Palace Of Wrinkles

By Pablo Zaragoza

Be careful what you wish for…

 

In this 5-part anthology, people seek profound physical change but do not fathom the horrors that await them on the journey to realize their dreams. They seek solace by going to the Excelsior Club, known by Miami locals as the Palace of Wrinkles.

 

Tale #1: A wrinkled woman lures young men to her mansion on a romantic pretext, but she and her ancient servant ritually kill them, drain their blood, and bathe in it to become rejuvenated.

 

Tale #2: The bored wife of an aging couple seeks excitement at the Palace. Her husband holds the only key to a secret locked trunk. His wife meets a young man who convinces her to get the key and unlock the secret fortune. When they do, they unleash an age-old evil family spirit that destroys them and sets the husband free of the spirit.

 

Tale #3: An aging TV personality desperately needs to reverse his aging to save his flagging career. He goes to a religious practitioner who promises to restore his youth. In his zeal for it, he neglects to say how young; she takes him back to infancy.

 

Tale #4: A young woman obsesses about her body. To make her happy, her older boyfriend invests all of his money for numerous plastic surgeries. She becomes gorgeous and no longer wants him. When she tries to leave him, he turns her life into a deadly nightmare.

 

Tale #5: A woman trapped in a man's body meets four mature women at the Palace. Determined to get enough money for gender reassignment surgery, he goes to their house where the women, really witches, transform him into a woman but a very old, wrinkled one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pablo Zaragoza
• Release date: May 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201258719

Book preview

Table of Contents

PALACE OF WRINKLES

Prologue

THE OLD WOMAN

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

THE CONQUEROR WORM

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

A GREEDY MODERN WOMAN

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

AMBIGUOUS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue - A Hell Of A Party

About The Author

Also By Pablo Zaragoza

Copyright

Prologue

Our business takes place mostly at night. Those who don’t want others to see them find their way to us. The old and wrinkled, those who still want to have a good time, frequent this establishment on the south side of Miami. The exterior isn’t special, but there is a flaming red awning at the entrance. In the occasional Florida cloudburst, the awning helps to prevent smearing and smudging of heavy makeup on those who try to hide their advanced years. They leave their canes and walkers behind and make their way to the door.

I’ve been running this place for a while. Some say I started here before Julia Tuttle convinced Henry Flagler to extend his Florida East Coast Railway to Miami. I won’t say how old this establishment is, but certainly we have seen many dreamers walk through our doors. You see, the older crowd collides with a younger set to recapture times when they had the desire to get up and go, when they could go all night, and not take all night to do it. Wolves and sheep come here to feed, and sometimes, the would-be wolves actually are the sheep.

Let me introduce myself. I am Armando, general manager of Club Excelsior, lovingly known by the Miami community as the Palace of Wrinkles. I stand at attention in my black tuxedo jacket, crisp white shirt, black dress pants with a black stripe down each side, and a black bowtie. My hair is short but not so short that my scalp reveals the salt and pepper. I hate when older gentlemen try to cover their age with Clairol for Men. It is unbecoming, staining their scalp black. I try to stay in shape. A man with a beer belly hanging over his belt is vile and disgusting, but men like that come to the club, still wearing bell bottom pants and multicolored polyester shirts. With a twenty-year-old woman draped on his wrinkled arm, the old dog thinks his looks attracted her, but the only thing she wants to see is the size of his bank account.

The women are no different, covering their necks with pearls or silk scarves so the wrinkles won’t show. They have stretched their skin to the point where it looks like plastic, leaving them with a perpetual false smile of facial surgery. They dress inappropriately for old women, showing cleavage that had long since gone south; but thanks to nips and tucks and restrictive garments, it is back where it used to be.

The night has few stars, but there was a time when we could see every star in the Milky Way from here. Now, there is too much background glare from the city lights to see even one star. A sign on the building flashes our name Club Excelsior, making it sparkle. A searchlight at each end beckons people to come. We are open and ready to do business. By 9:00 p.m., the parking lot in front is full, and most of our patrons’ park across the street.

