by Urban, Tony
Shit, he's tasting it, Mitch thought.
"It's just an expression, ain't it?" Lumpy said.
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
Lumpy stammered, trying to get out an answer, then gave up. Mitch decided he'd grown bored of this conversation and moved on.
As he progressed, he passed a drunk passed out in the middle of the street. The man's shirt was off, and he still clutched a bottle of whisky in his hand. Not much further a boy in his early teens sat on the metal steps leading to a trailer and cooked heroin on a spoon.
As Mitch approached, the kid looked his way with narrowed eyes. "What are you looking at?"
"A piece of shit."
The kid set his drugs and spoon aside and moved to stand but stopped when he saw Mitch's hand on the grip of a pistol.
"Where'd you get the smack?"
"None of your business, freak."
This was a new arrival and Mitch realized he'd been slacking on his introductions. When he reached the kid, he kicked the drugs into the dirt, causing the teen to jump to his feet, his body pulsing with rage.
"The fuck was that for? You think you're ugly now, you wait till I get done with you!"
A few years ago, Mitch was about the same size as this kid, but he'd had his growth spurt and stood a full six feet tall. His baby fat had given way to lean, ropey muscle and he used that strength to grab the kid by the throat and shove him against the trailer wall.
His arms swung, fists flailing, but that didn't deter Mitch.
"I asked you a question, kid. Where'd you get the heroin?"
"Fuck off!" The words came out in raspy hitches as he struggled for breath. He had balls and Mitch had to respect that. He still didn't like him though.
Mitch squeezed harder, his fingers digging into the teen's neck. His nails ripped the flesh and drew blood. The teen's frantic movements waned. Mitch leaned in, so their faces were only inches apart.
"I don't know where you think you landed kid, but it's no place good. You might have thought life was hard out there but out there all you had to be scared of were zombies. In here, everyone would kill you. Every single one. And no one's going to save you because no one gives a shit."
The teen tried to speak but Mitch wouldn't lessen the pressure he had on his windpipe to allow him to do so.
"The only thing separating this place from hell itself is me. So, I'm gonna ask you again and I expect an answer. Where'd you get the heroin?"
Mitch didn't fully release the teen, but he let him breathe. After gulping down a few mouthfuls of air, he spoke. "Don't know his name. Skinny guy with a yellow mohawk."
Mitch understood immediately. "What'd you pay him with?"
The teen looked from Mitch to the ground and Mitch understood this too. He could have let the matter drop but wasn't going to let the kid off that easy.
"Answer me."
The teen still wouldn't look, but he answered. "I sucked him off, okay? You happy now?"
"Definitely not." Mitch slapped the kid across the mouth hard enough to break his upper lip. The boy fell onto the steps spitting blood.
"Heroin's off limits here. Any type of opiate. I catch you again, it'll be the last mistake you make."
The teen looked up. "You'll kill me?"
"No. I'll take you to the pit."
The kid spit a mouthful of blood onto Mitch's shoe. Mitch decided he'd earned that much and left him.
Chapter 5
The town bar was two forty-foot-long trailer homes butted end to end. Above the doorway someone had painted "Dry Snatch" and since there was no real owner to choose an alternate moniker, that stuck.
On a day like this one, it was a metal sweatbox and even worse than the oppressive, damp heat was the combined aroma of a dozen and a half men and women who hadn't bathed in months trying to get drunk as fast as possible. For flavor, a pile of vomit festered on the floor beside the entrance. A man named Tully was passed out beside the puke and flies buzzed, landed, and ate off both the barf and the man who'd vomited it up.
Mitch stepped over both as he entered.
Diesel, the forty-something bartender, noticed him first. He whispered something to one of the drunks and soon murmurs filled the Snatch.
Mitch ignored their whispers as he surveyed the crowd. It was the usual bunch and he didn’t so much as give them a cursory glance as he stepped to the bar.
