by J. M. Parker
Sadly he turned back into the room, spotting a little crumpled tinfoil wrapper poking from underneath the couch. He remembered standing at the bedroom door, watching as something fell from Alina’s hand as she moved over to the sofa. He remembered her unkempt appearance, the blonde hair strewn across her face as the Frenchman ran his hands across her arms. He picked up the wrapper and raised it to his face, his nostrils stinging as he smelled its surface. He tossed the thing away, the pain subsiding slowly as he rubbed his nose.
Ten minutes later, the hotel door swung open and Alina strode in, her hair still wet and leaving little drops of water on the carpet behind her. Her skin was goose bumped from the air conditioning of the room, her nipples were hardening beneath the tight fabric of the swimsuit.
“How was the swim?” he said
“I’m going to take a shower.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean a lot of what I said, not the junkie part. I just want to keep you out of—“
“It’s okay,” said Alina, her voice cold and doing little to appease his worry.
“I was just drunk. I mean, I slept half the night in the bus stop.”
“I said its okay,” said Alina, a slight smile showing on her face before she turned back to the bathroom and left Bannon standing alone behind the couch.
*
When she emerged back into the living room he joined her for breakfast. “Where did you go after the—“
“Fight,” said Alina.
Bannon hesitated. “Yeah,” he said.
“Nowhere really. Most places were closing. What about you? How long did you sleep in the bus stop?”
“A while,” said Bannon. “Woke up when the ants made it into my jeans.”
Alina snorted and Bannon looked that way, waiting for an answer when the hotel door swung open again and in came the Frenchman, a beer bottle still in hand and a love bite glistening on his neck. He raced across to Bannon and Alina, his big green eyes shining brightly in the morning light. “Sorry, for my absence,” he said. “What a night?”
Neither one of them answered but the Frenchman didn’t seem to care. “A m�nage � trois. Although one was keener than the other, far keener in fact, a difficult situation to manage.” His eyes fell back onto the group, his smile fading as he seemed to spot their wistful faces. “Who died?”
Bannon twisted uncomfortably in his chair and he thought he saw Alina smile. “I feel like I did.”
The Frenchman grinned, still full of energy. “Not without my permission,” he said. “And not so close to the finish line.”
13
They stood in a burned-out garage, old warped bolts crunching beneath their feet. Dull, rusted tools hung from rotten racks and the walls were stained with smoke. Bannon ran a hand across a workbench, his fingers leaving trails in the grime on its surface.
“Are you alright?” said Alina.
Bannon didn’t hear.
He remembered standing in front of the old garage, his face turned from the driving snow. His father sat beside him, wheelchair bound, his eyes sunk back into a mask of yellow skin. He twitched uncomfortably as snow fell into his blankets and Bannon pushed him on to the shop, his rasping cough reverberating around its hollowed-out interior. Across the room a spill of oil shifted in the rush of air and his father pointed a bony finger in its direction. “See to that, would you?” said the man, his words barely audible over the whip of wind outside. “Whoever gets it, they’re getting a good place. I want ’em to know it from the start.”
Bannon began searching the empty cabinets for a rag when he heard his father cough again. He looked back at the man, his throat lumping as his father sagged deeper into his wheelchair. “I’ll check upstairs,” said Bannon, his footsteps echoing out from the cold steel of the stairs as he climbed up to the office.
“Thanks.”
The only thing left in the office was an enormous iron safe with a note stuck to its door. Bannon leaned in to read it. “If you can lift it, you can have it. If not, we’ll be back for her on Monday.”
Bannon tore the note away, about to leave the room when something caught his eye, a folded photograph lying on the top shelf of the safe. He reached inside and unfolded the photo: the lake shining behind his father and him, both of them decades younger, Bannon with the scuba tanks strapped to his back as they smiled at the camera. He ran his thumb across the surface, ironing out a crease, as his father called up from the shop floor. “It don’t matter if you can’t find one. Guess she’ll have to do as is.”
Bannon stood looking over the picture, the boy and man beaming back with equal measures of pride. “It’s alright, I got something,” he said, lifting up his jacket and ripping away the front of his shirt. He slipped the photo back into his pocket and headed down the stairs.
“Someone left a rag?” said his father.
“Yeah.”
“Everything okay up there?”
“It’s fine, Pops,” said Bannon, bending toward the oil, his reflection stretching across its dark surface, his eyes glistening with tears. He raised the piece of shirt to his face and wiped the tears away; then he pressed it down into the oil…
He felt Alina’s hand rub against his arm and he turned to face her. “Must be strange,” she said.
“A little.”
Alina smiled, the morning’s anger seemingly gone.
“I really am sorry about last night,” said Bannon.
“It’s alright,” said Alina, moving to say more when another sound cut their conversation, the sound of metal rattling and clanking together as something hurtled along the road and on toward the garage.
“What the hell?” said Bannon, turning to the entrance where a broken-looking VW camper rumbled precariously into view, its wheels creaking as they turned, the body wobbling on its axles. The brakes screeched as the camper skidded to a stop and Bannon and Alina ducked in unison as a volley of bats broke from the rafters and scattered out into the day.
