The Delivery Man

by Joe McGinniss, Jr.

  Bailey came over once to see Chase at the hotel. He didn’t stay very long and was uncomfortable the entire time. He sat on the bed where Chase was watching TV and whenever their eyes met Bailey had to turn away. He twisted the thick silver ring on his thumb and when Chase’s head wasn’t down Bailey stared out the open window at the lights of the Strip. Bailey looked tan and more muscular than Chase remembered him being the night of that last party and Chase suddenly resented that Bailey was probably working out the same as before, as if nothing had happened. Soon they were staring at a movie about teenagers trapped in a house with a man who liked to cut them open and position their corpses doing mundane things like showering or watching television. Finally Bailey stood up.

  “She seemed okay,” he said.

  “At what point, Bailey, did she seem okay?”

  “You’re too hard on people,” Bailey said.

  Chase was drunk and wearing only boxers and asked Bailey, “Am I being too hard on you now?”

  Bailey said he understood Chase’s anger and that he’d been stoned every day since. Bailey told Chase that he should get out of the hotel room. When Chase didn’t respond Bailey sat back down next to him.

  “Let’s go, man,” Bailey whispered.

  “That’s not a good idea right now.” Chase wasn’t even aware that he was crying.

  Bailey rested his hand on Chase’s chest. His palm was open and cool and Chase didn’t move. Bailey’s face was too close. Chase could smell marijuana and hair gel, and when Bailey’s face moved closer to his he felt the warmth of his breath. And then they kissed. Bailey urged him back against the headboard, clumsily. He slid a hand around Chase’s neck. Bailey said, “It’s okay.” His other hand moved to the front of Chase’s boxers and eased them down until they were off. Chase kept his eyes open. The light on the smoke detector blinked. It went from red to black to red again.

  Chase’s apartment is cool and quiet tonight. The only light in the room comes from the computer on the drafting table. Chase reads Julia’s e-mail three times before printing it out and carefully sliding it into a manila envelope. He places the terrible thing in his nightstand drawer. He lies awake staring at the television: endless episodes of COPS with the volume down. His eyes keep wandering to the drafting table where he sat a couple of months ago and asked Julia to marry him.

  15

  Chase has a headache when he wakes up. The apartment is dark even though it’s just after nine. He showers and puts on cargo shorts and a black Killers T-shirt and drinks half a carton of orange juice. Hunter calls and asks if he wants to go with him to buy new tires for the Caravan before he leaves for Oregon. Chase asks Hunter when he’s leaving and Hunter pauses, then says, “As soon as I get the new tires.” When Chase arrives at Hunter’s father’s house he’s surprised to find that Hunter already has the Caravan packed and is sitting on the front steps drinking a Corona. Chase struggles to keep his voice level when he asks, “Is this for real?” He motions for Hunter to move over so he can sit down. Hunter slides over and sips his beer. Squinting in the sunlight at the dinged-up Caravan, Hunter offers Chase a Corona.

  “It’s eleven in the morning” is all Chase says.

  “Exactly.” And then Hunter asks Chase, “Will you please reconsider going with me?”

  “It’s tempting,”

  “What’s stopping you? And don’t say Michele.”

  “No.” Chase pauses carefully. “It’s not Michele.”

  “And don’t tell me Carly.”

  The name startles Chase. His face feels hot. There is nothing else to say. After driving Hunter back from the Tire Emporium he simply drops him off and pulls away. On an empty stretch of Summerlin Parkway heading back to the city Chase presses down on the accelerator so hard that the steering wheel shakes. The wind screams beneath the white sun.

  It’s night and Michele is sitting on a chaise longue at the deserted end of the Palace pool. Heat rises up from the concrete. Next to Michele are a pair of pink cotton shorts, a pair of leather and cork high-heel wedges, a pile of magazines, an iPod, two packs of American Spirits, and a tube of suntan lotion. Chase breathes in the scent of coconut and cigarettes and barely glances at the red blotch on Michele’s inner thigh. Chase has to focus on the blue water in the pool, rippling in the wind, in order to keep it together. Michele says the pills only make her feel a little less bad. This could have been done on the phone but he couldn’t help himself: Chase wanted to see her. He asks her where he’s supposed to go tonight.