Diesel approached him, an empty glass in hand. The man's skin had the consistency of worn leather and his left eye was missing. He didn't have the decency to cover the wound with a patch or bandana, instead leaving the gaping, eggplant-colored hole exposed for the world to see. Mitch tried to avoid it.
"Morning, Mitch. What's your poison?"
"Little early, isn't it?"
Diesel looked around the bar as if that was answer enough.
"I'm looking for Boyd," Mitch said.
Diesel's eye skirted to the left, toward the restroom. Mitch didn't wait for a verbal answer.
The smell in the main part of the bar was a summer bouquet compared to the odor in the bathroom where piss, puke, and shit melded together to form a fragrance strong enough to make you question your reason for living. Mitch tried to block it out as he moved to a stall door under which he could see two sets of feet, both of which were partially covered by dropped pants and both faced the direction of the toilet.
Groans and grunts seeped from the stall. Sometimes Mitch really hated being in charge.
He pushed the door with his foot. It was unlocked and swung free, revealing one man bent over the shitter while another pounded him from behind.
"Play time's up, Boyd."
Boyd, he of the yellow mohawk, spun sideways at the sound of the voice and Mitch got a brief but still too good look at his narrow cock which was covered in blood and dotted with feces. The sight of it reminded Mitch of a banana split doused in strawberry sauce and chocolate sprinkles and he thought that might have been the worst thing he'd ever seen. He looked away as fast as his head could swivel. "Fuck me, Boyd. Cover that up."
He then motioned to the receiver. "And you, get the hell out of here."
Boyd grabbed for his discarded pants. The other man ran, jeans still around his ankles forcing him to duck-walk away. The door banged behind him as he fled.
"What's the problem, Mitch? Can't blame a man for fulfilling his needs."
"Are you dressed yet?"
"Sure am."
Mitch glanced his way, half-scared he was still naked from the waist down and he'd be subjected to his horrible cock again, but Boyd was indeed clothed. "What were you gonna give that man in return for tearing up his asshole?"
Boyd grinned, revealing jagged, brown teeth that made Mitch think of some sort of wild animal, maybe a badger or wolverine. "Why, he simply couldn't resist my masculine charm, that's all."
Mitch felt the only worthwhile response to such a quip was a hard punch to the jaw and doing just that sent Boyd to the filthy floor. Mitch took the opportunity to grab him by his yellow mohawk and drag him from the room. When they emerged into what passed for a bar, the few drunks who were still alert enough to realize something was happening (and that was very few) looked toward them.
Mitch glared at them. "Boyd's been dealing H and I bet more than a few of you knew about it."
The onlookers returned their attention to their spirits, whether in disinterest or guilt Mitch couldn't be certain. "He'll pay. And none of you better think about taking over his business or you will too." He set his gaze on Diesel, the one-eyed bartender. "That includes you."
Diesel held up his hands in a not guilty motion.
"Anyone wants to see what happens when you break the rules, go to the pit after sundown."
That got their attention and the murmurs returned. The message had been sent and Mitch didn't see any sense in prolonging the spectacle.
Boyd stayed unconscious long enough for Mitch to drag him about halfway to the pit. His hair had started to come loose in handfuls that i
ncluded not only the roots but bloody bits and pieces of his scalp.
Maybe it was the pain that brought him back around. Mitch was glad of that because he was tired of doing all the work.
Trickles of red ran down Boyd's face, making a detour into his eyes and he wiped at them while he came back to the land of the living.
"The fuck, man? You scalp me or something?"
"Some of your hair decided to extricate itself from your head."
"Extra-what?"
"Never mind. Get on your feet."
Boyd did, but his legs looked like limp noodles and Mitch had to steady him. "Thanks," he said, and Mitch thought there was genuine gratitude in the voice. If he only knew.
"What are you gonna do to me? Put me in the stocks?"
They'd passed the stockades while Boyd was enjoying his siesta. Mitch hadn't given them any consideration. They were for minor offenses. What Boyd had been doing was as major as it got. To Mitch, even killing a man wasn't as bad as getting him hooked on heroin because a man on heroin wasn't only a danger to himself, he was a scourge on the entire settlement and put them all at risk.
