Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case

by Adam Pepper

  “Thanks, Hank,” she said in a cutesy voice.

  There was a staircase on the other side of the door, and she strolled straight to it and then began her ascent. “It’s a walk-up. It is such a pain not having an elevator. I don’t know how Angie does it.”

  The walls were scrawled with sloppy graffiti and the floor was littered with cigarette butts and other debris. I stopped, looked the place up and down and asked, “Are you sure about this?”

  While still walking up, she replied, “Oh, please. You’re worse than my dad. Yes, I’m sure.”

  It smelled like the steps had been covered with Pine-Sol and Lysol to drown out the smell of piss, but the piss was still winning the battle of aromas.

  “Is this where you come to score your shit?” I asked.

  She glanced halfway over her shoulder but didn’t stop walking as she laughed. “What? No?”

  “I’m not stupid, Mackenzie.”

  “You sound like a cop, Hank Mondale.”

  “This place seems a little low rent for your caviar taste, is all.”

  We stepped up to the fourth-floor landing, and she stopped to catch her breath. “I hate those steps. They are such a fucking drag.”

  “Yeah, they smell good too.”

  “You’re gross,” she said as she struggled with another heavy, orange fire door.

  I again opened it for her as I said, “This is your hangout, not mine.”

  She flipped me the bird, then walked through the door.

  On the other side of the door was a narrow hallway. The floors were tiled in a dark grayish color and the walls were painted drably to match. There was no graffiti on this floor and it didn’t smell like piss. It smelled more like one of those tree air fresheners that cabbies hang from their rearview mirrors—a vanilla-scented one.

  There were three doors on each side of the corridor. Mackenzie walked up to the last door on the right side and pushed the square button under a black piece of tape that read 4F. The doorbell rang, a weak single ding with almost no vibration or echo.

  About ten seconds passed, and the door opened just a crack, a thick chain was fastened in place and rattled as the door came open. A heavy smog of weed blew out and filled my nose, followed by a sweet, flowery perfume smell.

  I could see just the middle of a female head through the crack, then heard her say, “Hey, baby. You made it.” She closed the door and I heard the chain rattling as she unfastened it. The door came open all the way. “Come on in,” she said as she waved us in. “I’m Angie.” She spoke with a smile and a heavy Bronx-laden accent. Her skin was light mocha and her teeth were a little crooked. Her hair was dark and straight with red highlights streaking down the sides. She squeezed her breasts into a shirt that was two sizes too small, and when she turned around, I admired an ass that was round and squeezed into pants that were three sizes too small and exposing her crack on the top end and her ankles at the bottom. A tattoo on the small of her back was adorned with hearts and read, Pito.

  The apartment was much better than I anticipated. The floors had cushy, white wall-to-wall carpets and the walls were full of family pictures and religious scenes. She led us to a living room with a huge sectional couch that filled the entire room. A man was sprawled out on the couch, lying back, feet up on an ottoman, watching a big screen television and puffing on a cigar that was obviously stuffed with weed and not tobacco.

  “Hi, Pito,” Mackenzie said and bounced over to him then kissed him on the cheek.

  “Hey, sweet thing,” he said as he half sat up. He had a light olive complexion and bad acne. He was wearing a white, sleeveless t-shirt that exposed skinny but muscular arms. He had unrecognizable black tattoos on each bicep and forearm, and a huge crucifix that started at the top of his shoulder and ran down his back. Above his lip was a pencil-thin mustache and on his chin was the tiniest scruff of a beard.

  “Let me get some of that,” Mackenzie said as she grabbed the cigar from his hand.

  “Easy girl,” he said as he slapped her hand playfully. “No grabbing.” Then he handed it to her.

  She took a big inhale and handed it back to him. “Nice,” she said, then plopped down on the couch next to him.

  He took another pull then turned to me. “You want?” he offered, his voice scratchy from the smoke he was still holding in his lungs.

  I waved him off. “No thanks.”

  Pito exhaled so much smoke his mouth looked like the exhaust pipe of a beat up old truck. Then he shrugged and said, “You sure? It’s good shit.”

