It’s more like a statue than a gravestone. A marble woman sits on a pedestal with her legs crossed, her head buried between her arms and her inner-thigh. She is naked, but strands of gray hair twist all the way to her feet, giving her privacy. The inscription on the pedestal is mostly chipped away, and all I can make out is “Sweicinski 1878.” I step around the grave, face the trees behind it, and unzip my pants.

     I’ve never been to this cemetery before. It’s way out on Edith Road and hidden behind a ramshackle house. The moon is a thin crescent, and all I can see are silhouettes and gray-white headstones. I finish, pick up my half-empty Heineken bottle, and head back.

     “Hey, we should clean these bottles up.”

     No one hears me. Car headlights flash, filter through the trees, and change a shadow by my feet into a bouquet of pink, red, and blue plastic flowers. The car engine roars, a cloud of oily exhaust drifts toward me, the wheels kick up gravel on the dirt road.

     I walk over to the Sweicinski grave, and stare at the woman’s hair. Jesus. They could have at least left me some tequila. The city limit is probably five miles away, assuming I walk across a field of cacti and broken glass. I drink the rest of my beer, let half of it run down my chin, splatter in the dust.

     Body heat has softened the note in my pocket, made it stick together. I use my forefinger to pry the creases apart and then unfold it. I walk back to Edith and stand under a streetlight to read the message again:

In town Saturday night, visiting my folks. Meet me at Frontier Restaurant, 3:00AM. I found it, I have what you want. Still nobody, I miss your hands. Nobody does it like you. Who’s your new mistress? Come visit me in Cali sometime, L.A. has a nice fetish scene.
Cuddles, Jennifer

     The face of my watch is crusted with beer and dust; I can’t see the numerals. I spit into my hand, rub it across the glass with my forefinger. 8:15. I pull out my wallet. I don’t have enough money for a cab, but I do have plenty of time. I walk across the cemetery, down and up the sides of an arroyo filled with sage, and set out across the field.

* * * * * * * *

     The strip club smells like rotten lemons, soggy bread, and old beer. I order a Guinness and walk over to the stage where Jezebelle is dancing. She is wrapped around a steel pole with her head thrust back. German metal plays in the background.

     I sit down and put a five-dollar bill in my mouth. Jezebelle sees it, unwraps herself from the pole, and comes over. She bends down and looks straight into my face. Her tongue plays across her crimson lips, and she winks at me. Then she leans her chest into my face, pushes her breasts together with her hands, and takes the bill out of my mouth. She spins and walks back to the pole, her leather boots click on the stage. She has a tattoo on her lower back, a small dagger with a jeweled hilt. I look down at the table, close my eyes, and remember the last time I directed Jennifer. I cast her as Mistress Sabrina, a woman trapped in a world of darkness and lust. In the final scene, I made a cameo appearance as Chad, a down-and-out café waiter.

     You start to nibble on my left ear. I turn around and kiss you; our tongues wrap and unwrap. I reach under your shirt and massage your breasts, then find your nipples and twist them gently. You smile and unzip your jeans, pull them off. I look around for a whip or paddle, but can only find a jar of peanut butter. I open the lid, and use my index finger to spread it in circles across your stomach. The strip club is completely empty. I grab your waist and hoist you onto the stage, then take a drink of beer. Jennifer. I put down the glass, and you are gone. Only your eyes remain, extremely blue, and full of little gold specs.

     I feel my stomach turn to mush, so I head toward the bathroom. I lean over the sink and look into the mirror. Someone has used a key to scratch, “My reflection is blurred, but the mirror is blameless” in large, jagged letters. Below it in smaller letters is written, “I need new glasses.” I look down at my watch. 11:42. I’m about nine miles from the Frontier, which will probably take three hours to walk.

     As I leave the bathroom a German voice growls, asche zu asche. Jezebelle twirls around the steel pole, and then starts to climb it. The dagger curves and bends outward.

* * * * * * * *

     The windows are at eye level, and most of the panes have been broken out. The walls are wooden slats covered with faded strips of white paint. I hunch down and look in. The floor is about twenty feet below, and I crane my head to see. I feel Jennifer’s hand on my shoulder and look up. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest, and her lips tremble.

     There are candles everywhere, and the overhead lights are dim and amber. A man walks down the center of the room, toward a makeshift altar. A ponytail curls over his shoulder, almost white, tied at the bottom with a small red cord. His sunglasses are indigo-blue, the lenses perfectly round. A small goat trails behind, led forward by a chain leash. There are rows of people along the walls, and they bow their heads as the goat passes.

     There is a poster along the front of the building, above the altar. A tiny man sits beside a leafless tree. Above him is a pool of orange liquid, and a few drops stretch to the ground. The priest stands on the altar and picks up the goat. He raises it above his head, and I see his lips flutter. People file to the center of the room, and sit down Indian-style.

     He puts the goat on a wooden table, turns it upside down, and tears its stomach open with a small dagger. The goat screams-bleats, kicks its legs furiously, and blood slides outward. He holds the wound open, and uses an ice cream scoop to ladle blood into a tall wooden glass. The goat rolls to the floor, and the man’s arms trace out arcs.

     A woman emerges from the shadows in the back, walks toward the altar. She is naked, except for a pair of white panties. Her skin is cream-gray, and shadows hang over her face. Black hair stretches halfway down her back, hides her shoulders and her ears. A small silver chain curves around her hips, glints as she passes a row of candles. She holds a string of turquoise beads and a silver mask. The priest steps down from the altar, takes off his sunglasses, stares at her. She steps into him, puts her arms around his neck. He takes the mask and puts it on.

     The woman collapses onto a bench, hunches forward and hides her face. Her hair hangs down on both sides, and she tucks a strand of it under her chin. The priest picks her up, carries her onto the altar, and stands her against the back wall, underneath the poster. A large man comes forward and binds her arms and legs together with twine. She looks upward and to the left, toward the open window, into two pale faces and five eyes. She smiles, and her cheekbones arch upward, create shadows by her ears.

* * * * * * * *

     I reach the Frontier at 2:54AM. The line stretches out the front door, and around the side of the building. I wait, order a chicken enchilada plate with red chile, and find a booth. John Wayne stares at me from the opposite wall, rugged dimples in his cheeks. A wagon wheel chandelier hangs above, ringed by white plastic candles.

     Two girls sit down at the table next to me; one is wearing black vinyl pants. Written across her t-shirt in cursive are the words, “Boys are great, every girl should own one.” I look down at the crusted chile on my plate, pick up my glass and fish out an ice cube. 3:47.

     You drive across the desert. Concrete dividers line either side of the road, and they are studded with blue reflectors. The moon sets over the Sangre de Christo Mountains; the boulders are jagged and crowned with yucca. Red and blue lights flash up ahead, and the breeze carries the rancid smell of burning rubber. I’ll wait another thirty minutes.

     Two men walk past my booth, and then stop. They turn around and stare at me. One of them comes back, stands beside me. He wears a gray Italian suit, complete with a handkerchief in his coat pocket. He coughs, and then scratches at his earlobes.

     “Can I help you?”
     “Yes. My name is Brunello, and I advise you to leave town."
     “What?”
     “Leave town, Mr. Director.” He drops a broken videocassette onto my table. The film has been ripped out and the label is torn off.
     “It was an accident. We wanted to shoot a fetish scene in that building. It was a mistake. Besides, that tape was the only copy. My whole business is here.”
     “Your friends abandoned you in a cemetery. So will we.” He turns away, stares at John Wayne for a minute, and then goes back to his partner. The two men walk out the sliding glass doors, and their breath steams upward into the night.