"No, Boyd. You knew the rules and you know the punishment for breaking them."
Boyd's disposition changed fast. He tried to spin and run but he was still not all there, and Mitch grabbed onto what hair he had remaining.
"Come on, man. You can't do that. I'll do whatever you want. You want to know what goes on around here when you ain't around? I'll tell you if you give me another chance. Shit, I’ll go undercover for you."
Mitch considered this. But it didn't take him long to realize the word of a rat was of little use, especially when said rat knew his life was on the line.
"Save your breath, Boyd."
The man struggled and protested the remaining two hundred yards to the pit, but he saved the best for last. When they were at the edge of the fifteen-foot-deep, fifty-foot-wide circle that had been dug into the hard caliche two years ago, Boyd was crying so hard snot seeped from both nostrils and he slobbered like a rabid dog.
"Take me to Saw, Mitch. It's my right."
"Right? This isn’t even America, but no one's got rights anymore Boyd. You know that as well as anyone."
"You stupid shit. You don't get it. Saw knows!"
Mitch kicked him in the leg and Boyd fell to his knees. "Shut your mouth you damned liar."
"I'm not lying, Mitch. You think anything goes on here that he don't know about? You’re smarter than that."
Doubt seeped into Mitch's mind and he had to keep reminding himself that Boyd was scum and he was doing whatever he could to buy time. "Saw hasn't even been out of his house in over three weeks. He's not God. He isn't all seeing."
"How can you be so fucking stupid? Saw knows I deal because he gets first dibs."
Mitch looked down at the blubbering, pleading wreck of a man, into his eyes. And in them he saw the truth. He stood there, thinking, taking it in and some semblance of hope came back into Boyd's face.
"You believe me now, don't you?"
He did. He didn't want to, but he did. It was like finding a central piece to a jigsaw puzzle, the one where, once you have it in place, everything else comes together around it.
"Yeah, I do."
Boyd managed a smile, revealing those brown fang-ish teeth. Teeth Mitch never wanted to look at again.
Mitch kicked him square in the chest, hard enough that he heard a rib snap and hard enough to send Boyd tumbling backward ass over head. He'd been on the precipice of the pit, and the blow sent him careening into it.
The man squawked in pain as he fell but those cries changed to screams of desperation, fear, and anger when he hit the bottom.
"Get me out of here, you shit! You can't do this to me!"
Mitch was tired of his voice. He turned and left the pit and Boyd behind. Apparently, he had bigger trouble to deal with.
Chapter 6
Saw's house stood almost half a mile from what passed for a town. It was a mansion almost as big as the one Mitch had grown up in and lived in before Senator SOB shipped him off to boarding school. It had a decidedly Texan feel with plenty of wood and iron and gigantic windows that stood two stories tall. The house was the reason Saw and Mitch and Mina stopped in this area in the first place. It was isolated and luxurious and situated on land so flat that it had an almost never-ending view.
"Won't be no one sneaking up on us here, Mitchy," Saw assured him. As if there was anyone left to sneak. They'd found the house over three years earlier, late in the fall when the oppressive Texas heat was held at bay by the coming winter. It seemed a good climate then. Nothing like what it was now, of course. But by the time fall turned to winter and winter to spring, which brought with it that horrible, dry heat, they were settled in. Or Saw was anyway, and his opinion was the only one that mattered.
As Mitch approached, he tried to peer into the windows that looked like black eyes peering out onto the land before them, but they were coated with a layer of dust so thick he couldn't see anything behind the glass. Anyone passing by would have thought the mansion abandoned.
The only slight clue that it might contain residents came from the trash bags that filled the left side of the porch and were stacked four feet high. When Mitch reached them, he kicked one over and heard the telltale rattles and clangs of cans and bottles.
He pounded his fist against the wooden door, not to convey the anger which was brewing inside him, but because he knew from too much experience that the man and woman who lived in that house were almost certainly asleep and wouldn't hear him unless he made a racket.
