Trust Me

by Paul Slatter

  They drove east heading out of the East Side with the windows open because of the smell, the Italian asking, “How old are you now?”

  The junkie couldn’t recall. He remembered his 26th birthday when his mother and father had come over and were so happy he had a new girlfriend and had straightened himself out after all this time of them worrying about his drug use.

  Yeah, he was 27. He said, “Twenty-seven.”

  But he wasn’t, he was thirty-four.

  The Italian said, “So, tell me why you have decided not to pay?”

  The junkie shifted on the seat as he watched the cars pass by, leaving streaks engraved in his eyes. He said, “I’ve been looking for my sister and I can’t get a job, you know. But I got one lined up, there’s this guy I know, real cool guy he’s got work for me, then soon as I’m paid, it’s yours and we’re good.”

  The Italian saying as he drove and gestured to the parked cars and houses on the streets that ran away north and south from Hastings, “You see them cars? You see them houses? Well they’re full of cash and you say you cannot get any for me, but you can get money for that shit you just put into your leg?”

  The Junkie looked at the houses—yeah, he would do that, break into cars, no problem. It wouldn’t be the first time. He said, “Sure.”

  The Italian laughed, then said, “Hey, I’m just joking. What good to me are you if you are in prison?” But this guy was close enough to that as it was and a lost cause.

  Then he heard the junkie say, “You seen my sister? I been looking for her; she was here then she was gone.”

  Not giving a shit, the Italian shook his head as he drove, “Yeah you said.” Girls from that area disappeared around there all the time, but not as much as they had a few years back when that Pickton guy had been feeding them to the pigs. He remembered her though, this sister, remembered her looking good for a while as she’d stood there with her brother as they’d both bought blocks. Her in her tight jeans and boots. The pair of them living in the same shithole room at an excuse for a hotel on Hastings. He said, “She working?”

  The junkie got it, he understood what the man was saying—‘she working?’ meant was she selling her ass as they did when they needed a fix.

  “No, she didn’t do that?”

  “You check?”

  And sadly, he had, as he’d wandered along the side roads and alleys where the girls hung night and day, rain or shine in short tight dresses and smudged lipstick as they waited for a passing car to stop so as they could do their thing, then go get their next fix.

  “Yeah, she’s not there, I asked. But she wouldn’t either, you know?”

  Don’t count on it, the Italian thought. How many girls who’d been customers of his had he lost over the years when they’d started using what God had given them to get the cash they needed to buy crack—instead of going through him.

  “Have you seen her?” the junkie asked again.

  He hadn’t, but he didn’t bother letting the guy know either way—there was little point.

  They reached the bridge and crossed over it heading north, then took a right straight after onto the slipway and headed east into the darkness. Passing through the Indian Reserve where the Italian had never ventured to ply his trade because he knew they’d kill him. Five minutes later he was at his place, parking up in the darkness of his long driveway. He got out and took a deep breath and listened to the night. It was silent. The house on its own next to the huge trees of Cates Park—the inlet to the east at the end of the home’s long garden, and only silence as always from the neighbour’s house on the other side.

  He walked around the car, hearing his feet crunch on the gravel as he did. He opened the door for the junkie and said, “Come on, let’s do some shit.” Then led him into the garage and stood in the darkness. He asked, “How much you owe me?”

  The junkie not knowing what day of the week it was, let alone his balance, he said, “Yeah I got it for you. My sister’s cheque will be in Wednesday; you can have that.” Then in his best effort not to get his clothes dirty, the Italian grabbed by the throat with both hands the man who thought he was still in his twenties and had been stealing his sister’s welfare money and, holding him out at arm’s length, held him there until the man went limp.

  Slowly he dropped the man down onto a sheet of black plastic he’d laid out across the floor for special occasions. Then standing again, he stood silent, listening to the night.

  Five minutes later, he moved again, picking up a bag of quicklime powder and poured it over the body of the man lying there in his shoes with no socks. Grabbing each corner of the plastic sheet, he pulled the string to release the garage door and watched as it swung up above his head, exposing him to the night.

  With his left hand, he dragged the man’s body out into the driveway and up onto the grass in the back garden. The plastic moving easily now on the grass made damp by the misty night air. He reached the bottom by the trees close to the inlet and stopped. Bending down he found the catch and pulled up the trap door to the pit. Dragging the man’s body over, he positioned it at the edge and, letting go of two of the corners, lifted the plastic, dropping the man’s body in.

  He closed the hatch, locked it, and stood again listening to the silence. There was nothing, except for the movement of the trees, the lapping of the water close by, and the thumping of his heart. He was getting soft, he thought as he walked away dragging the now empty plastic behind him. Letting the kid off like that and not giving him a beating first. Where were the days when the kid would have been still alive wrapped in that plastic and felt his wrath via a baseball bat or anything else that was blunt so as not to get that AIDS shit flying all around the place. It was because he was in love now, he thought. He’d managed to get back with Suzy, and he was in love. Yeah that was what it was. Suzy was making him weak with her nice ways and her lovely smell.

