Burnin' Love...

By Rick McGrath


Click. Whirr. Click. Whirr.

Wilson was absently playing with the Nikon's motor drive. Outside his apartment window the street was losing colour in the deepening glare of the late August morning. The day was promising to be another heater... but Wilson's mind wasn't on the weather as he paced the floor above The Blind Eye, his west end bookstore. He glanced at the kitchen clock, disconnected the camera lens and wondered aloud if he should be giving Pignatelli a call. After all, Harvey's letter had changed a lot of things. He tentatively juggled the Nikkor 200mm from hand to hand. A slight smile flickered, and he felt some of the tension seep from his shoulders. Explaining away the effect as a purely mechanical malfunction was much too easy anyway.

The astrophysicist was a different matter.

Harvey's idea to try spectral analyses struck Wilson as a stroke of brilliance - - at the time everybody thought the wave motion was due to prismatic overload. But such are the thought patterns of opticians, Wilson thought, putting down the camera in favour of his dope tin. He flopped into an overstuffed armchair -- enviable vintage deco -- and methodically rolled a joint while flipping over the possibilities in his mind. Nothing bubbled to the surface. He sighed, lit the joint and inhaled deeply. Another testimonial to the Sherlock Holmes syndrome, he thought. Like punching quarters into a jukebox - and hitting the numbers at random. You may not like what you get, but you always get something. He grabbed the phone, exhaled a cloud of blue, and slouched deeper into the chair. The seven hit melody of Pignatelli's connection bleeped reassuringly from the phone's face.

The sun rose over Kit's Point, illuminating the third floor bedroom which contained the generous body of Fabio Pignatelli . He stretched eyelessly, yawned and squinted carefully about the brightness of bedroom. His head felt slightly disjointed, and he groaned when he remembered the pasty-faced dude with the crazy, violent blow who was offering toots to the club regulars. Very heavy snow. His forehead cramped.

"You look pretty burned this morning."

"What?” Pignatelli sat upright.

"Just getting some juice. Wanta sip?" A naked woman was pleasantly framed in his doorway. A creature of foresight, Pignatelli made a mental note of the image before he tried to focus in on the girl.

"Yeah, sure. Gawd, how much did we blow last night?" He took the glass and tried a tentative sip.

"Tastes metallic." He made a face. "My mouth feels like a blast furnace."

"Too bad, baby.” She became suddenly coy. "You just lie back and let me stoke a little fire for you."

She was on the bed, between Pignatelli's legs, and pulling' back the covers. Her right hand clutched his penis like it was an oversized microphone and her breathing became throatily obvious.

"Go, baby, go", grunted Pignatelli as he shifted sideways and caught the action in the vanity mirror propped beside the bed. The view was much the same from either angle -- a bobbing hump obscured by long auburn hair -- but he did notice his dope on the reflected headboard. The coke wasn't finely chopped but he was damned if he was going to get up and search out a blade in an effort to be frugal. Besides, he didn't want to disturb the busy wetness between his legs. Watching the mirror he groped overhead until his hand closed on a small jade box. He lowered it to his chest, slid open the top, fished around for the small silver spoon and dipped it into the crystalline powder. A slight buzz of nervous anticipation began to grow, but he exhaled slowly and manoeuvred the spoon beneath his left nostril. He inhaled sharply and the sinus cleared like a lit blowtorch. The second hit left him lying in silence as a quasar of light burned twinkling to darkness in the infinity of nothingness behind his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, YEAH", Pignatelli stretched back and up over his pillow, head bent backwards against the tidal movements of the waterbed. He was still moaning softly when the telephone jangled.

"Pig? Colin. You still in bed?"

"Yeah, but it's a long story. I've already been up."

"Jesus man, get with it. You were supposed to be over here by now. Things are beginning to break over that Elvis pix. Axel was over yesterday and brought back the Nike. He put it through all the tests and results were zero for both the body and lens. So much for my theory on chromatic aberration."