The driver’s door burst open and out stepped the Frenchman, dressed in an elegant shirt worn open above a simple white vest. He walked over to them, ignorant of the fleeing bats above him. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Lucky Boy Number Five.”
“Lucky Boy?” said Bannon.
“Yes,” said the Frenchman. “I bought her from an American, like yourself, a gambler, owned a fleet of them back in the Etas Unis. By all accounts he would drive them between Atlantic City and Vegas, moving when he felt the tables might be better somewhere else and stopping every spot along the way.”
Bannon let out a long whistle and pointed back to the camper. “All the other vans as beat as this one?”
“Ironic, isn’t it? The Lucky Boy name. He only came to Thailand to escape a number of debtors. For all his hunches and feelings it does not appear he was ever much of a winner.”
“Well, it looks like his luck hasn’t changed,” said Alina, smiling as she studied the thing. Paint was peeling from the hood, big holes were blown in the side. She moved closer and peered into a hole. “There are little hairs in the edges,” she said, “blood, too, I think.”
“Yes, yes. It was a real paradise for rats. In fact, I think when rats die and go to heaven, this is where they land.”
Alina laughed.
“Christ,” said Bannon, “I hope this ain’t what I’m using. Certainly won’t outrun anyone.”
“Come,” said the Frenchman. “Help me unload the thing.”
They followed him into the camper. The whole interior was rotten and damp and more holes dotted the floor. Bannon looked around, grimacing as he imagined some down on his luck gambler blasting away at the rats. “Lucky she still goes.”
The Frenchman nodded his agreement, pointing at the back of the vehicle where an assortment of car parts and tools sat in a rusty pile. “We are lucky indeed, but, I am hoping we can call upon your prior experience. Ensure she continues to do so.”
“Been
a while since I worked on a car.”
“Fret not,” said the Frenchman, smiling in his direction, “it will all come flooding back. How do you say? Like riding a bike?”
Alina and Bannon unpacked the camper, the Frenchman directing as they sorted welding equipment, planks, car parts, and tools into separate stations. Alina was instructed to plaster the insides, Bannon to work on the engine.
“What will you be doing?” said Bannon. “Other than barking orders?”
The Frenchman laughed, dipping into his pocket and removing a small orange tablet. He laid the tablet on the hood, crushing it into a fine powder with the butt of a key. “Me,” he said, grabbing a bill from his wallet and rolling it into a pipe, “I will be doing metal work and carpentry, and continuing to bark orders.”
“What was that?” said Alina, looking at the Frenchman as he leaned in and snorted the powder through his makeshift pipe.
“Adderall. Did I not mention that our gambler also suffered from attention deficit disorder?”
“You didn’t.”
The Frenchman shrugged. “You want one?”
“Sure,” said Alina.
“Bannon?” said the Frenchman, setting another tablet on the hood.
“I gotta snort it?”
“We are working now. Not when your metabolism decides. The effects kick in much faster this way. They are stronger, too.”
“Alright,” said Bannon, tiring and hardly relishing the prospect of work. “If it’ll keep me going.”
“Oh, it will,” said the Frenchman, starting to grind the second tablet, the orange powder growing in a small pile as Bannon prepared a bill of his own.
*
Bannon worked furiously on the engine, repairing and replacing what he could as he sifted through a mad tangle of wires. He heard feet hit the concrete of the garage floor and he moved out from under the hood as Alina walked in his direction. She peered into the engine, her arms coated in a second skin of paint and plaster. “What a mess,” she said.
Bannon grinned. “How is it inside?”
Alina lifted a small plastic bag toward him. “Disgusting. Two rat carcasses already.”
“Christ. It’s a good thing you’re tough.”
“Like the mother wolf,” she said, tossing the bag onto a discarded pile of car parts and turning to the engine. “You really like this stuff?”
“Yeah,” said Bannon. “I did…I do…I guess.”
“It’s a big puzzle to me.”
“Well, that’s sort of the appeal. Working out the puzzle. The better you get at it, the better the connections and the better the car goes. It’s a nice thing to put your mark on a car like that, get something broken and send it back better. Shit, you get that, don’t you? You were a nurse; look who I’m talking to.”
“And what about your diving, why do you like that?”
“Difficult thing to describe.”
“Try me.”
“Well, remember what you said about the drugs, about searching out unique experiences?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a little like that. First time I ever got down there, I was hooked on it. The whole sensation, suspended in the water, weightless, covered on all sides by the ocean and still breathing air. I felt like I’d stumbled on just about the most amazing thing, and, the more times I went, the better it got.”
Alina smiled and Bannon felt his spirits lift as he continued. “Now, I know you’ve seen some trippy stuff on the drugs. So I have I. I had a good time on them too. But, to tell the truth, the stuff I’ve seen in the water, well, it’s hard to compare to anything else.”
“What have you seen?”
“I’ve been out on the shelf of a reef and seen a whale and her calves go by. I’ve gotten right down to where the light disappeared, diving by flashlight across the hull of a wreck. Maybe only a handful of people have seen that thing and, with all the different factors, the limited light, the changing conditions, I doubt anyone has ever seen it quite the same way.”