  “Century Suncoast.” She doesn’t even look at him.

  Chase is supposed to meet Rachel at the Century Suncoast 16 in Summerlin. She isn’t where she said she’d be when they spoke. He drives the Mustang in circles around the vast multiplex, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and then he sees her:

  Rachel with a group of girls her age. She spots the Mustang and waves. When Rachel gets in the passenger seat she asks Chase where Michele is. Chase says at the pool at the Palace. Rachel mentions how cool it is that Bailey and Michele worked things out. Chase doesn’t bother correcting her. Rachel is staying with a friend in Green Valley Ranch who wants to work for Michele. Rachel says her friend is off the hook and that her YouTube video gets more hits than Kari Sweets. All Chase wants to tell Rachel is that nothing she says matters next to what she is doing and that she will probably be dead soon. But when Chase coolly shrugs, this moves Rachel to grab the hand in his lap and she stares at him, glossy lips slightly parted, almond eyes narrowed, and he’s thinking about her in a way that not too long ago he wouldn’t have. He suddenly feels both apologetic and younger. He wants to be soft with this girl. Rachel is psyched about the appointment because the guy is loaded. Chase asks her what time the appointment is booked for. Rachel says, “It’s at eleven-thirty or midnight. He’s supposed to call to confirm.” She checks her cell. “But I want to be there early,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “There isn’t one, Rachel.”

  It’s now after eleven and Chase is waiting for Rachel in front of her friend’s house in Green Valley Ranch. He lets the Mustang’s engine idle. He watches the traffic pass along the highway. Rachel has changed into a checkered schoolgirl skirt and a white blouse tied in a knot at her waist. She’s wearing black-and-white saddle shoes. Rachel trips coming down the stairs. She sits splayed out on the second-to-last step of the staircase, laughing. When Rachel gets in the car she kisses Chase. She insists she’s not as messed up as she looks. She grabs his hand and presses it to her chest. “Does it feel real?” Her breast feels unusually firm and full. Rachel places her hand on top of his and presses down. “Feel it for real,” she says softly. Chase gently squeezes it and as he keeps squeezing Rachel he reaches inside her bra—he has an erection, he wants to kiss her—but finds a clear gel breast enhancement that Bailey bought for her when she was working for him. “He thought I needed new boobs but fuck him.” She removes the other one and shoves them into her purse. “I like my boobs, but by the time you’re butt-naked the guys really don’t care. I’m the little girl. Bailey wanted to cut me open. Bailey’s all I know someone who’ll do it right. I’m so glad I paid them back. I’m so done with his shit.” She pauses and for once the patter turns somber when she says, “Cabo?” She sighs. “Yeah, right.”

  “What’s tonight?” Chase asks, adjusting himself.

  “I know this guy,” Rachel says. “He’s cool. A comedian. He was on Jimmy Kimmel once.”

  Chase is driving fast along Summerlin Parkway toward the house where Rachel has her eleven-thirty and even though he thought he was paying attention—winding through smooth dark streets lined with houses that seem to get larger with each block—Chase realizes he has no idea where they are or how to get back to where they came from. He turns the car in to a development named Canyon Terrace. The wind gusts and shifts suddenly and it keeps changing directions like it does before a storm. After driving deeper into the development Chase turns
onto a road marked No Outlet. Rachel checks her cell and mutters the address: 13237 Bella Vista. Chase keeps peering into the darkness, driving slowly. “There it is.” Rachel grabs his leg.

  Chase stops the car.

  Before Chase can turn the ignition off Rachel hops out and walks quickly to the front door of the house.