"Christ, I already told you that. I'm the fuckin photog, remember?" Pignatelli sat upright in bed. The girl -- shit if he could remember her name -- slid out of bed and went to the kitchen.

"Yeah, babe, coffee and toast would be great", he called after her receedingly tight ass.

"What?".

"Not you, Col, just a suggestion to the, ah, domestic help." He clamped the phone in his neck and wandered around the room, putting on his clothes as he found them on the floor.

"Are we forgetting the whole thing then?"

"Think again, Piggie. I received a package from Harv this morning."

"The Egg. I never thought he'd touch it. What does the mountain man have to say?"

"I've got the stuff right here. Pretty zany. Ever wonder if Harv smokes on the job these days? Or maybe the Ruskies got to him on that last Zelenchuskyia exchange mission... those bloody commies will stop at nothing."

Pignatelli looked up and saw himself grinning wildly in the mirror. In many ways Wilson was a typical romantic intellectual. If only he was a tad more decadent.

"Yeah, yeah. Both plausible. But what does he think?"

"Something we dismissed early on. He did the tests but I'm sure the results are pure shit. He suggests distorted film emulsion, but what does he know about colour film chemistry? My guess is bugger all. He's sent over everything, though, including some spectrographs of the distorted area.?

Pig zipped up his boots. "No doubt he's covering his ass in case you're thinking of publishing the yarn. Remember how burned he was after you included him as a reference on that time-warp thesis. Jesus, he thought the moving finger was after his hide that time."

There was a trace of bitterness in Wilson's laugh. "Those scientific bureaucrats didn't even bother to test the damn thing before they dismissed it. Lasers can be set up to tap the energy of a singularity like a black hole..."

"OK, sure. Let's not get off the goddam track. Look, I'm going to grab a caffeine, kick this chick back to the streets, and point the-machine at your joint. Should achieve linkup by 1200 hours. Just maintain a standard orbit. Science Officer Spock out."

"Don't be corny. And don't be late."

"Sure, man, catch you later."

Wilson put down the telephone, got to his feet and opened a few windows. The rush of air was hot but still felt cool on his body. It wasn't until he reached for a smoke that he noticed his shirt was wet with sweat. The cigarette package was sitting on a colour print. Wilson grabbed both, fished out a butt, tossed the package back on the desk and leaned back in his chair. The shot was a five by seven glossy Pig had absently grabbed some months earlier while on a fashion gig in Vegas. Wilson felt a twinge of admiration. Pignatelli may be a self-centered son af a bitch, he thought to himself, but he grabs great shots. He studied the print intently, relaxing every now and then in the hope of something subliminal, but nothing bubbled to the surface. The pix showed The King looking classic and chubby in his crimson jump suit. He stood with feet spread, shoulders hunched, hair greased over a stiff Edwardian collar. Elvis was clutching the mike with both hands, and Pig had stopped the action just as The King had dipped his head into the first wave of applause. In a way it looked like Elvis was about to start sucking the tip of his surprisingly phallic white mike.

Wilson grunted. It was probably this understated narcissistic sexuality which had attracted Ellie's attention. Subliminal attraction perhaps, but Ellie was hardly one to be intrigued by understatement. He put the photo down just as voices became apparent on the back steps.

"C'mon, Fabe, leave me alone." Diana looked in the room, waving a paper bag. "Lunch, boss."

Behind her came the sound of a fridge opening, glass tinkling, and sporadic low-level snorts.

"I ain't too hungry but jesus am I thirsty." Pignatelli’s swarthy body filled in the doorway behind Diana. He had an opened beer in each extended hand. He nodded at Wilson, then at Diana’s long, lean form.

"Great little tush, baby, but you need a bit more meat on those lanky bones. We should fly to Frisco one day and eat our way back."

Diana side-stepped and looked at him with mock disdain.

"Big talk, short pork. You just want to get me naked in front of that quivering lens of yours..."

Pignatelli took a drink and winked at Wilson. "No Oxfam assignments this year... sorry."

