by Rick R. Reed
He clumsily seated himself on the couch, almost missing it. Once she would have laughed and teased him about it. Now she felt pity.
Anne sat down across from him. "Joe. You can't do this to yourself. Where have you been? What's been going on?"
He shook his head, dismissing what she was saying. "None of that matters. What matters is I need you to survive. I love you so much, Anne." His words came out between sobs. "I really do. You have to take me back. I'll be my old self again. You'll see. Please."
"Joe, I don't know."
"We'll take a nice vacation. Get it back. I won't do the bad things anymore. I can't help myself sometimes. But with you I know it'll be all right. If we can just get away together for a little while. It'll be just like it used to be. Remember?"
He got up and knelt in front of her, grabbing her hand and holding it tight. Anne felt nauseated by the smell of him. "Please," she said, pulling her hand away and standing.
"Annie, please." He was on all fours, begging. "Let me come home. I promise not to do the bad things anymore. I love you. I really love you. Don't you know that?"
"I don't know anything anymore!" she said, her own eyes filling with tears. "Please, Joe, please, go!" She hurried to the door and opened it. "If you really love me you'll leave now. Come back when you're straight."
The pain on his face reached somewhere deep inside her. She wanted to embrace him. She wanted to scream. "Please," she whispered, the tears flowing, "go."
She turned her head as he walked by her. "Annie, I'll be back. Remember, I love you."
She kept her face turned away from him, waiting until the heavy odors of alcohol and perspiration had cleared.
Then she closed the door.
Nick MontPierre started up his maroon Volvo when he saw Joe leave the building. He let it idle as he watched Joe go to a bus stop in front of their building and wait for a bus. After five minutes a southbound bus pulled up, Joe let three people go ahead of him and then got on. Several seconds later Nick watched Joe get back off the bus. He could see Joe screaming at the driver, but couldn't hear what he was saying. The doors squeezed shut and the bus went on its way.
Joe waited a moment, then stepped out into the road and hoisted his thumb up.
Nick pulled out into the traffic and stopped a few feet beyond where Joe was standing. He watched in the rearview mirror as Joe hurried to get in the car.
Once Joe was inside, Nick tried not to notice the smell, wondering how the handsome, meticulous man in the photographs had transformed himself into this greasy-haired, unshaven street person.
"How you doin'?" Nick asked him.
"You goin' downtown? Chicago Avenue?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact that's right where I'm going. Have to pick up a couple things at Water Tower. Where can I let you off?"
"Know where the Lawson Y is?"
"Sure, you stayin' there?"
"Am now." Joe hunched down in the seat and stared out the window.
Nick eased out into the traffic on outer Lake Shore Drive. He tried to make conversation, to find out a little more about Joe. But Joe wouldn't answer and after a while Nick gave up.
Nick dropped Joe off at the Lawson Y on Chicago Avenue and drove around the block. He found a parking space and waited in his car for fifteen minutes.
Inside the Lawson YMCA, Nick asked to see the register, making up a story about needing to find a guy who had done some work for him, because he needed additional work done.
Joe used the same name. Alex Waters. He was in room 712.
Now Nick could find out just what the hell was going on.
IS
Margo's nails are sharp, painted red. They dig into his wrist, forcing his hand down against the beige sheets of his parents' bed. Joe looks over, his eyes those of a trapped animal, to see her nails dig in deep enough to pierce the skin. There is a satisfied sigh from her when she sees the trickle of blood run down his arm. She takes the nylon cord and ties his arm to the bedpost. She has already tied the other arm down.
His father sits at the bottom of the bed, holding Joe's legs, one ankle in each hand. Joe looks down at his father, who is naked, his erection snaking up from between his legs. "No," Joe whispers, without emphasis. There is no mercy.
"You can go now," his father says to Margo.
"But I wanted to watch."
"Go on, get out of here."
Petulantly, Margo gets up from her side of the
bed and walks to the door. She looks over her shoulder at Joe and laughs. "Now you'll know," she says. "Now you'll have a taste of what I've had. Have fun!" She hurries from the room, laughing.
