Six Bad Things

by Charlie Huston

  —Fuck! Fuuuuck!

  He still has the gun. He’s flopped in the tub sideways, his legs hanging out over the rim, blood starting to well from the cut on his forehead where he smacked it. He’s trying to draw a bead on me and get out of the way of the scorching water. His skin is already turning bright red.

  I drop from the toilet seat onto the floor as he pulls the trigger, exploding the toilet tank. He kicks at me as I reach through the billowing steam and grab hold of his gun hand. The long sleeves of my shirt give me a moment’s protection, and then the water has soaked through and is burning my arms, droplets splashing onto my face and eyes as I try to grip his slippery, naked skin.

  He’s flailing at me with his feet, kicking me in the ribs as I lean over the edge of the tub, one hand holding his wrist and the other peeling his finger back from the trigger, bending it. He’s slapping at the hot water knob with his free hand, trying to turn it off, but he twists it the wrong way and it pounds down on us, scalding the side of my face. His finger snaps and I bend it until it’s pressed flat against the back of his hand. He lands a kick on the side of my head that sends me falling backward into the cold toilet water pooling on the floor.

  The sudden cold makes me feel just how bad my burns are and I scream. Sid’s mouth is wide open, but a whistling rush of air is the only sound coming out. He pulls his legs into the tub and gets them underneath his body and starts to stand up. The water is still crashing on him and he’s twisting the knob with his left hand. I reach back into the tub and grab one of his legs. He points his gun at me, but his broken trigger finger dangles uselessly. The stream of water fades to a dribble and I yank on his leg and he falls back into the tub, swinging the gun at me on the way down and cracking me in the skull.

  The world flips.

  The world rights itself.

  The gun has bounced out of Sid’s hand and landed in a puddle of steaming water at the hair-clogged drain. Sid paws at it with his lobster-red left hand and shoves his mauled right hand in my face, trying to hold me at bay. His broken finger slips into my open mouth and I bite it. He screeches and slaps his left hand against my right ear, setting off an explosion of pain. I swing my right arm up in an arc, wrapping around his left arm, bring it down, and squeeze my elbow into my side, pinning his arm in my armpit. He’s on his back now writhing in two inches of seething water. His right hand is squirting blood into my mouth, the other is trapped, and his legs are useless inside the tub. I punch him in the face with my left fist, and throw myself on top of him in the tub.

  He’s pinned beneath me. He pulls hard on his left arm and it starts to slip free. The flesh at the break in his finger is starting to tear between my teeth. I wrap my left hand around his throat and let his left arm free and he grabs my lower lip and pulls down, trying to free his other hand from my jaws. I reach beyond his head into the puddle of hot water and wrap my fingers around the butt of his pistol. Too late, he realizes what is happening and grabs at my right arm. I lean all my weight into my left arm, squashing his throat. His mouth flies open and I shove the gun inside of it until I feel the tip of the barrel hit the back of his throat and he starts to gag on it.

  I pull the trigger. Water drains from the new hole in the bottom of the tub.

  WHEN I open the trunk Sandy hits me in the arm with the lug wrench. I take it from her and we get T into the back seat. I give the keys to Sandy and she gets behind the wheel and drives us to Tim’s apartment.

  The only place left to hide.

  SANDY PLAYS nurse. She gets us inside, puts T in Tim’s bed, fills the tub with cold water, and cuts the clothing from my body with a scissors from Tim’s desk. Once I’m in the tub, she empties all the ice trays into it.

  My right arm and hand are raw and red and dotted with white blisters. My knees are also scalded, but not as bad. I know the right side of my face and neck are bad, but I can feel the pain, so the tissue damage can’t be too deep. My vision is speckled with black dots and I don’t remember what happened right after I shot a hole in the back of Sid’s mouth. I try to remember some details and the black dots blur into a single huge dot and I find myself choking on ice water. Sandy pulls me up, out of the tub before I drown. I get up and stand on the linoleum floor while she blots my skin dry as gently as she can. I think it’s a safe bet that Sid aggravated my concussion when he smacked me with his gun.