Wilson was unimpressed. "It's too hot to banter. Why don't you two just wander off and resolve these frustrations in the bedroom?"

Diana rolled her eyes. "You think I'd consider makin' bacon with Piggie? Jesus, I thought you hired me because of my class. Here, eat, I've gotta get back to the salt mines. You, Fabe, can keep talking. That's what you seem to be best at."

The Italian belched. Wilson squinted.

"You're bloody disgusting at times."

Pignatelli feigned shock, grabbed his crotch and leered suggestively at Wilson. "Wanna see how disgusting?"

His friend snorted. "You'd have to hole up in your darkroom and do weird things with the enlarger before anyone noticed anything there."

"Brutal, brutal. You should have caught the action last night."

“Another hot number."

"Out-bloody-standing. Hot at both ends and always wet. But what the fuck was her name?” He looked off vacantly and absently finished his beer.

Wilson opened the bag and fished out a sandwich. "Eat?"

"Nah, too wired."

"Roll a joint from that endless supply you carry around, then."

Pignatelli busied himself with a roller while Wilson washed down the last of the sandwich with a swig from Pig's bottle. He had just finished when Pignatelli looked up in obvious seriousness.

"Diana's fairly hot herself. She good in the sack?"

Wilson was vaguely amused. Pig had been bugging him about Diana ever since she had first arrived at The Blind I, laden with a stack of books to trade. Wilson had been impressed with her knowledge and she had ended up managing the retail end of things. She was bright, careful and good looking: just the right combination to keep customers coming back. He wished her business sense would expand to the point where she could take over the whole operation. At least he might get a vacation one of these years.

"She's no Pork Salad Annie, if that's what you mean."

"What?" Pignatelli had belched the word out.

"Christ, that's revolting. I mean she's got a lot more class than the trash you generally associate with. C'mon, quit fiddling around with that joint."

Pignatelli leaned forward and tossed the slim white stick towards Wilson. "Speaking of trash, did I tell you about...".

"No doubt. Christ, you're stuck in a groove today."

"Hormone imbalance. Had to pay my doc outrageously to set it up. No, that's not it. I just got outta the right side of the bed today." He flashed a toothy grin.

Wilson laughed, lit up the number and motioned to a large manila envelope stuffed into the bookcase beside Pig's chair.

"Give you a toke if you bring that here." He was trying to talk without breathing while waving the joint in front of him. Pignatelli leaned back, snapped the envelope free of the books and with a look of sheer insolence dumped its contents on his lap.

He briefly skimmed the short letter and picked up a spectral photograph. He peered at it intensely for a few minutes, then turned it upside down.

"Interesting...".

"But you haven't a clue. Frankly, neither do I, but for different reasons." Wilson rocked to his feet and dragged the chair across the room. He sat beside Pig, handed him the joint, and turned the photo right side up.

"See this? According to Harvey these lines show an organic acid with a basis in nitrogen and hydrogen. Amino overtones."

The Pig was unimpressed. "So I don't know much about organic chemistry. What torches and gives off those wavelengths?".

"Protein."

"Fishing mother of Cod." Pignatelli whistled softly and crossed himself. "Harvey must be right, man, there musta been something wrong with the film... old batch or something. Jeez, it was only a roomful of sweaty gamblers and a dozen hot lights." He went slightly distant. "The lights weren't even that great. I was shooting at a sixtieth and still had to push the developing to get a good image. It's tricky with colour."

"I know. For a while I thought you might have stumbled on some weird Kirilian offshoot, or it may be some kind of odd colour echo." Wilson got up and began to pace in front of his books, running his hand lightly along the spines. "This all makes a fuzzy connection somewhere, but I haven't enough data to pull it all together. You read much occult literature?"

"Reading is not my strong point." Pignatelli put the stuff from Harvey back in the envelope. “Babes are. Look, it's after one and I don't want to spend the day watching you pour over books. Why don't we piss away the afternoon with a few beers and a check on the action at The Pussy Galore. I saw some real vixens over the weekend -- yeah -- there was this one Jesus, she a balcony you could do Shakespeare from." His hands made the appropriate big tits motion.