"Just relax, Joey. This ain't gonna be so bad if you take it easy."
Joe's fingers claw at the bed sheets as he watches a blob of spit drop from his father's mouth onto his penis. When his father looks up, it's as if Joe no longer exists. His father throws Joe's legs up, resting them on his shoulders. Joe closes his eyes, biting down hard on his lower lip as he feels the piercing pain, so bad he wants to scream. Fire boils through his veins.
He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, and the warmth of it gives him sustenance. He keeps his eyes squeezed together, not wanting to see the specter of his father thrusting above him, the fat hairy belly above his own young thighs.
The pain lessens a little and Joe finds himself hearing the radio downstairs. WUSA. His mother is listening to the country-western station that is her constant kitchen companion. Loretta Lynn is singing "Coal Miner's Daughter." Joe smells bread baking and imagines his mother in her apron, bending over in front of the stove, sliding the stainless steel bread pans into the oven.
Why doesn't she help me?
Joe feels a warm wetness that begins with his father's groans. His father pulls out of him and lets his legs drop back down on the bed. He pats Joe's leg. "You're a good boy," he says.
At the door, his father pauses and calls Margo. His sister comes back into the bedroom.
"Clean up in there, willya?"
His father disappears and Joe hears the sound of the bathroom door closing. Margo comes in and looks at him. There is a smile on her face as she looks down at Joe, who wants to cry but for some reason can't.
"Yuck. What a mess," Margo says. She lifts her nose and sniffs. "And it stinks in here. Smells like shit." She giggles.
Joe looks down and sees the small round pool of blood beneath his buttocks on the beige sheets.
Why doesn't anyone fyelp me?
Joe awakened from the dream, the pillow beneath his head pressed flat and smelling of his sweat. He lifted his head from the damp pillow and looked around the small room, seeing unidentifiable shapes in the darkness. He reassured himself, sitting up, that he was no longer in his parents' house, and he remembered checking into the Lawson YMCA that afternoon.
Joe got up and switched on the overhead light.
He needed blood.
Outside, Nick MontPierre put down the Sun Times he was reading and perked up. He had managed to figure out which room was Joe's. Nick had been waiting through the afternoon and into the dusk for the light to come on, wondering if Joe had left by a fire escape, worried that he wouldn't be able to tail him, worried he would find out nothing for Anne.
He wanted to please her.
Joe stood and looked in the mirror. His face was grimy with sweat and a three-day-old beard. He didn't care. It didn't matter anymore.
He looked at his Burberry raincoat on the floor, splattered with mud courtesy of a Chicago cabdriver. The coat was wrinkled and filthy anyway; the extra mud didn't hurt its appearance that much.
My God, what have I done?
Joe picked up the coat and hugged it to him, as if hugging the old life back to him. It's gone now, he thought, what does it matter?
What I used to he is finally gone. I'm something else now.
He pulled the raincoat on, belting it tight.
He flicked off the light switch.
As soon as the light went out Nick started his
engine. Even if Joe didn't come out, the car needed some warming up, and so did Nick. But it wasn't long before he saw Joe exiting the front of the Y. Nick placed his foot on the brake and put the car in drive, waiting. Joe started up Rush Street. Nick let two cars pass, then pulled out into traffic. Joe seemed so unaware of what was going on around him that Nick thought he could have walked alongside Joe and Joe wouldn't have noticed, but he didn't want to take any chances.
* * *
A hooker, Joe was thinking. A nice little whore nobody would miss. He walked up Rush, past the revelers out looking for a good time on Division, and on up north.
Two women stood in an apartment doorway, shivering in miniskirts and fake-fur jackets. Joe looked them over quickly. One was black, the other oriental. Both looked hardened and old: heavy eye makeup, lip gloss that stood out like a neon advertisement in the cold night. They would not do.
They turned away when Joe walked by. He supposed they were already too practiced in judging who could afford and who couldn't.