  There’s no burn cream in Tim’s bathroom, but there is a bottle of aloe. We smear that over my scalded skin. There’s nothing to use as a burn bandage except some Saran Wrap from the kitchen. Sandy carefully wraps it around my knees, arm, shoulder, and neck. My face and hand will have to go without. She drapes a sheet around me like a toga and helps me into Tim’s room and I sit on the edge of the bed. T’s awake.

  —My dog.

  —I’m sorry, T.

  —My fucking dog.

  —I know.

  —Gonna kill the fuckers.

  Too late.

  Sandy has already stripped him and wrapped a towel around his calf. It’s still bleeding. My hands are shaking from the speed and I don’t think I could hold a needle in my burned right hand anyway. And I could just black out again at any moment. Sandy shakes her head when I ask if she thinks she can sew him up. We have to stop the bleeding.

  I give T two Percs and he goes out. I tell Sandy to try and clean up his face and I go in to the kitchen. I want two Percs. Really, I want all the Percs in the world, but I’ll have to live with the one I took back at El Cortez. In the kitchen I find a serving spoon. I turn one of the stove’s gas burners to high and set the handle of the spoon in the flame and go back to the room with a whiskey bottle. We unwrap T’s leg and bathe it in Tullamore Dew and I have Sandy hold a clean towel around it while I go for the spoon. I hold it, the glowing handle sticking out of a wet rag, and press it into one end of the hole in T’s calf. He jerks and I tell Sandy to hold the leg tighter and she gags at the sound and the smell and then it’s over. Then we do it again, cauterizing the other end of the hole, as well.

  That’s all I can do for my friend. There’s a murdered body at his home and his car was seen speeding away from the scene of another murder and soon the cops will be after him, and when they catch him they will send his ass back to California and lock it up for the rest of his life.

  So he has to go now.

  SANDY DRESSES T in a pair of Tim’s shorts and a Les Paul Live at the Iridium sweatshirt. I find a pair of overalls that touch as little of my burned skin as possible.

  T comes to as we slide him into the backseat of the Chrysler.

  —What the fuck?

  —Hey, T.

  —What the fuck?

  —Yeah, I got that.

  Sandy gets behind the wheel and buckles herself in. I sit in the passenger seat, but don’t close the door. T focuses his good eye on me.

  —You look all fucked-up, superstar.

  —It’s going around.

  —I wanna go home.

  —I’m sorry, T, you can’t.

  —Fuck you.

  —I’m sorry about your dog, T.

  —Said, fuck you.

  —Thanks for helping me. I.

  I shake my head, unable to finish. He reaches out a hand, puts it on my arm, and closes his eye.

  —Fuck. You.

  His hand slides off and he’s asleep again.

  I close the door and go stand next to Sandy’s open window.

  —You sure?

  She runs a finger around the steering wheel and nods.

  —Yeah. My fault he’s all fucked-up, anyway.

  —OK. Just find a place out of the way, over the state line where the cops won’t look for him. Arizona, not California.

  —I’ll find someplace safe.

  —And get rid of the car as soon as.

  —I will.

  I show her the money belt, now stained with the blood of three men.

  —Take what you need and give the rest to him.

  —What about you?

&nbs
p; —I don’t need money anymore.

  I hand her the belt.

  —Once he’s safe from the cops, go find a lawyer for yourself. You’ll be fine if you.

  A car comes down the street and I duck to avoid the headlights as it passes. She points at Tim’s apartment.

  —Get back inside.

  —Yeah.

  I touch her shoulder with my left hand. She brushes it off and starts the car and turns on the headlights and pulls away from the curb. And just like early yesterday morning, T and Sandy are driving away, leaving me alone. I watch until they turn the corner, and then go upstairs.

  I GAVE Sandy some of the Percs to feed to T for his pain. I sit on Tim’s couch and spread the ten Percs I kept on the coffee table, right next to the Anaconda and Danny’s 9 mm.