The owner loves to drop by occasionally to see how business is going. Tonight, is one of those nights. His red Porsche Carrera comes into view, and he easily pulls it up under the awning. He gets out of the car slowly and deliberately, making sure everyone at the door sees him. He has a black goatee, trimmed and sculpted to perfection, and wavy jet-black hair that falls just below his ears. His piercing black eyes are open wide to notice everyone at the front door. His tailored white suit, Armani by my estimation, expertly fits his body.

I step up to the car and extend my hand in greeting. It is wonderful to see you again.

It’s great to be back. Everything in order, my friend?

Business is doing quite well. Profits are high. I heard you were ill.

No, just getting rid of another wife. They become possessive, you know, and I don’t like it when they think they own me.

I start to laugh. Possessing you, sir? Unthinkable, but this is wife number four, isn’t it?

Armando, it’s way more than four, but who’s counting?

I lift the brass chain protecting the front door. I tell Julian, one of the security guards, to park the boss’s car and to be very careful with it. Julian salutes, heads for the car, and quickly slides onto the driver’s seat. The boss tells me to give the boy a good tip. I promise that I will. The boss never carries cash because, as he says, it burns a hole in his pocket, and by the end of the night, he has none.

We walk into the club. The interior is very dark and smoke-filled, which is how our clientele likes it. The smoky darkness hides the ravages of time, a cruel curse on humanity, a curse that distorts the joints with arthritis, fogs the memory, and blemishes the skin. They go to the spa, get injections of Botox and collagen, hire trainers and gurus, and spend a fortune trying to avoid the inevitable.

Club Excelsior provides these men and women a fantasy venue, a place where they can escape and be what they want to be. At one time, they were the doctors, lawyers, and businessmen who had spent their youth in school, striving for something, and found at the end of the road, nothing. Now, they come here to capture something they believe was denied them: life. Before, they were always preoccupied with other things: profession, business. School had taken all the fun out of their lives, and now nearing the end, they want to capture what had been denied them: living.

Tables and booths, with small flickering candles in wine bottles, provide atmosphere. The soft music, a blend of merengue, salsa, and ballads, gives the place a multicultural flare. We shy away from rap, heavy metal, and punk rock because most of our clients are from a different generation, one that enjoys talking to their partner before climbing into bed with them.

Couples dance on our polished parquet floor. They hold each other tight, both the men and the women. One couple, it appears, needs to be hosed down. Movements of this particular young woman are causing her older male partner to blush. His hands are all over her, caressing her breast implants for which he paid handsomely in the Dominican Republic.

The dance floor empties so the three-piece band can take a break. They step off the crowded bandstand, and the canned music starts. The couples need their oxygen tanks, their bathroom breaks, and a rest from all the groping, I mean dancing. The band isn’t the best in town. Most of the players were popular locally in the 70s and early 80s, but they work here for practically nothing. I give them a couple of watered-down drinks and a few cold chicken wings, and at the end of the night, $300.

Some of the older guests recognize one or more of the band members. Didn’t you play bass for the Young Men of Steel? No, you were in Universal Conjunction, man. How come you guys never made it big? K-C and the Sunshine Band did. Those guys were lame compared to you.

The harassed band members nod and say, Those are the breaks, man. Those are just the breaks and walk into the backroom to smoke a reefer or take a leak behind the dumpster. They wander back thirty minutes later and start up again with songs they wouldn’t have been caught dead playing in their youth, but they need the money.

The old piano player, who, years ago, had a thick mustache and hair down to his shoulders, has a billiard ball for a head and Coke-bottle glasses, and he needs a drink to steady his hands before a set. He has to work part time at a grocery store and lives with his aged mother to make ends meet. Once in a while, one of the wrinkled ladies remembers him from her youth and sees him as he was and not as he is; and the nights that happens, the piano man gets lucky. That happens less and less as time passes, though.

The drummer, whose dyed red hair looks overcooked, snorts up a few lines of coke to jumpstart his rhythm. He claims he needs it to get into the music. He doesn’t realize he is just another junkie looking for a fix. He works during the day as a used car salesman, the kind you want to avoid when shopping for a car. He had been fired from yet another lot and needs this job to tide him over until he can find a new one.