He needed someone riot so jaded. Someone a little vulnerable.
He walked several blocks north, seeing the same women he had seen in the apartment house doorway a few blocks back in assorted colors and sizes, all with hardened expressions and knowing eyes that sized him up before he even got by. He began to tire, and these worn women began to look more and more fitting for his purpose.
He approached one.
Joe took out one of his last cigarettes, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and walked over to a red-haired young woman who leaned against a black car.
"Hey . . . you got a light?"
"Beat it, man. You're gonna scare people away."
"What kind of people?" Joe asked, grinning.
The woman looked nervous. He noticed her roots were dark and she had a black eye hidden under pancake makeup. "Never mind, just get away from me."
"Don't you want to make some money?"
"Yeah," the prostitute hissed, "that's exactly why I want you to get the fuck out of here." She lit a cigarette, brought the match close to Joe's cigarette, and let it drop to the ground.
Joe continued up the street.
Nick put his camera back down on the seat beside him. What would Anne think when she saw the pictures? What do I think? Why would this guy throw everything away? Why?
Joe was about to give up and look for an answer to his needs in some other way when he saw her. She looked so young, no older than fourteen. Her face was heavily made up and her blond hair was pulled back. She had three or four earrings in each ear and was smoking, but none of the affectations could hide the innocence in that face. This one probably still liked to play with dolls.
He walked up to her, pulling his dirty hair off his forehead, trying to comb it with his fingers.
"Hey," he said, "it's awfully cold out here. Wouldn't you like to go someplace warm?" He smiled at her, and watched as she looked him over. There was more than interest in her eyes, and Joe thought he'd have no problem with this one. Another missing runaway. Who gave a fuck? She must have stared at him for five minutes before she said anything. There was a little smile on her face.
"Fuck off," she finally said.
Nick snapped one more picture. He wanted to grab that little girl and take her home with him. She looked so young. And what did a creep like Joe MacAree want with her? Nick watched as Joe sat down on the street corner, lowering his head into his hands. His body shook. He seemed to be crying.
Nick looked down at his watch. It was after ten o'clock. It would be nice to pack it in. Get back to his warm apartment and develop tonight's photographs. 01
But Joe was standing up. He was heading south.
Joe needed someone. He had no money left. He needed to talk to someone. And other than Anne there was no one he could turn to, except the woman who had tried to blackmail him in Berwyn. In spite of her predatory ways Joe felt he knew her better than she realized, and that made him stop resenting her. He also knew that she longed for him and would probably welcome him back into the cramped apartment in which she lived.
He had enough change to pay for a subway ride and a transfer.
Nick whipped the maroon Volvo into the parking space in front of a fire hydrant and followed at a short distance. Joe descended into the subway. The weariness Nick had felt earlier began to dissipate. Maybe he would find out everything he needed to know about Joe MacAree in this one night. At least tailing him wasn't boring.
The subway train was just pulling out when Joe got into the station. He hurried to get on the next-to-last car. Nick sprinted to make the last car on the subway, forcing the door apart to get on. He sighed with relief as the train jerked into motion. Following someone on a separate subway car would be impossible, a test even he would fail. He walked up to the front and peered into the adjoining car. Joe sat on one of the orange plastic seats near the door. Here, at least, was one place Joe fit in, Nick thought. He didn't look a bit out of place.
Joe had walked all the way from Cicero Avenue and Roosevelt Road to Oak Park Avenue, looking behind him every few seconds to see if a bus was coming. He thought it must be too late and there weren't very many running. His ears were burning with cold and his fingers felt numb. Mucus in his nostrils crackled with every breath he took.
She'd better be there.
Nick had a difficult time following Joe. Was he getting suspicious? Was that why he kept peering back over his shoulder? Nick was forced to stop and jump into the shadows every time Joe made a motion to turn back.
Jc Jc "k
Joe stood outside the apartment building and noticed the lights were out in her apartment. Damn, if she wasn't home . . .