  The man who lets Chase and Rachel in is about thirty. He’s sunburned. He has a shaved head. He wears a black wifebeater. His arms are sleeves of tattoos. Chase wonders why there is no furniture in the house. The man keeps grinning at Rachel. The fact that Rachel seems oblivious makes it even worse. “Hi, I’m Sleater.”

  “Where’s Van?” Rachel asks.

  The man’s grin moves to Chase when he answers. “He’s upstairs.”

  “Cool,” Rachel says. “This is like a huge house. Is there a pool?”

  Sleater says, “Yeah, there is.” But when he says this he’s looking at Chase.

  “I’m going to check out the pool,” Rachel says.

  Sleater doesn’t stop her.

  When Rachel passes the kitchen Chase notices another man.

  It happens quickly: the three of them standing in the empty living room.

  Chase fights the urge to leave by digging his hands in his pockets.

  “You guys just move here?” Chase asks.

  The man who joined Chase and Sleater has a gut stretching out a Toby Keith T-shirt. He has a long ponytail and a bright red face. Sleater introduces him as John but seems to pause before naming him.

  “Where are you from?” Chase asks casually.

  “Boulder City.” Sleater steps toward him. “Got a light?”

  Sleater produces a cigarette when Chase tells him he doesn’t.

  “Well, let’s get the party started,” Chase says. “Van’s upstairs?”

  Sleater nods.

  “Are you guys, like, part of his posse, or what?” Chase asks.

  “Relax, dude.” John grins but it’s fake.

  Sleater keeps staring at Chase with an expression that doesn’t change.

  Chase wants to know why they’re standing so close to him.

  “We’re just hanging out, bud. What about you?” John asks.

  “What are you doing here? Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not our type.”

  Rachel comes back in from outside.

  “You like the pool?” Sleater asks Rachel. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Rachel says. “It’s really big.”

  “It’s heated, too,” John says. “We can all go in later.”

  When John looks at Chase there’s the understanding that Chase is not invited.

  Chase realizes that the only way to move through this is to keep everything cool since everything feels wrong.

  “So what brought Van out to Summerlin?” Chase asks the guy with the unlit cigarette. “Does he have a contract with one of the hotels?”

  “No. He moved here because of the weather.”

  Rachel is already halfway up the stairs.

  Sleater and John both notice Chase creasing his brow with concern.

  “She’ll be fine,” one of them says.

  “No problem,” Chase says and it’s a bluff. “She has my cell and I want it back.”

  “But who’s going to call you?”

  Sleater asked this, his thin lips dry and cracked. Chase realizes that this was a serious question. But before he can answer Rachel calls Chase’s name from upstairs.

  Chase finds Rachel standing next to the window at the far end of a bedroom lit with track lighting. The window looks out over the blackness of the backyard and the shadowy palm fronds weaving silently in the warm wind. When Chase sees that the pool has no water in it he realizes that this is a setup and that they need to go. Rachel notices the moment that Chase sees the empty pool and her expression is briefly sympathetic. She bites her lower lip and stares out the window. “It’s okay,” she whispers.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” Chase says. “This was just a bad call. That’s all.”

  Rachel laughs nervously and takes in a deep breath and holds it.

  “Rachel.” Chase puts his hands on her thin shoulders and she flinches. “We need to go. We have to get out of here.”

  She’s trembling when she says, “You should have known better.”

  “Rachel,” Chase says tonelessly. “Rachel. Rachel.”

  “You’re fucking dead,” she gasps, backing away from him.

  “Oh, dude, you’re so fucked.”

  Chase forces himself to take a step toward the door.

  But the guys from downstairs stand in the doorway.

  And behind them are three others.

  They let Rachel through.

  The lights go out. Everything is black.

  Chase hears the bedroom door slam shut.

  And then Chase hears Rush’s high-pitched laughter.

