by Pat Connid
“Man, I have no idea. I’m playing this by ear.”
Pavan chewed the butt of his cigarette.
“Listen, my cousin’s got this place up on Red Top Mountain. Why don’t you go hang there for a couple, you know, years or so?”
“Can’t do that.”
“Listen, I appreciate you want to Rambo this guy but remember your buddy Pavan. I have a trick stomach, here. I can’t handle so much stress.”
“How can you be stressed?” I said as we drove, motioning him to head toward the back fire escape. We’d waited until dusk because we wanted it to be dark enough that we wouldn’t be seen, but not too dark where The Mentor could materialize out of the shadows. Dusk seemed like the perfect “chickenshit” hour for us.
“My stress is maxxed, man!”
“You smoked two joints in the past five minutes,” I said, put my hand out, fingers splayed. “You’re more likely fast asleep on your couch, the TV was left on and there’s an old episode of Kojak or something on the tube and you’re internalizing any sort of anxiety from the storyline.”
Pavan held the cigarette smoke in his lung for a moment. “Never liked Kojak. Hated the bird.”
“That’s Baretta.”
“No.”
“Yeah, Baretta had the bird. Kojak was the lollipops guy.”
That seemed to rock Pavan’s world a little. “You sure?”
“Yep,” I said and told him to stop the car, parking near the Dumpster. “I always liked Columbo myself. Loved that guy.”
“Couldn’t watch it. Dude had that fucked up eye, and I couldn’t ever take him seriously because I’d be giggling about his eye.”
Quietly, I popped the door open. “You ever thought about maybe easing off on the dope a little? I mean, just a little?”
Pavan, now parked and his engine off, for the first time put his seat belt on. “Why?”
I pulled everything out of my pockets but couldn’t fit any of it into the overstuffed glove compartment. Under the front seat was also out of the question. Junk everywhere.
I said, “Man, what is all this—whoa, shit!”
“What?”
“What is that, man? Take it off!”
While I’d been concentrating on hiding my stuff, Pavan had slipped on a rubber mask that looked like it had been pulled out of some post-Halloween bargain bin ten years ago.
“No way,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. It was a horrible combination of demon dog and wild boar with a lot of the paint flaking away. The pink plastic underneath made it look more stupid than scary. It was still scary.
“What is that?”
“It’s Uncle Rolo’s Chupacabra mask. He wears it when he buys dope from his dealer so nobody recognizes him.”
“Take it off,” I whispered. “You’re creeping me out, man.”
“No way,” the pink, rubber demon said to me. “Incognito, hombre.”
As I slipped out of the car, I crouched low, hidden by the door. It was getting darker by the minute and that only compressed my chest, making it even harder to breathe. Pavan had already affirmed I was doing a solo mission. It took the two doobies just to get him to drive to my place.
Not that I couldn’t drive— just hadn’t since the accident and, sure, there’s an I.D. card in my wallet, not a license. I don’t mind driving without a license, but in the instance that I currently could, say, have to run for my life at the highest speed possible, it was best to have someone ready to fire up a getaway car.
It’d taken a moment, but right then the dome light popped on and Pavan’s hand had shot to it like a frog going after a fly, trying to dampen the glow. His fingers looked blood red covering the light—not exactly the best image to carry in my head, wandering into the dark.
Crossing in front of the car’s grill, I gave a quick wave to my friend who responded by tapping his wrist where a watch would have been. Unable to pick up any nuanced expression on his face-- just two pin-pricked pupils staring out from a Chupacabra mask-- I inferred as best I could that he was hoping his friend would hurry the fuck up.
The smell of the Dumpster made my eyes water but, still, I tried to scan the alley, the neighboring windows, the rooftops—The Mentor hadn’t come at me in full-on attack mode in the past. He preferred getting me snoozing, which, by the way, really pissed me off and screwed a bit with my sleeping patterns. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances.
I slipped a butt cheek on the car’s hood and scooted myself up. Standing, with my feet on the bumper, I took a step cautiously toward the Dumpster, directly under the fire escape. That always seemed like some sort of fire code violation. If there actually were a fire, they’d know the upstairs resident got out because there would be one guy standing there in his gray undies, smelling like two-day-old stromboli.
But, this time, I was happy the Dumpster was there because it was the only way to get to the retractable metal ladder.
Leaning forward, both of my hands nabbed the bottom rung of the iron ladder, and it came down with a jerk and made far more clackity noise than I would have liked. Obviously, it had been far too loud for Pavan’s nerves because a muffled ‘DUDE’ floated up from the car below (muffled by both the car and the mask, naturally).