  IT’S GOING to be easy.

  Doing this is going to be so easy.

  DYLAN WILL come here to this address. He’ll come himself because he won’t trust anyone else to get his money. He may bring muscle, but he’ll come. I don’t care about muscle. I just need Dylan here.

  At first I wanted him here so I could threaten him and force him to make a call, make him tell his men to back off. And then I could kill him. But that’s not the smart thing to do. I’ve finally figured out the smart thing. The smart thing is for me to die.

  But I need him here for it to work. I need him to see my corpse with his own eyes. He’ll get the message. It’s over. The money is lost and it’s over. He’ll call in his dogs and leave Mom and Dad alone. Killing people costs a lot of money and it involves risk. Dylan is an asshole, but he’s also a businessman. After all, who’s gonna drop a nuclear bomb on their enemy when the enemy is already dead?

  This is the smart thing. I’ve thought about it, and I’m sure.

  I could use a gun, but I don’t have the guts. Funny that. So I swallow the Percs one by one, washing them down with Tim’s Tullamore Dew.

  It’s nice, not having to worry anymore. Not having to worry about staying in control, about keeping it all together, about what to do next. I can just take these pills and they’ll do all the worrying for me. I love you Mom and Dad. But I don’t want to hurt people anymore.

  —HOLA?

  —Pedro, it’s me.

  Silence.

  —Pedro?

  —Si?

  —Have you seen the news, do you know?

  —Si. I know.

  —I should have told you.

  Silence.

  —How’s Leo?

  —He will be OK.

  —The police?

  —We will be OK.

  —OK.

  Silence.

  —How’s Bud? Is he?

  —The cat is fine. The hijos love the cat.

  —Good.

  I hear a voice in the background, Ofelia. Pedro covers the mouthpiece and says something to her and then comes back on.

  —I must go.

  —Yeah, I’m sorry.

  —No problema.

  —Good-bye, Pedro.

  —Via con Dios. Henry.

  I hang up. My hand goes to my neck, but I’ve lost the holy medal he gave me. Where? Doesn’t matter. Not likely that any saints are going to be looking out for me these days.

  I probably shouldn’t have made that call. But it was the closest I could get to calling home. I look at the clock. How long since I took the pills? How much longer will it take? My eyes drift shut. I open them. Not long.

  I flick on the TV to pass the time. I flip past CNN and ESPN. Cartoon Network is doing a twenty-four-hour marathon of Christmas shows. I settle in to watch.

  I black out.

  I’M SITTING on Tim’s couch. The TV is on. It’s a cartoon. A Charlie Brown Christmas. It’s the part where Linus stands on the stage and the spotlight turns on and he explains the meaning of Christmas. My favorite part.

  —Hank.

  I turn my head. Tim is sitting next to me on the edge of the couch.

  —Hey, Timmy.

  —Thank God, man. I wasn’t sure you would ever wake up.

  I point at the TV.

  —Let’s watch this.

  —OK.

  We watch Linus finish his speech and then a commercial comes on. I turn back to Tim.

  —Where ya been, Timmy?

  —New York.

  —No kidding. How’s the old neighborhood?

  He shrugs.

  —The same. You know.

  —Yeah.

  He reaches out a hand to touch me, but doesn’t.

  —Hank, you look pretty messed up.

  —Well, yeah.

  —Maybe we should do something.

  —Sure.

  —And I think I should get you out of here.

  —Sure.

  He stands up. I hold up my finger.

  —Hang on just a sec, I got something for you.

  I reach out my burned right hand and pick up the Anaconda. He takes a step back.

  —Hank.

  The revolver feels like it’s on fire. I point it at his stomach.

  —Don’t worry, Timmy. This is gonna hurt me a lot more than it’s gonna hurt you.

  And it does hurt. The huge weapon bucks in my hand and the pain flares up my arm. But it probably hurts him more.

  A LOUD noise wakes me up.

