by Norman Crane
like the woman’s had done in Brown Hill. He said, “Fifty,” and fished through his pockets to gather up the bills. When he had them, he crunched them into a ball and raised his voice, saying, “Give me the stuff first, then I’ll give you the money.”
But Procter only laughed and the kid lowered his eyes to the ground.
“Cash first.”
As the kid moved close enough to put the fifty dollar ball through the chain link, the woman leaned in and whispered close to Procter’s ear, “Are you sure you want to sell that? Won’t you miss it tonight on the carpet?”
Suddenly the shakes returned and Procter grabbed the fence and made it rattle. The kid dropped the fifty and jumped back. Procter was abruptly aware that the kid and everyone else but the woman was trying to cheat him of his stuff. The muscles in his body tightened so bad he couldn’t get his fingers off the fence so he kicked at the fence until the muscles relaxed and he pulled his hand free. Then he laughed again almost like a howl and put the stuff back under his arm. The wind was picking up and it started to drizzle. As he and the woman walked away the kid was on his knees trying to put his hand through the chain link to pick up the money but his wrist was too thick and he couldn’t get it through but pushed so hard the skin on his hand started to raw.
When they got home Procter sat with his back to the sofa and heated up his spoon. But every time the heat was good the stuff fell off and Procter got angry. He realized it was the woman knocking the stuff off. “What’s the idea?” he moaned, though she just knocked it off again and told him he wouldn’t have it easy anymore.
In the morning it was the same and in the afternoon the silver platter kept moving and he couldn’t get a solid read on it. By the evening the foam was starting in his mouth, his teeth were itchy and all the woman did was sit in her chair and read her book and wait for him to try to get at his stuff, which he couldn’t do because he couldn’t remember where the silver platter was and the spoon had a big hole drilled in it.
He hated her now like he’d never hated anyone.
“What’s the idea, what are you, get out of my house!” he screamed at her.
“I’m your addiction,” she answered.
Procter wasn’t an addict, though, that much Procter knew, so he screamed, “You’re not real,” and asked everyone who was around whether they could see the woman. When no one answered he said, “See, you’re not real,” and went to the kitchen to pick up the frying pan that the woman had fried eggs in and swung it hard at her head until she fell and the sound of the pan against her head was dull and she didn’t move anymore.
He was sweating so he went outside and washed his face in the puddle. When he came back in, he heated his stuff on the red frying pan and pressed the plunger of the new needle into a pulsing vein.
* * *
The light that woke him was worse than the light from outside. The stars were out. Someone had taken the belt off his arm and shrunk his house. He was on the sofa. There were men and windows all around. The lights flashed red and white. Someone knocked loud against the glass and Procter looked and there was a flashlight shining into his face. He closed his eyes and brought his knees high and wrapped his arms around them.
“Junkie,” the flashlight said through the window—
Then shut off.
* * *
Stephenson and Hughes ordered two coffees and a muffin each at a small diner off Belmont. They sat by a window. Their squad car was the only car in the lot. The sun wouldn’t come up for an hour.
“Poor girl,” Hughes said. “Pretty, too.”
“Pretty and messed with the wrong guy,” Stephenson said. “Probably messed up herself. In the head, I mean. Most of them are.”
“Didn’t have the marks on her.”
“It’s not always about that.”
“Maybe she was just lonely. No family, no friends. That can get you good as anything.”
“No job.”
The waitress came with their order. She looked tired. Her shift was almost over. Hughes thanked her and took a bite of his muffin. Blueberry, but not very fresh. Stephenson sipped his coffee. The steam rose into the slow-turning overhead.
“She had a job.”
“And quit it. The lady at the clinic said she didn’t know why. She just came in one day and gave notice.”
“You work at a place like that and it must get to you. One morning you just can’t take it anymore seeing the same faces day in, day out—the same problem.”
“So you shack up with one of them? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe she thought she could help. That priest said she was a regular at mass, same pew every night. Identified her right away. Sometimes she lit the candles they have by the altar, he said.”
“Bible thumpers. Think they can help, then we have to clean up.”
“Or maybe she wanted a kid. They saw her round the schoolyard more than once, thought maybe one of the kids was hers but not officially. Said she looked night and day from the usual lowlife types they see. Certainly wasn’t a pervert.”
Stephenson eyed his muffin.
“Facts are she’s dead and he’s getting locked up. He won’t make it out. Who cares why?” He eyed his muffin. “I don’t think I want this. The cherries look dry. Want it? I’ll sell it to you for half.”
The radio in their squad car buzzed, a voice came in indistinct. They could hear it through the window. The window in the squad car was rolled down.
“Think we should get that?” Hughes asked.
“To hell with that. I’m asking if you want this muffin for half price.”
The voice said something more.
Then static.
Then the radio went quiet.
“I guess someone else will take it,” Hughes said. “And, sure, I’ll buy that for half.” He took out his wallet and picked out the appropriate change, which he slid over to Stephenson’s side of the table. Stephenson counted it with his fingers before picking it up. “In the end, I guess we’ll just never know what preys on people.”
Hughes drank his coffee.
About the Author
Norman Crane lives in Canada. He writes books. When he's not writing, he reads. He's also a historian, a coffee drinker and a cinephile.
His first novel, A Paunch Full of Pesos, is a spaghetti western.
On the internet, he keeps a blog, has Facebook and tweets (@TheNormanCrane).
