Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  I pull the car over near an open meter and put the car into park. I shake my head. Close my eyes and count—slow. One, two, three…After I get to fifty, I stop and open my eyes again. Cherry and Stranger are gone again. My heart’s pounding. The radio’s playing U2—no thanks—I slap at the console until the music goes away. Run my hands over my head and I’m surprised to feel I’m soaked in sweat.

  “How does this work?” I punch the steering wheel until my knuckles split. Move on to the ceiling over the car. Leave a pattern of red splotches after every punch. A scream bubbles up in my gut and tears out of me. None of it helps; none of it brings me back down to an easy place. I rest my head against my steering wheel and take a deep breath. I need to go home. I need to lie down on the couch and watch infomercials until I can’t think straight. I can distract myself with dreams of pasta makers and miracle ovens. I switch gears back to drive, signal—to be safe—and pull back onto the road.

  The rest of the ride is without incident. This doesn’t make me as comfortable as I would hope. I pull up to the curb in front of the apartment. Turn on the blinkers and get my ass inside. Toss my keys to the early morning doorman and give him a twenty for his trouble. “Can you park it on the fourth floor, near the back?” Stop in my tracks. I don’t recognize this guy. He’s a scrawny kid. I look into his eyes and it’s clear there ain’t much going on upstairs. He gawks at my bloody knuckles. What a way to make a first impression.

  “Park—” I point outside, “—my car in the garage. Fourth floor. The back.”

  He stares at the twenty and nods. “Sure.”

  Get to the elevator and step in. Cherry and Stranger are waiting. I dig my phone out of my pocket and turn on the screen: twenty-two missed calls—all Paulie. Don’t bother to listen to the voicemails or check the texts, I dial in. I inspect my hands. Did a number, but nothing a little iodine and Bactrim won’t fix.

  The call connects. “Holy fuck, Bryan. Where have you been?” Paulie’s more breathless than usual.

  “Busy. What’s up?”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean what happened? I was busy.” I don’t hide my annoyance at the question. I’m not about to give the guy a full recap on a potentially live line.

  “Fuck protocol, Bryan. What happened tonight?”

  “I got the job done.” Cherry gives me the stink eye as I say that.

  “It was clean?”

  “As clean as it—”

  “Was it fucking clean, Bryan?”

  The elevator stops on my floor. Step out and turn to the left. Spot three broad backs standing in front of me all wearing the same, loose-fitting black suit. The ding of the elevator gets their attention. They all turn. Eyes go wide when they realize they found their prize.

  Cherry puts her hands over her mouth. “…Baby…”

  “Bryan, answer the question.” Paulie’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

  I drop the phone. Pull my piece and nail the mook farthest from me between the eyes. This makes the other two stutter-step as they pull their pieces. They’re green, good. I might be able to get out of here alive even if they got the drop on me.

  I lunge back into the elevator before the doors close. I slap the bottom row of elevator buttons as hard as I can and stay close to the ground. Look up at the digital display. First stop is the third floor. I live on the eighth. By the time I get to the lobby, they’ll be waiting. Might be more outside. I realize why that little prick downstairs was staring all wide-eyed. He sold my ass out.

  I fish my burner phone from my inside jacket pocket. Turn it on. The elevator stops and I get off. Jog to the stairwell farthest from the elevator bank and open the door slow. Nobody here. I go upstairs. Too much of a gamble to go back outside now. My phone comes to life and I dial Paulie back.

  He picks up on the third ring. “Jesus, Bryan.”

  “What the fuck is this? Did you send these assholes?”

  “Listen…”

  “Holy shit, Paulie. You did?”

  “Didn’t have a choice. Been trying to reach you. The job, Bryan. What happened?”

  “Cleaned up. Had a bystander that chose a shitty time to play hero.”

  “Was it a kid? Young guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  Cherry and Stranger follow me upstairs. I stop near each door and wait—listen to see if anyone is following or in the halls. I keep eyeing Stranger to see if I recognize him, but his features are almost washed out. I didn’t give him much of a thought after I shot him. There wasn’t time to examine the son of a bitch.