  I’m sitting on Tim’s couch. The TV is on. It’s a cartoon. A Charlie Brown Christmas. It’s the part where Charlie tries to decorate his pitiful tree and it collapses and he thinks he’s killed it, but then his friends come and make it beautiful. It’s the end.

  —Hank.

  I look at the floor. Tim is sprawled there, a huge hole in his stomach, his hands pressed over it, trying to keep the blood inside, but it’s spilling everywhere. Something is hurting my hand. I look. I’m holding Wade’s Anaconda. I drop it.

  —Timmy?

  —Oh shit. Oh shit, Hank.

  Nonononono.

  I slide to the floor.

  —Timmy.

  —What? Hank? What?

  —Oh. Oh. OK, we can. I can.

  —Hank. I did.

  —What?

  —I did what you told me. I did.

  —It’s OK, man, just be.

  —I went. Ohgodohgodohgod. This guy from, from New York was, I heard this guy was coming. A Russian. Hank, there’s a Russian.

  —I know. Shhhh. I know.

  —And I did what you said. And I. You told me if anyone came to. You told me.

  —I did. I know. It’s OK.

  I’m pressing my hands into the wound, but there’s too much of it to cover.

  —You told me to get out if anyone came, and I did, I took the money and I.

  —Of course you did, you’re a good friend, Timmy, I knew you’d.

  —And my beeper. Ohshiiiiiit. I’m such a idiot. You were gonna call my beeper. But.

  —It’s OK.

  —No.

  —OK.

  —I’m a idiot and I forgot the, I forgot my beeper.

  Tears are pouring out of his eyes, his teeth and tongue and lips are sheened with blood.

  —And the news, I saw it, I saw they said you were here in Vegas and.

  He breathes a couple times.

  —It’s starting not to hurt as much, Hank.

  —Good, that’s good.

  —You were in Vegas and, but I didn’t know how to find you or call you.

  He winces and blood wells up out of his mouth and over his chin. He spits.

  —I came back. I came here. I thought. And you were here, Hank, and it was all OK.

  —I know. You did what I told you. That’s all, Timmy, you just did what I told you.

  —And, Hank. The money, it’s OK.

  —No.

  —The money is OK.

  —Don’t, I don’t wanna.

  —No, it’s OK.

  —I don’t wanna know, I don’t wanna.

  He’s nodding his head up and down, still talking, but there’s no air coming out of his throat anymore. Only blo
od. He tries to talk through the blood, tries to say words made out of blood, but there’s too much of it.

  I COVER Tim with a blanket.

  I WILL be the last one to die.

  And could it have ever ended any other way?

  For the last time, I close my eyes.

  I OPEN my eyes.

  Something is in my mouth, stuck all the way to the back of my throat. I picture the barrel of Sid’s .45 stuck deep in his mouth, him gagging on the steel. I throw up. Someone pulls my head forward so I puke between my legs, and then the thing is back in my mouth and I puke again. And one more time. I fall back onto the couch, gasping.

  —Here.

  A glass of water. I spill some in my mouth and swish it around and spit.

  —Drink it.

  I take a swallow and cough.

  —I feel terrible.

  —Yes, I would imagine that to be the case.

  A voice I don’t know. A Russian voice. I look up.

  He’s in his fifties, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and beard, an expensive-looking gray suit. He’s wiping the finger he shoved down my throat on a silk handkerchief. He points at Tim’s body.

  —Did he tell you where the money is?

  —No.

  —Hm.

  He leans over and looks at my pile of vomit.

  —How many pills did you swallow?

  —Ten.

  He covers his finger with the handkerchief and sifts through the mess.

  —Yes, they are all here. That is good.

  My guns aren’t on the coffee table anymore. I look around the room.

  —I’ve hidden them.

  —Kill me.

  He drops the handkerchief so that it covers the vomit.

  —And waste my efforts? No.

  —I need to die.

  —No, Henry, you need to live. It is very important that you live.

  —Who are you?

  —David Dolokhov. I am Mikhail Dolokhov’s uncle.