"I thought you didn't read. OK, later. Right now I want to check out Ellie's enlargement one more time. It looks as if you've captured something new, but I want to measure those patterns again. Got your camera?"

"Right here, slaver; let's take my car."

"Ok. I've got the dope."

Ellie lived in one of the few sleazy apartment blocks left on the slight rise overlooking Kits Beach. She received enough money from Elvis to afford something better, but she liked the funky atmosphere of high ceilings and spacious rooms. Her manner, at first meeting, gave one the impression of astral distances, with her ashy white complexion, thin face and irresistibly Pre-Raphaelite intellectual fascinations. She had first met Elvis in West Germany during the summer of 1958 when The King was doing his hitch for Uncle Sam. Their paths crossed at a Berlin bar on a hot August night. Ellie had sensed his sullenest but was attracted immediately into his aura of spiritual confidence. At first eye contact she had felt a shock of such deep empathic strength her knees had sagged slightly and she was forced to grasp the bar rail to keep from falling. In a moment he was beside her, he was holding her arm, his presence lifting her like a cloud of amyl nitrate. Her nostrils dilated. Later, in her apartment, she knew she would never lose him.

Ellie was balancing on the top rung of a small stepladder when Wilson and Pignatelli rapped on her apartment door. She made a last minor adjustment to the overhead spot, jumped to the shag carpet, folded the ladder and deposited it in a hall closet before she opened the door. Ellie smiled when she saw Pignatelli. His slight chubbiness and jet-black hair no doubt oonjured up the appropriate connections. And Wilson was basically harmless: he only wanted to watch.

She took them into the kitchen and watched Pignatelli make a sandwich while Wilson tried to explain the significance of Harvey's spectral information. Every time Wilson mentioned Elvis her thighs gave a tiny spasm and her eyes wandered to the bulge in Pignatelli's cut-offs. It had been three months, after all, and she knew preparations for The King's upcoming tour made any visit in the near future unlikely. Her vision narrowed. He has the same kind of hair on his legs, she realized, and a circuit closed in her mind.

"Let's go into the living room. I, ah, want to show you how I've fixed it up with the new lighting." She pulled a small tea tin fram a shelf over the stove. "But first let's smoke a joint."

"Not a bad idea," Pignatelli volunteered, his mouth full of devilled egg sandwich. "And while you're rolling, I might as well treat you to a free ski lesson. Strictly headway." He pulled the jade container from his camera bag. "Gotta mirror?"

Ellie gave a short laugh of recognition and groped for the flash of reflection in her handbag. She placed it on the kitchen table and motioned Pignatelli to the chair.

"There you go, Piggie, be my guest. This oughtta be hot tamales time. Especially with what I've got in mind." She looked Pignatelli straight in the eyes and lightly rubbed the front of his shorts. "You don't mind, do you Colin?"

"I doubt if it would make much difference. Remember, I've seen this movie before. Pig, this will be an afternoon for your diary. Too bad you can't write."

Pignatelli's eyebrows furrowed slightly as possible scenarios developed in his mind. This could be hot, very hot, he thought, trying a tentative pat on Ellie's inviting ass. She wiggled encouragingly as her tongue darted like an eel across the even whiteness of his shirt collar.

"Hokay, gang, let's hit the slopes." Pignatelli's leer faded to seriousness as his hands caressed the cool soapiness of the jade box. Wilson was fascinated. Pignatelli slid back the lid and gingerly fished out a small silver spoon and razor blade, carefully tapping both on the surface of the mirror. He measured out four hits of coke and carefully minced the drug with the blade, chopping rapidly through the crystal whiteness as it spread across the glass. After a number of passes he trowled the coke into equal sections and with an artistic flourish drew them into long sparkling lines with precise sweeps of the blade.