In my bedroom there is a small wooden paddle. It has been the impetus of many jokes over the years because I’ve alluded to late night spanking sessions with various overnight visitors in the past. In truth, while tubing down the Chattahoochee River one day, it came into my possession after a poking around on shore searching for somewhere to take a leak. Had it ever since.
Now, just because I say “little” as in child size, it shouldn’t be perceived as light-weight. It’s very, very sturdy. Very heavy.
This fact was once again impressed upon me because, at the top of the ladder, I slid my window open slowly and poking my head between the bedroom curtains, the child size wooden paddle cracked across the back of my skull, and it sounded like a major league ball player had hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth.
The world turning black and purple with sparkly stars, I fell forward, tumbling inside. As my shoulder blades slammed into the hardwood floor, a figure stepped over me, the kiddie paddle cocked back for another whack. Colors without color swirled around me as my consciousness began to slip away.
When finally a face materialized out of the darkness, a moment before passing out, I said: “Hi, baby.”
BLINKING, BEING PULLED BACK into the light, my fevered dreams had been about drowning. My breath was ragged, and rainbows of colors smeared across my brain as light refracted through droplets of water… then after another splash onto my face, I coughed away this latest assault, too.
“Hey, I’m awake,” I said wiping the water from my eyes.
Laura was sitting above me, on the edge of my bed, empty Big Gulp cup in her hand. Her features were lit by the glow of the light in the bedroom, and they didn’t look very happy.
She still had the heavy wooden paddle in her hand.
“Where the hell were you?”
“Ah,” I said, edging up to my elbows. “That is a very long story. Most of which is boring but there are short bits in the middle that scared the ever living hell out of me.”
“I heard the car pull up. Pavan’s still down there waiting, I think.” A sigh. “Dex, what am I supposed to do about you?”
“What part? My financial instability? You could throw a couple bucks at my rent if you’re living here now.”
“I was looking for you, dipshit.”
I stood quickly, too quickly, grabbed the edge of the windowsill and steadied myself. Just because Laura was armed and, frankly, quite good with a kiddie paddle (hmm, note to self for later), it didn’t make me any more comfortable being in my apartment again. The Mentor wasn’t after her, he was after me.
“Anyone come around while I was gone? That new landlord, maybe?”
She threw her weapon down on the bed and padded slowly into the living room. All I wanted to do was get a l
ook at what might be under the sink, get some clothes and be gone. But, now, I had to answer to the warden. No time. But, she deserved to hear some sort of explanation. I felt I owed her that, at least.
So, I lied.
“Listen, baby, a couple guys… I owe them money.”
“Money? For what?”
Heading to the fridge, I popped it open and saw the beers right where they’d been the first time I got knocked out. Pass.
Laura sat in one of my wobbly kitchen chairs and put her Birkenstocks up on the other one. There was just the light patch of skin above her shoes to the cuff of her leggings. I could see that she hadn’t shaved there in, well, never.
That really never bothered me too much. Not much of a leg man. Nor am I a hairy leg man. I do like that part at the top where the legs meet, however. Hair’s not a big factor there unless it looks like the young lass is wearing burlap panties. However, this is not a deal-breaker, mind you.
“I don’t need this shit, Dex.”
“No, no,” I said and edged toward the sink. “You don’t. I’m not going to drag you into any of it. I’m a big boy; I’ll deal with it all by myself.”
“Good.”
I popped open the cabinet under the sink, half expecting some ill-tempered bridge troll to pop out and clock me with a broken axe handle.
No troll.
No listening device. And no hole-the-size-of-a-listening-device, either. I had no idea what I was looking for.
“What are we?”
Maybe it was behind the pipes a bit.
Too dark.
I didn’t have a flashlight, so I stood and looked for a bit of newspaper.
Laura asked again: “What are we?”
The Mentor had been in this very apartment. He’d abducted me twice, and I nearly died both times. My hands were still raw, my thighs burnt, every muscle still logging complaints at the front desk, and she wanted to talk about our relationship.
Sure, I couldn’t blame her. I gave her nothing to go on. She now saw me as some sort of gambling addict or something. My guess is she was leaning heavily toward “or something.”
“I can’t really answer that, Laura,” I said rummaging through the junk drawer. I came out with a brown paper lunch sack. “Now’s just not a really good time for me.”
“You think it’s a good time for me?”
“Well, you did get to hit me with the paddle,” I said turning the electric stove on. “So you got that going for you.”
“You were gone for days, Dexter.”
“I know.”
“And you never called me once to tell me where you were.”
This was the smart part of my day where I didn’t tell her I couldn’t remember her phone number. Maybe not ‘smart.’ Could be pure survival instinct.