  “Don’t be a wus, Hank,” Mackenzie said.

  “Not my thing.”

  “Square,” she said with a sly smile.

  Angie sauntered over and took the cigar as she said, “Leave him alone. He doesn’t want any.”

  I looked over at Angie and said, “Hey, I’m no puritan. I’m just not into weed. Makes me dopey. I don’t like being dopey.”

  She took a loud pull off the blunt, then blew the smoke out slowly. “It’s cool, poppy. No problem.”

  “I think it’s a problem,” Mackenzie said with her mischievous eyes. “He needs to lighten up.”

  I leaned over, grabbed her arm and said quietly, “One of us needs to keep their wits about them.”

  She waved me off. Then said to Angie, “Let me get a little more of that.”

  I rolled my eyes and tried not to sigh too loudly.

  “Yo, you got any money, bro?” Pito asked.

  “A couple bucks,” I said.

  “I have money,” Mackenzie said, immediately reaching for her purse.

  “Cool. Give me twenty bucks. We’re all outta beers.”

  She reached in her purse and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I’ll go,” I said. I needed some fresh air anyway.

  “Fine. Here.” He handed me the twenty and I took it. “Get some Heinekens.”

  “And some tequila,” Mackenzie said.

  “The last thing you need is tequila,” I said to her.

  “What are you, her pops?” Pito asked, flexing his arms as he spoke.

  “Whatever. I’ll be right back.”

  “There’s a twenty-four hour bodega right around the corner,” Angie said.

  I paused. “I think I know the place. What about the booze?”

  “There’s a liquor store on Jerome, up the other way. You want me to come with you?”

  “Sure.”

  Pito laughed and said, “You sure you want to be seen with an old white dude at this hour?”

  “Oh, stop it,” Angie said.

  Pito shook his head. “Okay. Whatever. Bring me back some cigarettes.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t be takin’ all night.”

  “Shut up!” She made a face at him and he turned back towards the television, grabbed the remote control off the arm of the couch he was sunk into, and turned the volume up.

  She strutted through the door, and I tried not to gawk at her beautifully rotund behind as it shook with a fierceness that was really sexy. I could vividly imagine the makeup sex they must have, and I was envious.

  “Come on, honey,” she said to me.

  As she was closing the door, he yelled, “And get me some Twinkies and shit, too.”

  * *

  “Don’t mind him,” she said as she walked down the corridor towards the door. “He’s just trying to impress you. He’s really a pussycat.”

  “Sounds like one.”

  She laughed. “Nah. He is.”

  We stepped out into the night air, and she led the way down the hill.

  “I guess we’ll get the liquor first. It’s up that way.” She pointed north as we hit Jerome Avenue. I could see the blinking lights from the store window.

  “Open late.” I looked at my watch: just past one thirty.

  “Yeah. Twenty-four hours. Same as the bodega.”

  We walked up to the store, and a man stood behind thick, bulletproof glass. He wore a turban on his head much like Mr. S
ingh at the twenty-four-hour bodega.

  I took a small wad of bills from my pocket and stepped in front of her. “I got this,” I said. Then to the man I said, “Let me get a bottle of Jim Beam and one of Cuervo.”

  “Pint bottle?” he asked.

  “Yeah. That’d be fine.” I asked Angie, “You want anything?”

  “Nah. That’s good,” she replied.

  The man turned and pulled the bottles from a shelf to his left. Then put them in a bag and said, “Thirty-four fifty.”

  I put two twenties in a spinning drawer and closed my side. He opened his and spun it around. He counted out my change and put it, along with the two bottles into the drawer, then spun it towards me.

  “Thanks,” I said with a nod.

  “Good night.”

  She started south down Jerome and I followed. Angie quickly crossed the street, heading towards the McDonald’s on the west side of the avenue. As we got up to the McDonald’s, I said, “You want anything inside?”

  “Nah. But if you’re going, do you mind getting Pito a Big Mac?”

  “Not at all. I’ll run in and meet you back here when you’re finished at the bodega.”