"Gotta bill?" Wilson dug out his wallet, pulled out a fifty and passed it over. “Very good. I see they're still red." He took the bill and with one hand rolled it into a short tube. He leaned forward, inserted the tube in one nostril and watched, detached, as his reflection snorted with strong, short sucks, driving the cocaine high and deep. Ellie was less self-confident, leaning clumsily over the table. She did remember not to exhale into the coke as she finished one line and moved onto the next. When she looked up her eyes were dark enough to emit X-rays.

“Whew. Wow. You boys can stay here 'til I call." She disappeared down the hallway.

“Wilson, you sly devil."

"It was your idea." He pulled out the Pig's Nikon, flipped open the back and started loading a reel of Kodachrome. "A few shots for your scrapbook."

Pignatelli grunted and ran his finger over the mirror, gathering the few remaining specks of crystal. Smiling grotesquely, he rubbed the powder over his top gums. Ellie called.

Pignatelli winced. "Jesus, whatta buzz. Too bad it's so goddam expensive. Whew. Listen, you go ahead for a bit and I'll be right along. I've got to focus in on something or I'll never get it up. Especially with you eyeballing along."

As the door closed behind Wilson Pignatelli dropped his cutoffs and shuffled back to the table. He opened the stone box and cautiously dipped his finger into the white powder while his hand was busy massaging his prick up to its usual standard of hardness. He leaned over and carefully dropped a glob of saliva on the tip, rubbing it over the most sensitive areas with the coke-encrusted finger. The numbness fanned out over his crotch, making him feel harder and larger than ever. He was ready.

The hallway to the living roam was dark, hot, and loud. Wilson sat dead ahead in a chair beside the doorway, his face glowing slightly as the living room light bounced off the perspiration. Pignatelli rounded the corner and there it was. A quad sound system blared out hits from a master tape set up somewhere, and against the far wall was Pig's enigmatic photo of The King, blown up and filling the entire wall space from floor to ceiling. The wall was lit with red and yellow fixed spots, as was an oval of carpet in the middle of the roam where Ellie, naked, was flat on her back pumping her hips to the beat of the music.

Wilson leaned forward as Pignatelli descended the few stairs to the sunken roam. He made a final focus check and the roam was suddenly filled with wild cheering. A familiar baritone intoned "thank yew, thank yew", and the music started again, blasting out the opening riffs of Burning Love.

The apartment temperature was still increasing as Wilson concentrated on the scene through the camera lens. Pig seemed transfixed, on his knees, as he stared blankly at his photo on the wall. Ellie has shifted into a low crouch, her ass high behind her as she sought Pignatelli's cock.

...yeah, you know my temperature's risin'...

Wilson squeezed off a shot as the lights changed from red to yellow.

....I'm just a hunka, hunka burnin love...

Pignatelli screamed and jerked backwards, pushing Ellie away. The music died. Wilson tried to rise to his feet, but something held him back. It was Ellie. He met her gaze for a wild, questioning moment, then she rolled on her back, her head tilted towards the photograph of Elvis. A small, blue-green flame was flickering from her mouth. Noiselessly it spread to her nostrils, her ears, her navel before illuminating the area between her legs. She reached out towards Elvis one last time as the greedy flames engulfed her body. Within moments all that remained was a charred contusion on the carpet, with part of an unburned arm extended in supplication towards the wall.

The apartment was heavy with a thin, greasy yellow smog. Wilson opened the blinds and cracked off a half-dozen shots before Pignatelli's groans distracted his attention.

"Hey, man, you OK? Jesus H. Christ. Let's blow this popstand before all hell breaks loose.”

Pignatelli swore and Wilson helped him to his feet. "Stand here, I'll get your clothes."

“Where the fuck is Ellie?"

Wilson pointed to the black smudge.

Pignatelli squinted and gave an involuntary shudder.

“What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, man, she simply torched out. You OK? Want to go to the hospital?".

"Shit, no, man, not with all the dope I've got in me. Let's head back to your place."

Wilson drove back, his mind racing. Pig was gingerly rubbing his crotch and muttering under his breath. He turned on the radio and was thankful for the breeze when the announcer's babble started to sink in.