He hit the door again. Four hard raps. After which he gave up and tried the knob. It turned, and he pushed the door open, shaking his head. Solomon Baldwin, the man a sixteen-year-old Mitch had thought capable of taking over the world, was too damn lazy or stupid or drunk or all three to lock his front door.
The garbage bags on the porch were a few grains of rice compared to the buffet of trash that littered the first floor of Saw's mansion. About a third of it was bagged up, but the other 67 percent was strewn across the floor, stacked on tables, piled atop furniture. Mitch hadn't been in the house in a month or more and thought it seemed a much more disgusting sight now than then.
Fat flies buzzed and zoomed about, giddy over this goldmine they'd found to call home. One landed on Mitch's bicep and gave him a stinging bite before he could swat it away.
"Fucker!" He smashed it against his skin smearing a red skid mark along his upper arm. A pink welt rose where the insect had left its mark and Mitch wished he'd have worn long sleeves.
"Saw!" Mitch aimed the word at the staircase that split the first floor in half. "Mina!"
Nothing.
He knew he could ascend the twenty or so stairs that led to the second story before anyone was likely to respond, but as much as he thought Saw had grown sloppy and worthless over the last few years, he knew the man was always armed and if he was to go storming into his bedroom, the old bastard might be apt to blow his pretty head off without bothering to take a glance to see who had come a knocking.
"Fucking assholes," he muttered. He shouldn't have wasted his time walking out here in hundred-degree heat. Now, instead of answers, all he had to look forward to was a half-mile walk back and an arm that was itching like poison oak from the fly's bite.
He scanned the rooms, trying to find something that might lend credence to what Boyd had said. Baggies or needles or syringes. But in this jumble of garbage it was almost impossible to discern one bit of trash from the next. It was like Saw was going for the Guinness World Record of hoarding or something. And what was up with Mina? How could she let what had been one of the most beautiful homes Mitch had ever seen descend into this mess. He didn't expect Saw to have any pride but thought she might. Apparently, she was just as much of a pig as the man she'd shacked up with.
Mitch retreated through the maze of mess, careful not to step on anything hazardous and had almost made it to the door w
hen a soft, barely there voice broke through the buzzing of the flies.
"Thought I heard your mouth. What do you want?"
Mitch turned and saw Mina leaning against the handrail, half-way down the staircase. She was as skinny as ever, black flesh stretched taut against her bones. A breathing skeleton. Mitch had often thought, when looking at her, that you could stand her outside during Halloween and people'd think she was one hell of a creepy decoration.
"Is Saw around?"
Mina looked from Mitch to the top of the stairs, then back again. "Course he is."
"Can he come down? I need to talk to him."
"Sleeping now."
Mitch thought she looked half-asleep too. Or half drunk, more likely. He was surprised she'd made it this far down the staircase without falling. "And you won't wake him?"
The woman's tight, angular face twisted into something resembling a maniac's grin. "I won't. You're welcome to though."
Mitch wasn't about to do that, and he knew she knew that too and that pissed him off all the more. "Fine. If he wakes up, you tell him I caught Boyd Yates dealing heroin."
"Oh yeah?" There was no surprise in her voice, just flat matter of factness.
"Yeah. And when he realized I was taking him to the pit, he couldn't stop his lips from moving."
That brought some genuine emotion to her face. Not exactly shock or worry, but maybe curiosity. Mitch couldn't tell for certain, but he was glad to see there was something left inside her head that could still put two and two together.
"He got anything interesting to say?"
"Bits and pieces."
Mina made it down the remaining stairs and came within a couple yards of Mitch. He could smell alcohol seeping from her pores.
"I'm sure. He always tended to blather." She stared at Mitch who kept his face purposely blank. "Thing is, a man walking to his death don't got no reason to tell the truth."
"I see it the other way."
"How's that?"
"I doubt a man with nothing to gain sees much use in lying."
Mina pushed a bowl full of mold-covered pasta aside with her foot as she leaned against a wall. "You set it off yet, Mitch?"