  “Okay. Here, take some money.”

  She tried to hand me a twenty but I waved her off and walked towards the front door to the McDonald’s. She continued south to the bodega. Truth was, I didn’t want McDonald’s. I hated the crap. But I was pretty sure Mr. Singh was working the night shift, and I didn’t want him to see me. We needed to keep out of sight, at least for the night. Come morning, I’d figure out a plan. But for the time being, I just wanted to stay below the radar.

  After picking up the stuff, we headed back towards Angie’s building, bags full of McDonald’s, booze and beers in tow. We made our way up the four-story walkup and she unlocked the door.

  The lights were off, and the apartment was dark other than gray light emanating from the television. It was silent other than the thumping bass from a stereo playing in the next apartment; the pictures that hung from the wall shook in rhythm. I followed Angie into the living room. Pito had barely moved; his ass was still planted into the couch but now his feet were extended up and over the arm of the couch, dangling on the far side.

  “Pito,” she whispered.

  He shook and sat halfway up. “Yo! Those burgers smell good. Let me get one of those.”

  I handed him the bag and asked, “Where’s Mackenzie?”

  He took it from me greedily and said, “You need to chill, bro. Have a shot or some shit, man. You are too hyper.”

  As obnoxious as he was, Pito was right; I needed to take the edge off. I put the brown bag down and took the bottle of Jim Beam from it. I cracked the cap and took a nice sized swig.

  “Now you’re talking,” he said as he stuffed a French fry in his mouth. Then, while chewing he continued, “Suck that juice down and maybe you’ll finally relax.”

  I gulped down the bourbon and said, “I’m plenty relaxed. Now, where is Mackenzie?”

  He laughed and pointed towards the vibrating wall. “She’s in the other room.” Then in a singing tone, Pito said, “She’s been waiting for you. Go get her.” I realized that the thundering bass wasn’t coming from the next apartment; it was coming from the next room.

  I took another swig, just a small one, then walked around the corner. There was a closed door and a hint of light flickering between the doorjamb. I knocked at the door. There was no answer. I knocked again, this time harder and louder. Still no answer. I looked back around the corner and saw Angie unbuttoning her blouse and walking towards Pito. He tossed his burger at the coffee table, showing no regard for the fact that it missed. I caught a quick glimpse of the side of Angie’s right breast. It looked just as good as I thought it would—full and round with really nice curves.

  I knocked again then pushed open the door slowly. “Mackenzie?”

  The flickering light was sudden, pulsating, almost to the point of blinding me. A wall of sound collided with my eardrums like a tin trashcan landing on pavement after a four-story fall. A disco ball hung from the ceiling, twirling at a rapid pace that seemed to defy gravity and physics at once. Red, blue and yellow lights covered the far wall and were programmed to vary along with the beat. Multicolored Christmas lights ran a straight line around all four corners of the ceiling and a blue lava lamp bubbled brightly, standing on the far side of the room.

  The floors were hardwood. Maybe it was the lighting, but they appeared to be freshly shined. I figured the room was supposed to be the dining room, but it had been walled off from the living room and there was no table. It was wide open like a dance floor.

  Mackenzie stood in the middle of the floor, her back to me. She was moving to the beat in a bizarre fashion, not like any dancing I’d seen before. I wouldn’t say she was out of step to the music, if you could even call it music. The noise wasn’t easy to be in step with. The synthesized bass drum banged out an unsteady syncopated rhythm and her body seemed to move against the beat instead of with it. The song wasn’t a disco tune, although it was peppy and grooved hard. It was some weird, industrial metal song. Just listening and watching her silhouette move made me feel really old.

  Her arms moved up then came together like she was a genie, and her hips shook like a belly dancer. She slowly backpedaled towards me, and I realized for the first time, she wasn’t wearing pink. I could see nothing but the strap of a black bra running along her back and matching panties. There was a black dragon tattooed above the small of her back. The music was grating, but her movements were so sweet, I found myself less and less irritated with each half-step she took backwards towards me.