"...the body was discovered just a few minutes ago, around 2:35, in the mansion bathroom. The first man on the scene was his road manager, Joe Esposito. Revival attempts by personal physician George Nichopoulos proved to be futile and the rock star's body was pronounced dead on arrival at Baptist Memorial Hospital. The death of Elvis Presley at 41..." Wilson clicked off the radio, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He laughed once, loudly, then vomited out the window.

The next day Pignatelli showed up bright and early with a copy of the morning paper. The front page was rife with speculation about Elvis cashing his chips, but there was nothing about Ellie. Wilson had figured as much.

“Hey, Willie, that was one weird trip...”

"I think I've got it partially figured out. There's an obvious connection between Ellie and Elvis -- some kind of sympathetic phenomena which caused them to die simultaneously."

“But she burned up. Fuckin people just can’t burn up.”

"Oh sure they can. And I suspect Elvis did as well, but that's an impossible premise to make public. But the burning does make some sense."

"Bullshit it does."

Wilson pulled a book down. "See this? Herman Melville. He wrote a rather obscure novel called Redburn that I chanced upon after you left last night. But it's not the book that's interesting. Sit down, let me read you a bit."

Wilson flipped through the pages.

"In this chapter Melville decides to kill off a shanghaied sailor named Miguel, who's been generally lousing up the voyage by constantly drinking. Instead of fingering one of the crew to do the deed, this is what happens. Miguel is stinking drunk one afternoon, entertaining the day watch by falling about the deck, when all at once -- and I quote -- 'two threads of greenish fire, like a forked tongue, darted out between the lips and in a moment, the cadaverous face was covered with a swarm of wormlike flames.' He goes on to say the uncovered body burned precisely like a 'phosphorescent shark at midnight.' Pretty heavy imagery, but the best part is this: Melville takes great pains to point out the flames burned with no sound."

Pignatelli was unimpressed. "You're trying to convince me that 's what happened to Ellie? Gimmie a break. That's fiction, pure and simple. These goddam books are starting to take over your mind, man."

"I'm tellin ya, man, that's what happened. Fuckin spontaneous combustion. And remember, it's all on film. I got it all, man. This will be bloody breakthrough stuff! Where's your camera bag? You get it and I'll roll a number to celebrate. These pictures will be worth a fortune... and then I can set 'em all right on how Elvis really died."

Pignatelli sighed , reached behind the chair and pulled a bag over the armrest. He unzipped the top and pulled out the Nikon.

"What the fuck!"

Wilson looked up and the dope spilled onto his lap. Pignatelli had dropped the camera on the floor and was pointing in disbelief. A small flicker of flame was licking the camera body along the back seam lines. It jumped from the camera to Pig’s outstretched index finger. He turned back to Wilson, but there was nothing but horror in his eyes as his mouth moved fishlike. A trickle of green flame spilled from his lips, matching a new flame which appeared from his left ear. Wilson tried to call out, but he, too, mouthed speechless. He saw Pignatelli stiffen and drop back in the chair as the flames engulfed his head, and then for Wilson as well it all seemed very peaceful to let the flickering green fade slowly to black.


© 1975 Rick McGrath

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SHORT FICTION

Pre-Computer Fiction

Skeleton Key
A winter weekend at a fabulous Muskoka cottage takes a strange twist as an architect's journal leads to a puzzling astrophysical conclusion... Type: Mystery

Adman
A day at work with an advertising copywriter and his erratic colleagues... Type: Satire

Nutshell
Two old friends reminsce about the past in a sleazy bar.
Then the story unfolds... Type: Existential

Jackson Whole
A night in the life of a group of zany businessmen... Type: Humour

7th Sun
A hitchiker meets a windsurfer on Hwy 1 near Cape Kennedy. Does the strange stone have anything to do with the Challenger explosion? Type: Occult

Post-Computer Fiction

Possession
A hacker discovers an interesting collection of emails. Type: Psychotic