  I remember I’m on the phone. “Paulie. You there?”

  “You fucked up, man. Oh God, did you fuck up.”

  Stranger’s next to me. Hand held up over my shoulder. There’s a hint of a smile on his face. My hands decide that now would be a perfect time to let me know they’re hurt. The pain screams up and down the backs of them and up the outside of my wrists. Wonder if I broke something, but it’s a terrible time to inspect again.

  “How did I fuck up?”

  “The kid, do you know he was?”

  “No clue. Came at me, looked to be pulling heat, so I dealt with it.”

  “Yeah, well you went and pegged Benny Papa—Tony Papa’s youngest.”

  “I’m supposed to give a fuck who that is?”

  Paulie laughs without joy. “It’s the guy who held a fucking gun to my head an hour ago and already has an army coming to collect your head. Old school Purple Gang son of a bitch—I can’t control this shit.”

  “All right—so he’s serious. I’ll lay low. Got places I can go.” That’s a lie. I’ve got nowhere to go.

  “Maybe not so much.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I had to tell him.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “Tony’s into that whole eye-for-an-eye shit. I can’t even depend on the daycare. I’m laying low myself.”

  Liam. “Jesus, Paulie—no.”

  “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I’m near roof access—ninth floor—when the door bursts open. I put three into the jackass that comes out the other side. He falls over and onto his face, stiff as a board. Slides down a few stairs and stops a few shy of the landing below. A trail of blood follows his path down the last three steps and onto the landing. The red pools under his chin. He sighs the last of his breath out as his eyelids twitch. Then he goes silent.

  There’s heat in my eyes and my heart’s pounding louder than anything I’ve ever felt. “Paulie, you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “This goes pear-shaped, there’s no hiding, Paulie.”

  “We’re already there, Bryan. Tony’s no joke; it’s what I’m trying to—”

  “I’m not talking about your guinea sugar daddy, I’m talking about me.” Another piece of shit behind me. I send a bullet to his right kneecap. He drops. One more to the left eye. It pops like a ripe grape. Reload. “If my brother don’t make it through this, Paulie.” I swear I taste pennies at the back of my mouth. Feel a thousand knives poking at my brain. Cherry’s laughing like a maniac. Stranger’s still at my side. Down the stairs, two recently perished nobodies stare up at me, fresh wounds already gummy and swollen.

  If this is how it’s going to be, fine, I’ll keep adding to their numbers. I’ll get a whole legion of these motherfuckers behind me wherever I go, but Liam—Liam will never be a part of that burden. “Paulie, if they touch my brother, I swear on my mother’s eyes—you all die.”

  14

  I stay at the top of the stairwell, nearest the roof access door. Wipe the sweat off my brow with my gun hand. Wince when the salt reacts with the open cracks on my knuckles. Check the clip I slapped in there not moments ago forty times. Never loved gunplay. Sure, pop two or three into a mark, I’m your man. These drawn-out moments? No, they’re the worst. I was always more comfortable with demo—bombs and all that. Speak
ing of which, I need my gear. Need to get back to my apartment and the longer I wait, the higher the likelihood the police will show up.

  It’s been a while since a warm body’s made the poor decision to come after me. Cherry and Benny Papa seem to mingle with their new friends. I can’t get much of a read on them. They look like they’re standing in a smoky bar, but they’re only a few feet away. With all this going on—the shooting, the adrenaline pumping—I’d think maybe my brain would cut me a little slack.

  I slowly head down the stairs. Keep myself against the wall and leaned over enough to catch sight of anyone that could be waiting for me. Another flight down and more nothing. I breathe a little easier. Thank whatever’s watching from above that life ain’t like a movie. A group of five or six low-end thugs tend to get the hell out of Dodge when you put bullets in a few of them. Well, there’s a high probability that cops have chased them away too. Not a fan of having to fight my way through that. Cop killer isn’t a title I’ve penciled in as a goal.