“Sounds marvelous,” said Alina, a big smile lifting her cheeks, her azure eyes shining in his direction.
“I’ve heard people say that no trip is the same, well, no dive is either. I dived the same spots over a hundred times while I was working and there weren’t many times I didn’t find something to marvel at. Even on the worst days, the no-visibility days or the ice-cold days, I still liked the sound of divers breathing in the air.”
Alina smiled again and Bannon looked toward her, flecks of paint dotting her body. He felt another wave of the Adderall, a fresh burst of energy and a sudden confidence. He started to speak again, the words forming on his lips, when a sudden jet of sparks went hissing into the air.
The two of them spun around, watching as the Frenchman lowered the welding rod and another volley of sparks burst from the weld.
“Wow,” said Alina.
The Frenchman halted and raised his visor. “Be careful,” he said. “It is not good to look at the weld. You will scorch your eyes.”
“Sorry, it just looks like fun.”
The Frenchman grinned, his teeth showing in two perfect, polished rows. “I will show you fun,” he said, beckoning for her to join him before he gathered a pair of two-by-fours and set them one on top of the other.
“Stay here,” he said, turning Alina to the wood and disappearing off behind the camper.
Bannon waited, listening as the clatter of tools echoed out from behind the vehicle. The Frenchman returned with a chainsaw in hand, oil dripping from its blade. He stepped behind Alina, wrapping a hand around hers and guiding it to the handle. “Grip tight,” he said.
Bannon felt his pulse quicken, his anger heightened by another blast of drugs as he saw their fingers interlock and grip the machine. Together they reached for the starting pull, heaving the cord and sending the machine roaring to life. The Frenchman moved her hand back from the cord and onto the rear guard, Alina’s eyes locked on the whirling blade in front as they guided it down to the wood, the blade gripping and forcing her back into the Frenchman.
Bannon felt his heart thump inside him as sawdust shot in a long jet from the incision, the blade biting hard, and he watched as their muscles tensed in harmony. Again the blade fell, sawdust spraying across the floor of the garage, Alina laughing wildly and sending Bannon’s blood pumping through his body, his temples throbbing with the stuff as the blade rose and fell again.
The chainsaw cut and Alina let out a little curse. Bannon stood, breathing hard, blood still bubbling in his veins. He watched as the pair of them set chainsaw down, the Frenchman still pressed against Alina. Slowly, she seemed to realize where she was and she stepped free of the Frenchman, looking guiltily at Bannon as she did.
Bannon took a long, deep breath, the drugs still coursing through him. “Fun,” he said.
“Yes. In a bloodcurdling way.”
“Bloodcurdling,” said Bannon, his eyes fixed on the Frenchman, his white teeth showing through a veil of sweat and dust.
“Right,” said the Frenchman, “back to work, you miserable hounds.”
Alina shrugged and moved back to the camper. “See you in a bit.”
“Yeah,” said Bannon, his hand curling into a fist as he saw the Frenchman staring after her.
Alina disappeared back into the camper and the Frenchman turned away, smiling as he met Bannon’s gaze. “You do not like to see us like that?” said the Frenchman.
Bannon didn’t answer.
The Frenchman took a step toward him. “Please, you are free to speak.”
“Free to speak?”
The Frenchman nodded.
“Alright,” said Bannon, anger coming in an irrepressible rush. “It makes me wanna tear your throat out.”
The Frenchman laughed and Bannon heard bats shift in the rafters above them. “Perhaps that is love,” said the Frenchman. “Slightly primal, but love nonetheless.” he raised a hand and grasped Bannon on the arm before he spoke again, the intensity of his
voice increasing suddenly. “Of course,” said the Frenchman, “love or not. Free to speak or not. I was not expecting to be threatened.”
Bannon stared back, his fists still balled together. He felt his heart beating faster and faster as the Frenchman looked calmly back. He felt blood trickle from his nose and he saw the Frenchman’s lips curl into a smile. He felt the hand fall from his arm as the Frenchman reached into his pocket and removed a handkerchief. “Be careful, my friend,” said the Frenchman. “The stress will kill you.” the Frenchman reached up and wiped the blood from Bannon’s nose, his smiled widening. Bannon felt his fingernails cut into his palm as he clenched his fist a little tighter, about to draw his arm back when Alina stepped out of the camper.
“Found another dead…” her voice trailed off as she looked at the men. “Everything alright?”
The Frenchman lowered the handkerchief and pressed it into Bannon’s hand. “Yes,” he said, still staring at Bannon. “Everything is fine.”
Bannon took a long, deep breath and unclenched his fist. He turned back to the engine. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just getting back to work.”
*
They worked through the night and on into the morning, snorting lines of Adderall when they tired. Alina plastered the holes, while Bannon pieced the engine back together. Inside the Frenchman had refitted the cabinets, adding fake bottoms to each and every one before he hollowed out the seats in the front. In the bedroom he’d raised the floor by about six inches, laying thin plaster boards on top of a makeshift metal frame. From another box he’d removed a painted wooden duck, the head detachable and the insides empty. He’d stood for a while, smiling at the thing, and then he placed the remaining Adderall inside and set it in the middle of the dashboard.
