce the arrival of the first guests he was more than ready for the night ahead.

The record company representative was a disappointment: too young and obviously nervous about his charges. His eyes shifted rapidly over the historic details of the restaurant as he spoke.

“The artists are arriving now; there are twenty; musicians, some partners and technical people. There may be some friends dropping by later, but it’s a buffet scenario I believe, so will that be OK?”

“I think you will find the cafe can accommodate whatever you require. Anything else?” Frank wanted to get the formalities over as quickly as possible, but was delighted by what came next.

“Some of the musicians like to smoke. Is that OK?”

“This is not a no-smoking restaurant, Mr...” Frank looked for a name tag and found one pinned upside-down to the cheap T shirt “Foxton.”

“Call me Andy. No I don’t mean smoke; I mean smoke. They are musicians after all.”

Frank put his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Of course they can smoke, and drop acid or whatever else musicians do. They can even sing if they want to.” He gently spun the young man around so he could survey the whole of the establishment. “ Mi casa, tu casa, as they say. If you pay for my café you pay for anything you like.”

“That’s great, just great, Mr Corner” Foxton stepped back to the door and opened it slightly. “They just wanted me to clear that up, so let me introduce Daevid, Gilli and Mark; the album is called Hit Men....”

“But we’re not hit men, either in the criminal or musical sense. Thanks for letting us use your place, Frank” Daevid was nearing sixty years of age, with long hair and dressed in the manner of the early 70s. There was an other-worldly aura around him, and Frank sensed a long history of, if not exactly decadence, then perhaps exploration.

“That’s an unusual accent,” he replied. “I hear some French, some English, some Australian.”

“That’s about right. Australian once; it was a long time ago. But eternally coming from the planet...”

“Gong!” the others all joined in for this word and burst into satisfied laughter. Frank was amused by a joke he didn’t understand and accompanied them to the buffet. Gilli took in the huge variety of vegetarian dishes and the adjacent sumptuous bar.

“I think we’re going to enjoy this,” she said, picking up a golden samosa.

Much later the air was heavy with cannabis smoke and the tables heavy with wine bottles. Frank found himself dancing, erratically propped between Daevid and Gilli as their friend Kevin sang his anthem dedicated to Frank’s footwear. “I walked into this bar and the man refused,He said ‘We don’t serve strangers in blue suede shoes....”. Frank was happier than he had been for at least twenty years. The song ended and they all chorused “Thank you very much,” each one meaning it in their own way, but none more totally than Frank.