  The trip back to my floor is uneventful. I pass the bodies of my victims, still cooling. Get to my apartment and there’s nobody but Earl in the kitchen—content to lick himself in the way an asshole cat does. There’s no use in taking him with me. I’d probably get the poor guy killed either way. Hopefully a neighbor or a cop will take him. No, I can’t leave him like this—he needs food and water. I tear into the cabinets and find the largest bowls I have. I empty three cans of food and three bottles of water into separate bowls.

  Earl watches me and meows in approval.

  “I hope you have enough sense to not eat until you bust a gut, cat.” I reach over and scratch his ears. Surprised he lets me. “I’m sorry for this.” I stand back up and double-time across the apartment. “And thanks for tolerating me.”

  Cherry and company fade in and out as I walk from room to room. I ignore them and try to think about Ireland. It was easier in Ireland. More often than not, a job was put this bag here, then fucking run. Occasionally we got the kind of gig that meant roughing someone up or putting a knife in the gut—still easier. Things never got so complicated over collateral damage. During the Troubles, folks knew what would happen if a person was in the wrong place at the wrong time. People were accountable for themselves. Out here, I gotta pay for waxing a guy I didn’t know because coincidence says so.

  The apartment’s been upended in all the wrong places. Not sure what these losers were looking for. There’s a few pictures scattered. Old photos from childhood and the Troubles overseas. There’s a portrait of me in my Marine Corps blues near the couch in a shattered frame. I pick it up and wipe off the little shards of glass. Try to remember what it was like to have baby fat on my cheeks and a sincere smile on my face.

  No use dwelling. That’s liable to get me shot, or worse, arrested. I go to the fridge. Grab a beer and some extra food. Toss it all in a plastic bag on the counter. The Nobodies and Benny hover near me. Still silent, but really interested in my food. “If you’ll all excuse me.” I tie the bag off and head over to the living room. Bat at my ears when I feel a buzzing near them. I look above me, but I don’t see any flies.

  I place the plastic bag on the floor near my couch and tear the cushions off. Pull the fold-out bed from its compartment with effort and toss the thin, cheap mattress aside. Underneath is a modest collection of firearms—almost all pistols. Some grenades, ammo, a funky-looking knife or two. Not the smartest hiding place for live weaponry, I’ll own that. I take it all—fill my pockets with what I can and pack the rest into a small duffel bag I keep by the television. Toss my beer and food in there too.

  Next, I hit up the bedroom. Get my closet open and kneel. There’s a false floorboard I lift. I’ve got another bag in here with a small supply of C4 and the odds and ends needed to make things go boom.

  I close my eyes. Count to ten. Take a breath. I need to stay on track. Blast caps—left them someplace separate. Figured it would be smart to go piecemeal with explosives. It was not. I sling the bags over a shoulder and go into the bathroom. Tear the medicine cabinet off the wall. Blast caps. Also, painkillers. I grab both and stash them away. Grab two burner phones in a sandwich bag I keep in the toilet’s water tank. That can’t be. There’s no way Charlie’s back. That doesn’t happen. They’re not supposed to come back. I ignore the form to my left—maybe I can will it away. Then I do something stupid and look either way.

  Cherry appears in front of me again. I can see something moving beneath her skin. It leaves the subtlest trace of torn skin behind as it shifts from her lips to under her eyes.

  Time, I’ve got no time for this. I have to grab the last of what I need and get the hell out of here. That I haven’t been found is a miracle and it gets me wondering if there isn’t someone waiting outside my door to tag me. It’s what I would do if I needed to end someone who stupidly decided to go back to his apartment with a contract out on him. Shake those thoughts from my head—need to stay on track.

  Cherry’s sitting on the toilet cupping her chin in one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. She brings it to her lips and inhales. A thick, pale plume of smoke rises from her exit wounds.

  I do a double-take. “Where the fuck did you get a cigarette?”