  Chase had no idea how many of them were in the room. His stomach dropped as adrenaline soared through him and “Please” was all he managed to say. He was frozen. His legs simply wouldn’t move. His jeans quickly became warm and wet. The blackness was dizzying. He could barely breathe as he raised his shaking arms and held them in front of his face. There were flashlights. There was a sharp blast of heat. Everything was suddenly white and ringing. Chase felt the entire right side of his face shatter. Falling, the deafening reverberation in his right ear echoed through his skull. He choked on blood and mucus that poured from his nose into his open mouth and directly down his throat—he was coughing up so much blood that he couldn’t breathe. Then: the fleshiness of an arm around his face. He was being dragged across the carpet. Aluminum bats landed with such force that Chase could hear his chest crack open. He involuntarily raised his forearm to fend off another blow but someone grabbed it and snapped it, turning it into a wet and splintered thing. When Chase started screaming a gloved fist plugged his mouth with an impact that ripped his front teeth from his gums. The last thing Chase thought before the blackness swept over him was this, and it was very simple: you brought yourself here and that’s how you found yourself here. And as his clothes were being torn from his body Chase lost consciousness and was free.

  Michele found another tooth on the floor of the Mustang. She placed it on the nightstand next to the others. It has been eight days since the attack. Chase spent four nights in the hospital, though he never found out how he got there. He was told that he was left (“dumped” was the actual word used by one of the staff) at the entrance of the UNLV medical center in the backseat of the Mustang. For some reason Chase thought this was a clue. When he regained consciousness he wrote Michele’s phone number down using his left hand and had someone on the staff call her. Michele came immediately with his mother, who wept when she saw what had happened to her son. The two of them picked Chase up from the UNLV medical center when he was discharged. Chase did not want to recuperate at the house on Beverly and his mother said that she understood but she wanted him to come with her and stay at Edward’s place in Montana at the end of the summer. After a trip to the apartment on Boulder to collect some of his things, Michele put Chase in Bailey’s Impala and drove him to the Strip. She turned right in to the long U-shaped driveway at the Palace.

  * * *

  On the twenty-second floor, in the Sun King suite, Chase drifts off to sleep for an hour at a time. The headaches are so relentless that not even the Norco or Oxycontin manage to dull the pain. Because his arm is splinted and in a cast and his torso is wrapped tightly—to protect the four broken ribs, the smashed clavicle, the cracked sternum—it’s impossible to find a comfortable position to sleep. The situation with his eye was described by the doctor as a “blowout” fracture, meaning the bone shattered and slipped down into the sinus cavity “like a trapdoor.” The surgery corrected this and stabilized what was left of his cheekbone with titanium plates and screws. His jaw is wired shut and will remain so for five weeks. Michele slips a straw between the wires that fill his mouth. She holds his head forward
with one hand while Chase sips the chocolate protein shakes. Soon he relents and begins taking the Vicodin every three hours. This is what registers: Michele with her legs crossed on the red leather chair adjacent to the bed, reading aloud in a soft voice from various magazines; Michele on her cell phone; Michele praying in Spanish; Bailey standing in the doorway.

  At one point when Chase is lost in the Vicodin, he asks Michele if she has seen Rachel. Michele moves her head so imperceptibly that Chase can’t tell if it means yes or no. When Chase is about to tell Michele that Rachel was responsible for what happened to him his head gets light and he has to stop talking because when he’s talking, he starts sweating, which makes the stitches tingle until they burn. On two occasions, in his early-morning half-sleep, Chase scratched them so hard that he pulled the stitches out and woke up to find his face stuck to a soaked pillow matted with blood. When Chase asks Michele again about Rachel and about Rush and about the setup and what Bailey knew, Michele is sliding her soft warm lips around his cock and her shirt is off and he can’t move anything and just has to lie still watching the pale line on her scalp where her hair parts as it moves up and down. He’s so high on the Vicodin that he’s surprised he can even come, and when she pulls her mouth off him she slowly makes a circle with her index finger around the skin just above his pubic hair the way she used to when they were sixteen and he was a boy staying at Bally’s.