  He reached the back of the house and opened the top of a steel drum, placed the plastic into it, picked up a can of fuel at the side and lit it, sending a small ball of flame into the night as the plastic quickly burned away.

  ***************

  Daltrey’s heart pounded as she watched from the edge of the park. She’d climbed through the darkness on the rocks next to the water at the bottom of the garden just in time to see the Italian drop something large into what must be a sceptic tank. She’d passed him on the road as he’d turned without signaling into the driveway of the house. Then turning off her lights, she’d doubled back, entered the park, and in the dim light of the moon found her way through the winding tree-lined lane to the carpark down at the water’s edge. The guy was now lighting up a barbecue at the back of the house. The other man who’d come with him would be somewhere around also. But where? If he was, she’d hear them talking. Maybe he was asleep in the car or he’d gone inside and was sleeping somewhere else? she thought. Daltrey was right on that one. Except as far as the Italian was concerned, there was to be no wake-up call.

  It hadn’t been good. Not long back she’d have followed this guy in the darkness without her heart missing a beat—but now, no. She wasn’t right and she knew it. The Russian really had fucked her up and even more so now since she’d spent the evening cruising the streets of Main and Hastings Street. The girl who’d given her life for hers only a few weeks back had come from there, had lived there. No doubt on a drug-induced death sentence herself. But the girl had died saving her life and Daltrey still didn’t even know her name.

  And shame on her for not trying harder, she thought as she stood there watching from the safety of the trees. She’d looked around and asked questions yeah, but in her eyes, she’d done so with her head up her ass. She was only human after all, and not as tough as she or anyone else believed.

  Daltrey watched as the man who was in love with a stripper and had lost his edge because of it stood there putting fuel onto a fire, doing his best to keep the flames going. Then, kicking the bottom of the barrel, he sent a shower of sparks high
up into the cool night air. With one last check, he walked to his car, got in, and disappeared out the driveway and headed back towards the city.

  Yeah go on, get back to the girl of your dreams. Maybe you can lick the dribble left on her from all the guys who she's let feel and lick her tits, Daltrey thought as she moved slowly away from the safety of the trees. She moved through the damp grass, feeling her stockinged feet slide in her boots she’d slipped on as she’d watched the Italian from the safety of her car. They felt good now after an evening of wearing heels. She reached the back of the house and crept around front, then circled the place until she was back where she’d started. No one was there, not a sign, no light. No window opened to let in the night air. She looked at the road and then to her watch; it was past midnight. Fuck she'd been busy—she’d had fun at the club, then had more fun with the girl with the silky legs. Wow, she thought, still feeling it down there. It was a rarity anyone male or female had made her come like that, even if the woman had been a snooping bitch.

  She moved around towards the back. Then with the help from the light on her mobile phone, she picked up the track of the man’s body from where the Italian loan shark had dragged it through the grass and followed it until it stopped. Daltrey looked towards the trees and then down to her feet. It was pretty much the same area she'd seen the guy dump something into. Probably a septic tank or a compost pit, she thought, the guy giving the earth back all the shit he couldn't eat. But with them, mostly, there was a cover of sort and a handle.

  She dropped down to her knees and felt the wet grass move quickly through her stockings and moved her fingers through the grass until she found a seam. Slowly she traced it around in a complete square until she felt a latch.

  Daltrey moved away, looked back at the house, and then back to the latch. The small semi-circle handle was locked down with a fairly substantial padlock. Fuck. A few weeks ago, she'd have been through it with a breeze thanks to the locksmith she'd played to get a set of master keys. She looked back towards the house and the garage built into its side. Then she saw an axe sitting next to the chopping block. That'll do it.

  Carrying it over, Daltrey stood there in her dress, wet stockings, and boots and took a well-aimed swing hard and fast at the lock, hitting it in exactly the same spot the nice-looking locksmith had told her to, should she ever feel the need to hit one because she didn’t have a key.

  Throwing the axe to one side, she bent down again and pulled off the now broken lock and turned the handle 90 degrees and gave the cover a tug.

  For a moment, it wouldn't give, the edges so well tapered so as to make a seal. Then, with her legs apart, she gave the handle three almighty tugs and felt the vacuum give as the lid’s seal broke away.

  Then the smell of death hit her. The unmistakable, sweet-smelling, sticky stench of rotting human flesh rising up from the depths of a grave. Instantly Daltrey turned her body away, reacting on pure instinct, retching and gagging as the smell lined the inside of her nose and mouth. Covering her nose with the top of her dress, she looked inside the black pit, staring into darkness. Then she leaned down and picked up her phone, which she had placed to one side and turned on its little light, shone it down, and instantly saw the junkie who didn’t know his age looking back up at her barely alive, his face white like death itself, his eyes burned red from the quicklime the Italian had covered him with.

  For a moment and from the smell, Daltrey thought the man could only be dead. Then she saw his hand move as he reacted to the light. She looked around him, spinning her faint light about as other body parts, along with hands and feet which lined the pit, came into view. Then seeing movement, Daltrey shone the light back onto the man as she saw his hand shift position again. The guy was almost dead, there was no doubt about it. She looked up again and then back at the house, then back down at the pit as she did her best to cover her nose. The pit must have been at least ten feet deep.