But he knew, somehow, she would be. A woman like that just wouldn't get out much. He knew it. It had to be as true as the cold that was making his teeth chatter.
He went inside and rang the buzzer for her apartment. There was a long pause, and finally an answering buzz opened the door. Joe went inside.
Nick was able to stand outside and to the left of the little apartment house vestibule while Joe rang the buzzer. He snapped a picture of Joe standing in the vestibule. Since there were only five names on the mailboxes, it wasn't hard to see which one Joe pressed. As soon as Joe had disappeared into the hallway, Nick pulled the door open and went inside.
The vestibule was dim, lit by a low-watt bulb overhead. There was the smell of cooked cabbage. Nick took a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and wrote down Pat Young's name and address. More information to check on. Was this the woman Joe was sleeping with instead of his wife? Enough speculating, he thought, sort the facts when you have more information. Pat Young could be a man for all you know. And wouldn't that make things interesting? Pat Young could also be a friend, a client. Quit trying to make up a scenario without any of the facts. You'll never be a good detective like your father if you start relying on guessing and your imagination. Consider the facts.
Nick let himself get warm in the vestibule. He wished his car wasn't so far away.
"My, my. Isn't this a surprise?" Pat held the door open and stared up at Joe. "Well, why don't you come in?" Her words were mocking, but she moved the wheelchair back to admit him.
She was dressed in a white flannel nightgown with small flowers, and Joe thought she looked unusually vulnerable. There was a softness there Joe knew she would never admit to.
She slammed the door behind him and laughed. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I've had some bad times," Joe mumbled, wishing he hadn't come. There would be no comfort here. "My wife wanted us to separate. . . ."
Pat's laughter chilled him. "She had enough of a big boy like you? That woman must be crazy! Although if you looked like you do now when she threw you out, I can't say that I blame her."
Joe stared at the nap of the brown carpeting, his ears burning. "I came to you because of what happened last time. I thought I saw something in you that time, something maybe we have in common."
He watched as her
face went expressionless, then as a faint blush rose to her cheeks. "What happened last time shows only that we have nothing in common. I'm not a murderer; I just happen to have a healthy interest in sex. Now, what did you really come here for?"
"I need some money. I don't have any." Suddenly, Joe felt like crying. Tomorrow he would get Anne back.
"If you want money," Pat said, "you have to earn it." She winked at him. Then with vicious-ness she said, "Only no help from me this time. You fly solo."
"All right," Joe whispered. He began to unbuckle his belt.
"Christ! Not like that! Get in there and take a bath first. Clean yourself up! Shave!" She sneered at him, pointing to the bathroom. "You're hardly very exciting in your current state."
Joe disappeared into the bathroom.
Nick, shivering and staring into the lobby Joe had entered, thought this stakeout would have to come to a close. Joe could be spending the night there. Nick would freeze to death waiting for him to reemerge. He would call a cab. Enough.
Pat licked his come from her hand. "What are you staring at?" She looked up at him. "Go on, get out of here!"
'1 thought you were going to give me some money."
"Oh, sure, I'm just loaded. Beat it, asshole."
Joe bit his lip to keep from crying. He would not reduce himself to that in front of her. He picked up the grimy clothes, recoiling slightly as he put them on his newly clean self. After he was dressed he went to the door.
Opening it, he heard her call his name.
"Come here," she said. He walked over and stood in front of her wheelchair. "Kneel down; I want to look at your pretty face." Joe knelt and looked into her blue eyes.
"I've tried to get ahold of you a few times . . . seems I can only get wifey on the phone." When Joe looked panicked she said, "Don't worry; I hang up on her. I haven't told anyone about you . . . yet." Pat thought for a moment, then added, "Except, of course, for the people who already know, and they won't say anything without clearance from me first. You know, sometimes I just like to have you around. I like what you have between your legs." She giggled. Pat wheeled back and took her wallet out of a drawer. "If you'll tell me where you can be reached and promise me you'll come see me when I call, I'll give you a little money. Deal?"