The guitar man hasn’t changed much since his youth, or so he thinks, but now he has wavy. snowy white hair that skims his shoulders. He underwent open-heart bypass surgery last year, and doctors told him to take it easy and enjoy life, and he has done that. He had one of those penile pumps installed three weeks ago and took on a twenty-four-year-old mistress, who just waits for the old man to croak.

The three old men find their way to the stage. They tune up, chat among themselves, and get ready to play another set.

I signal to Jorge, our head waiter, to come and greet the boss. Jorge is so ancient he can barely stand on his own, but he straightens up when he sees who is with me. He wears a tuxedo, as well, but his is bright red with a red cummerbund and bowtie. It takes him forever to walk, but finally he catches up to us.

Sir, how have you been? he addresses the boss. It has been some time, you know, since your last visit to our little palace.

I’ve had more pressing business elsewhere. My clubs in Thailand haven’t been doing as well as I’d like so we’ve had to spice up the menu. There’s this business of replacing a wife, too, you know.

I know, and so many things have happened since you were here last. We do have interesting clientele that keep us entertained, but I’m sure Armando will fill in the details, sir.

I do want to hear them. He turns to me, and I nod that I will share the gossip.

I tell Jorge to find us a nice booth and bring champagne and caviar. Jorge shows us to a secluded booth near the back of the club. We sit and wait for the hors d’oeuvres and bubbly.

Well, Armando, what’s the gossip?

Oh, my, there are many stories here, sir, many stories.

Jorge brings the champagne and caviar to our table. What juicy stories have you told the boss, Armando? he asks.

Well, none, actually. I was waiting for the bubbly.

Tell me about one of the most bizarre and intriguing stories, my friend. You know how I love the bizarre, says the boss.

Very well, sir.

THE OLD WOMAN

Chapter One

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

J. R. R. Tolkien

I knew Countess Elizabeta’s bedroom in her spacious estate on Star Island from having been there once to cater a party. The room had a lot of frills—a four-poster canopy bed with luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets and a fluffy down comforter, a thick Persian rug in white that matched her walls perfectly. On her mahogany vanity, polished to a mirror-like finish, were several crystal perfume bottles like those seen in old black and white movies, not the aerosols of today. In silver frames on the vanity and on her nightstand were watercolors of people she had known. I recognized Churchill, Gandhi, Stalin, and other notables from around the world.

Elizabeta was a frail woman, who sat in front of the vanity, gazing into the mirror. I entered her room to ask about arrangements for her party. Her arms were thin and wrinkled, and I could see blue veins pulsating through her translucent skin. Her breasts had been ravaged and reduced to shriveled raisins that hung pendulously toward her waist. Her hair was thin enough to reveal her scalp and show veins rise and fall with each heartbeat. Her eyes were bloodshot, and when she opened her mouth, all I saw were yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.

She wore a silk negligee, and as she slowly turned toward me, she yelled, Gustav, get this man out of my bedroom!

An octogenarian entered the room. The man, thin as a rail, wore red livery and a white ruffled shirt. He was unsteady on his feet, bracing himself as best he could on the walls, which he touched with white-gloved hands.

Madam, I live to serve, but this is Armando from the Excelsior Club, wanting to know about tonight’s arrangements.

He can fucking wait downstairs. I’ll be with him shortly.

Gustav showed me the door. I stood on the landing and continued my observations before descending the marble spiral staircase to the foyer.

As Gustav was about to leave, I heard her say, Stay and help me before I talk to that little man.

Madam, you know I live to serve you.

You are such a dear. What would I do without you?

I dread the thought of you being on your own, Madam.

Stop being an ass and help me with my hair.

I could see her reflection in the vanity mirror. Gustav helped her tie the strands of thin white hair into a bun. He went to her closet and looked at her collection of wigs in different styles. Which one, Madam? he asked.

The blonde one, so I can pull my skin and tighten some of my wrinkles.

It’s awfully dusty, Madam.

Never mind. Just take the hand-held vacuum cleaner and pass it over the damn thing.

As you wish.