  Fuck, she thought, what should she do? Call it in and wait, or get the guy out now? No, get him some air to breath, she thought, then call it in.

  She stood, walked to the house, looked into the garage and, taking a chance that the guy in the pit was the man in the car, stepped back and kicked the door in.

  ***************

  Chendrill sat on the edge of the bed and wondered how he was going to tell Tricia that after they had made love and settled in for the night, he was now going out again. A text had come through from a reliable source that his car was not sitting in the usual pound he'd been stealing it back from, but was now instead sitting safely for the next hour on a back road five blocks down from McGill.

  It didn’t make sense though, his car was outside. Maybe it was Dan’s Ferrari they were referring to, he’d thought, as he sat there in the darkness, having read the text only seconds before. Then he’d stood and walked naked to the window and looked outside to see the Aston was gone.

  The fuckers had come and taken it, this time illegally, sneaking it away while he was in the throes of passion—which seemed to be a thing these days. Now though they were keeping it away from the pound so as he wouldn't be able to steal it back. It was a trick, one they often used. When there was a rush of cars badly parked downtown and the pound was too far away for them to pull them all. So that's what they're up to now, he thought. The pricks, taking the feud to another level, using tow truck driver trick 101. He looked over to see Tricia lying on the bed with one hand propping up her head and before Chendrill could say a word she said, “Pulling the old fuck me and split routine again, are we?”

  He was, there was little he could say or do to deny it. He said, “I’ll be back in a bit then maybe we can get another one in before my phone goes again.”

  “You don't need to work, remember.”

  He didn't and he did, it was a strange dynamic. He said, “Yeah well it's important—I'll be back soon.”

  Important, like going to get your car so as you can fuck with some shithead’s brain important, he thought. His girl wasn’t wrong.

  He got dressed and within a few minutes, he was sitting with the keys to his Aston in the backseat of a taxi heading towards his car which was apparently hidden five blocks south of McGill.

  He reached McGill, asked the driver to turn left, and carried on until he saw the Aston sitting there on a corner amongst old beaters looking out of place. Telling the driver to drop him on the corner, Chendrill got out and watched as the cab disappeared along the road. He reached the car and looked up at the road sign which read Casper Street, then quickly over his shoulder to see the Italian coming out of the darkness as he pulled out his gun and shot him.

  **************

  Jesus Christ answer your fucking phone Chendrill, Daltrey said as she stood with a ladder before dropping it down into the pit.

  Giving up on Chendrill, she cradled her nose with one hand and began descending into the darkness of the pit. She reached the bottom and looked at the rotten limbs and skulls scattered around her, then she turned her flashlight to the only other living thing down there. Reaching down, she grabbed the man’s arm and tried to get him to stand.

  “Don’t let me die in here,” he managed to whisper.

  Daltrey pointed the light from her phone towards his eyes, which looked red and blistered from the lime.

  “I can’t see properly,” he said.

  Daltrey lifted the man to his feet and felt her own feet slip on the rotting bodies as she did.

  Reaching out with one hand, she put both his hands on either side of the ladder, then said to him, “There's a ladder, start climbing.”

  The man lifted his foot and began to climb up the ladder away from this netherworld. Daltrey behind him, the two of them climbing slowly, the smell of rotting flesh easing with every step as they grew nearer to the fresh air at the top of the pit’s opening.

  The man reached the top and rolled himself onto his back and breathed the night air deep into his lungs. Moments later, Daltrey was standing next to him looking dow
n as she wiped the rotting flesh away from her boots onto the grass like dog shit and began to puke again.

  Finishing, Daltrey looked away from the pit and took a deep desperate breath of the nighttime air and filled her lungs, blew it out and did it again. Fuck, the smell was still there, stuck somehow to the inside of her nose like some sort of alternative anti-perfume.

  She pulled out her phone and tried Chendrill again, nothing. Then she looked up to see the lights of an approaching car through the trees, coming towards the house.

  *************

  The Italian was pissed, why, oh why can he not get a single thing right at the moment, he thought. How the fuck could he have lured that big Hawaiian shirt wearing fuckhead to a perfectly quiet area and then forget about the trannies that hung about around there at night? Jesus, he was an idiot, and why the fuck had he not just got on with it and shot the fucking weirdo right there and then, straight after he’d shot Chendrill?

  It was Suzy, she was making him like this—it had to be, the loan shark Italian thought, knowing he was completely off his game just because of some random Suzy look-alike woman or whatever she was who’d come around the corner with her short skirt and blonde hair and big come-fuck-me tits. The woman mind fucking him the moment after he’d lined up and put a bullet into Chendrill.

  “Fuck!” the loan shark said out loud as he pulled the car back into the drive for the second time that night. “Why the fuck did you not just shoot her as well?” he said to himself as he stopped the car at the bottom of the driveway.

  Now Suzy was all angry with him. The woman he’d been in love with his whole life breaking off the relationship and hanging up the phone on him, just because he’d called her on the off chance it was her out there walking the streets late at night and selling her ass.