  Her eyes slide to meet mine and she stares. She laughs silently and the smoke from her cigarette obscures her features until all I can see is the red of her lips and bullet wounds. I feel movement behind me and turn. Stranger. He gives me a lopsided smile and reaches a hand out. “Hey,” he rasps before his forehead explodes. He leans close to me, goes eye to eye, and smiles a literal mile wide. I can see the inside of his brain pan. The scorched after-effects of my bullet. The corners of his lips crack and shed black, viscous liquid. I can see a hint of what’s inside of him—so very alive under the dead flesh.

  None of this is right. I can’t be this nuts. I shake my head. Grip the edges of the sink. Turn on a blast of cold water and rinse off my face. Breathe. My heart’s racing. My head’s light. Jesus—can’t go off the deep end yet. Need to get to the hospital. Take care of Liam. No idea how, but I’ll figure it out once I get there.

  I bring my head back up and open my eyes. In the mirror’s reflection, they’re in here with me. Their mouths are wide open—jaws stretched beyond the brink of breaking—but they’re silent. The air’s thick with gnats. They float over me—pour out of the open wounds of the dead—whispers of their touch irritating my skin. My hands shake worse. I’m breathing in gulps. I’m crying, and I have no idea why or how it started. Stranger places a hand on my shoulder and it doesn’t pass through. I feel his fingers, heavy and freezing. I try to scream, but I’m as silent as the rest of them.

  Somewhere in the distance, I hear sirens and a phone rings. My brain’s screaming at me to move, but I can’t. Charlie’s got me with both hands and Cherry joins in. They all paw at me and I feel every single touch and tug. I look down and something dark pools at my feet—something familiar and dreaded. “No.” I can’t tell if I spoke or if someone—no something—else did. My eyes and nose feel like they’re on fire. My mouth feels like it’s filled with bloody cotton balls—dry copper lining my tongue. I smack my lips, but there’s no dice—mouth stays dry. Near my bedroom, I see my grandfather’s pig—throat wide open. Blink and they’re gone again. I only hear sirens. The phone stopped ringing.

  I regret polishing off the last of my whiskey.

  15

  I make it out of the rear service entrance of my building without another meltdown and without being ambushed—small miracles can happen. I climb over a small fence and sprint through the side streets of Riverdale. The sun is out now, but it’s still early enough that only a trickle of cars drive by and the commuters aren’t out in full force. Midway down 246th Street, I spot a gray Accord. I manage to jimmy the lock open with a blackjack from the duffle bag and I get the engine started in record time. The alternator belt on the car makes a high-pitched whistle. Lucky me, I chose the car with mechanical issues. No
t much I can do about that now.

  I pull out of the car’s parking spot, roll down the window, and continue down the street. In the time it took to get in the car and on the road, the Bronx has come alive. I see foot commuters hurrying to bus stops or the train. Early bird business owners are lifting the shutters that protect their storefronts. I’ve never been more jealous of people in my entire life, but there’s nothing I can do. This is all my fault.

  Cherry’s next to me. She scratches behind her right ear. Something, large, black, and with way too many legs crawls out, slips into her mouth.

  I look in the rearview to see who else is keeping us company. Relieved to see nothing stare back at me. “I’d love it if you did me a solid and head out early. I got so much more to worry about.”

  “What’s wrong, baby?” Cherry doesn’t look at me. She’s grinding against the seat, that blank stare in her eyes.

  “Everything is wrong,” I answer. “Every single thing.”

  I sigh. Turn on the radio. Don’t care much about what I hear, just want to hear something other than Charlie. Talking Heads’ “Wild, Wild Life” comes on. Makes me cringe. I have a history with that band. Whenever they come on the radio, I’m about to have a bad time. As if David Byrne is out to curse my existence. I leave the music on—it’s perfectly appropriate for the situation.

  Liam’s in trouble and I’ve got nothing—not a damn hint of a way to get him out of the mess I’ve made. Sure, I could go to Jacobi, but what will I do then, roll him out of there? A better man would have been at the hospital by now—a better man wouldn’t have put Liam or himself into this bullshit predicament. I get the car on the Bronx River Parkway and keep the speedometer at a steady sixty. I don’t need another cop pulling me over. Not with five bodies, a stolen car, and a small armory in a duffle bag on my shoulders.