I heard the whirling and sucking sound of the vacuum. She yelled, Be careful with that. I have to look my best for this evening.

Yes, Madam.

I caught a glimpse of her transformation. Having cleaned the stylish blonde wig, Gustav placed it on her head. She opened the top vanity drawer and took out a roll of adhesive tape. He pulled back on her wrinkled skin and lifted the shoulder-length wig from her neck.

Now, go on with it, she said anxiously as she stared at the little old man.

I saw how he took the skin behind her neck and bunched it together. He then secured it with tape in a feeble attempt to give her skin a smooth appearance. Her neck showed fewer wrinkles, at least for now. She let her hair fall, hiding the tape beneath it.

As Gustav was about to leave, Elizabeta said, Stay, old dear, and help me with my makeup. You do such a good job.

Madam, my hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.

Come on. I trust you more than myself about these little details.

If you insist, Madam.I want you to apply this first. It’s called Plexaderm. It is supposed to remove at least 50 percent of those nasty cracks and valleys on my face.

Madam, it appears that the claims they make in their advertising are bogus, in the popular vernacular. I suggest you try the Angeletta cream which has a better reputation.

Do you think so, Gustav?

Madam, I scour the Internet to find those things which will make you look and feel wonderful.

He applied the cream all over her face, under her eyelids, on her forehead. He stood over her for a while and then began to remove the cream from her face. The preparation hadn’t performed miracles, but it gave the desired effect of hiding some of her facial imperfections. Next, he generously applied Aura Revive Skincare foundation.

The boss asks me, How did you know that?

Well, the product isn’t exclusively for women.

He laughs, and I continue explaining what I saw from the staircase landing.

Gustav began to apply mascara on each eye, smoothing it out with his thumb. Then delicately, he took the eyeliner pencil and highlighted the eyes in black.

Elizabeta opened a drawer on the right side of the vanity and took out a small compact. Even from my vantage point, I could see that was it was mother of pearl, which hadn’t been crafted in this century. She lifted the lid and dabbed dots of rouge on each cheek and smeared it in two big rosy circles. She finished by applying red lipstick.

Gustav, get my bra, please.

Do you want me to adjust that limp and wrinkled pair into the bra, Madam?

Just hand it to me.

As you wish, Madam.He handed her a black lace brassiere with enough support to handle the weight of the Brooklyn Bridge. She squeezed her old sagging breasts into the push-up bra with considerable effort. She stood up and slipped out of her nightgown. I could see the blue varicose veins in her legs, and as she stood in front of the mirror, I could see no pubic hair. She contemplated her form, posing on one side and then the other. She had developed a small but noticeable pot belly. She looked at it and said to herself out loud, No, that won’t do.

She went to a white French armoire and opened the double doors. She opened the top drawer and looked at several corsets before finding the one she wanted. She called out to Gustav, I need help.

Gustav had been adjusting his white wig to completely hide his bald head. He moved slowly toward her as she held out the corset.

Wouldn’t Madam rather put her underwear on first before we do the corset?

Oh, very well. She pulled the second drawer out and selected a pair of red panties.

You have very good eyesight, Armando, for catching all of this from the landing.

I have exceptionally good eyesight, sir.

The aged woman almost fell while putting on her underwear, and Gustav struggled to help her with her corset. He fastened it until she could barely breathe.You animal, I need to breathe a little. This is way too tight.

If you say so, Madam. I am only here to serve you.

He loosened the corset enough to allow her to breathe more easily. She put on a black dress and selected a pair of Carson black leather high heels by Steve Madden, which she carried out of the room. I rushed off the landing, down the spiral staircase, and into the foyer.

She came down the stairs in a regal manner. My guests will be arriving at 9:00 sharp and will require the champagne to be chilled at 7 degrees Centigrade, she said to me. I will not tolerate anything less.

Yes, Madam.

I will have veal Florentine with angel hair spaghetti ala Bolognese on the side. Make enough for three or four.

Who are Madam’s guests? I asked.

I haven’t decided yet.

Very well.