  I took another swig from the bottle of Beam. She was young enough to be my daughter, give or take a few years maybe.

  But she wasn’t my daughter. Shit, I don’t even have a daughter.

  Her ass swung clockwise, then twisted counterclockwise, then twirled back clockwise again. She clasped her hands together out in front of her body as if in prayer, then moved them above her shoulder. Mackenzie separated her hands and held her arms up towards the sky. Her body movements were just as choppy and uneven as the music. Her arms fluttered sideways like a scarf blowing in a breeze. With the lights flickering so wildly, I had a hard time keeping focused. It was dizzying. Alluring. Enticing. Hypnotizing.

  A voice in my head was telling me to keep it together. This was time for business, not pleasure. But I was never a guy extolled for his willpower. Make no mistake about it, her little ass looked good.

  I was about to take another chug from the bottle, when I realized that would probably tip my teetering willpower in the wrong direction. So instead, I put the bottle down and walked across the room towards the strobe light. As I passed her, I tried hard not to look. My peripheral vision caught enough of her chest to see how pert her breast were. They weren’t full and booming like Angie’s. Smaller and perkier. They were pretty damn nice, if only I had the time to appreciate their beauty. I thought I saw another small tattoo just below her belly button, but I avoided looking at it.

  The boxed strobe light was posted on a stand, and I reached around it and found the switch; I shut it off. Spots and spirals spun on my eyelids as I blinked, then refocused on the now dimly lit room. The stereo was also mounted next to the wall, and I lowered the volume considerably, but didn’t shut the music off.

  Mackenzie didn’t stop dancing, but her pace slowed. Instead of whirling around and ‘round, she was gently swaying side to side, now facing me and coming towards me. Her face had a crooked expression. Her eyes were glassy and halfway shut.

  In her cutesy voice, she said, “Why’d you turn that down, Hank?”

  “It was too loud.”

  “I was listening to it.”

  I turned the volume up, slightly.

  “Come on. I was enjoying it. You can do better than that.”

  “I’m old. My eardrums can’t take it.”

  She continued to amble over towards me, but not in a
straight line. She was moving in half steps, one or two to each side, then one forward. Then one or two side to side, then one forward. She kept this on for half a song as I stood still, pretending not to notice her.

  “Hank,” she said as she finally invaded my personal space. She put her arms on my shoulders and let them fall flat, palms facing up, her forearms pressing me to the wall that I couldn’t help leaning against.

  “Yeah?” I was desperately feigning disinterest, looking up at the Christmas lights. Her hair brushed my chin and her perfume filled my nostrils as she turned her head. Our cheeks were almost touching.

  She wiggled closer, putting her bare feet between my legs. She put her hand on my thigh and stroked it. Then, she took a hold of my chin and turned my face towards hers.

  “Don’t you like me?” she asked.

  I shook her off, not hard, but she didn’t resist and let go of my chin.

  “Hank, why don’t you like me?”

  I took a deep breath and summoned up all the inner strength I had inside of me. The side of her neck looked smooth. I couldn’t help but look down, just once. Her waist was maybe twenty-four inches, her legs weren’t too long, but they were firm and well built. Her belly was flat, and it was a butterfly, the tattoo that was just below and slightly to the left of her bellybutton. Her panties weren’t thong, but they were the next size up; they didn’t cover much, and they fit perfectly. I could see the outlines of everything that was underneath.

  “Ahem.” I coughed, a blatantly fake cough, then wiggled out from behind the wall. “I like you, Mackenzie. But I’m a professional, and I’m working. Your father is my client. Remember?”

  “Oh, fine. You are such a spoil sport.”

  “Speaking of your father, have you spoken to him?”

  “No, I’ve called and called and it goes straight to voicemail.” She paused, pouting her lips. Then she leaned into me again. “I’m scared, Hank. I’m scared something horrible has happened to my father.” She rubbed her face into my chest and nuzzled her head below my chin.

  “It will be okay.” I began to stroke her hair, trying to comfort her, but doing a shitty job of it. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t know what else to say.