Chapter Two

I left the mansion with my instructions. The drive back to Miami was always a pleasant one, passing over the causeway with the bay’s blue-green water visible on both sides of the road. The palm trees that had been planted ever so carefully next to the road did not provide shade, but who wants to be hidden from the sun in this city?

As I got into my car, the cell phone rang. Mr. Armando?

Yes, who is this?

It’s Ernesto at the club.

Yes, Ernesto, what can I do for you?

We have no dishwasher, sir. La Migra just picked up Pablo.

La Migra?

Yes, Immigration came and took him away.

Didn’t Pablo have papers?

No, sir. He came over the border in a truck with twenty other people. The coyote gave him a fake Social Security card but no green card.

Where is he now?

He’s at the Krome Detention Center on Twelfth Street in South Miami.

Well, I can’t do anything for him now. Can we get someone to fill in for him?

I have a cousin who could help.

Put an apron and some gloves on him and get him started. We’ll see what I can do for Ernesto when I get back to the club.

As I was racing to the club, I called an immigration attorney I knew on Brickell Avenue. His secretary came on the phone. Mr. Antonio’s office. How can I help you?

Yes, Laura, this is Mr. Armando from the Excelsior Club.

Yes, Mr. Armando, and how are you, sir?

Immigration has picked up one of my staff and is holding him at Krome.

Oh, well, I’m sure we can help him. Give me his full name, and I’ll let Mr. Antonio know.

Isn’t he available?

He’s with a client now, and he’s due in court in less than an hour. But I’ll give him the message, and he’ll call you back.

She hung up, and thirty minutes later, as I was parking the car, the phone rang. It was Antonio. He was a regular customer who would come to the club with some of his more questionable clients for drinks and debauchery. Antonio was a thin man with a receding hairline and thick glasses. His was pale white, so sickly that the veins on his forearms and the pulse in his carotid arteries were visible when he spoke. His voice was falsetto, almost effeminate, but his actions at the club gave no hint that his orientation was anything other than straight.

What’s up, Armando? he asked over the phone.

My dishwasher got caught by Immigration.

Man, dishwashers here in town are a dime a dozen. I wouldn’t spend the money on the clown and move on.

What’s it going to cost?

Ten thousand up front, and then we’ll see what I can do.

Okay.

I’ll see him this afternoon. They won’t let him out until the hearing and his disposition is adjudicated.

How long will that take?

Three to six months, if we’re lucky.

Then let’s hope we’re lucky.

I hung up on this parasite living off the misfortunes of others, but isn’t that what we do? Living off the misery, loneliness, self-loathing of others, were we any different than Antonio?

I got out of the car and started to walk to the club. The heat was so intense that I felt like I was melting. As I opened the door, a blast of cold air covered my body and immediately invigorated me. Busboys were cleaning the booths and tables, and various personnel were pointing to food scraps, condoms, popcorn, and cups on the floor. They were busy, and I stopped for a moment to inspect, making sure that every nook and cranny was clean before the customers came through the door. I left them to their work and went into our spacious, bustling kitchen.

Harvey from Sizzlefish, the local distributor of mussels, clams, salmon, grouper, and catfish, came through the back door. He opened the boxes and allowed me a sniff test. The clams hadn’t opened, which was the sign that they were fresh. The fish didn’t have that fishy odor, and the salmon was a deep orange hue.

Pepe was just coming in from the Produce Connection in Northwest Miami, asking for help with the bags in his truck. We bought produce every day to ensure absolute freshness. I didn’t need an inspector telling me that the lettuce was wilted, the tomatoes had blight, or the asparagus heads were starting to go limp.

I went back to the dishwashing station where Ernesto’s cousin was working away. They took care of things for you? I asked.

He turned around and looked at me. He was a lightly tanned, thin, young man with black hair. His mustache was peach fuzz that looked more like the hair on a cat’s ass than a mustache.

Yes, Señor Armando, my cousin told me all the rules, and I have in my pocket all my papers. He dug into his pocket and took out his Social Security card and green card. I took them and made copies and returned them to him.

It was around 3:00 p.m. when Hector, our executive chef, came through the back door and walked over to me. He was an overweight Dominican who had come to