“I don’t want you involved,” I said as the stove’s element began to glow red. I tore the bag into a couple long strips and took one, twisted it tight. “Trust me; you don’t want any part of this.”
“Dexter, I don’t know if I want any part of you.”
The paper bag came alight, and I knelt down in front of the sink. “Oh, I know there’s one part you want.”
“Be serious,” she said, her head back, and her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Not like I can’t get that anywhere I want.”
Hmm. Kinda didn’t like that notion. Had she—HOT HOT HOT.
“Ow!” I said and dropped the flaming piece of paper bag. Standing, I stepped on it, leaving a dark, ashy smear on the dull wood floor.
“Sorry, but it’s the truth, babe,” she said, misunderstanding my exclamation of pain. “I haven’t… you know. Not that there haven’t been offers. I just want to know if we’re a couple. Do you want to be a couple, Dex?”
The second strip of bag was lit, and I headed toward the darkness under the sink again. Just past the—
“Dex!”
Startled, I dropped the paper onto a pile of old dishrags. Afraid they might catch fire, I had to put the bag out with an open palm. Yes, it hurt.
She asked, “What are you doing?”
Running out of paper bag, I stood slowly, both knees making a popping noise.
“That guy who was in here, he wasn’t my new landlord,” I finally said grabbing the last piece of bag, lighting it. “I want to see if he put a listening device in my kitchen.”
“Listening device,” she said and stood up quickly. “Why?”
“Well, I'm not an expert in these things but, and this is just me taking a shot in the dark, but if I were a bettin' man, I'd say it would be to listen to me when I didn't know it”
She took a couple tentative steps into my kitchen, bending at the knee and trying to see past me under the sink.
“This about those guys? The guys you owe money?”
I shrugged. “This is about the trouble I’m in, yes.”
From behind me, I heard: “What do you see? See anything?”
“Not really. I just—“
“There,” she said, hand jutting under my arm. “Look at that part on the upper left.” I moved the bag over to where she was pointing and saw a black circle. It looked like the coupling a car cigarette lighter might fit into, except smaller.
“That does look weird.”
“Looks like something plugged into it,” she said, her voice a whisper.
The paper burnt out in my fingers, and I stood and tossed the embers into the dirty sink. Leaning against the cracked porcelain, I closed my eyes and tried to envision the black and silver coupling in my head. As I did, I made a quick trip to the bedroom.
“What do you—Dex? Where’d you go the past couple days?”
When I came back into the room, I had the kiddie paddle with me. Getting down on one knee, I pulled it back and drove into the drywall just below the strange coupling. It gave away easy after years of dampness. A couple more shots and the piece dangled free, and then fell to bottom of the cabinet under the sink.
Picking it up, I lifted it out and held it to the dim kitchen light. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t much. This looked like it could be just the power supply to whatever fit into the mounting on the front. Two bare copper wires twisted into a plastic harness that now held a circuit of eight fat and corroded D-cell batteries. Like the ones used in flashlights that cops can use to beat people with.
Whatever was under my sink had needed a fair bit of power. Or it had needed power for a significant length of time.
And whatever it was, it was gone now.
Chapter Ten
I woke up because the sun was beginning to hurt my skin. Not yet burning but even the April sun in Atlanta can get palm-on-the-skillet hot in a matter of minutes. Incongruous to that feeling was the morning dampness that had seeped all the way down through my clothes.
Looking over at my friend, I could see what appeared to be two dragonflies humping in his hair.
“Pavan, wake up.”
The sun seemed to notice me stirring and grew more intense, as if casting its curious gaze toward some new, odd creature, and I shielded my eyes from it with a hand.
Now partly shaded, all I had to contend with was the sunlight reflecting off several dozen empty beer cans, so while the onset of a full blown migraine hadn’t stopped, I'd at least let the air out of its tires a little.
“Dude, you got bugs in your hair,” I said.
Pavan flopped over clumsily and fell out of the plastic chaise. The clatter of aluminum cans he’d tumbled into scared him to his feet and for a moment, he just stood and wobbled a little in very small circles.
“What happened to my house?”
I closed my eyes, which felt ready to burst. “We’re not at your house. We’re in your uncle’s backyard, man.”
“Uncle Rolo? I don’t remember any of last night, I don’t think.”
“Yep,” I said and leaned over the edge of my own lounger, one knee on the ground. My hangover had called upon a marching band to perform in the base of my skull. “My place, your place. Bot
h not safe.”
“Okay.”
“Uncle Rolo’s seemed safe as long as we didn’t actually go inside.”
“Okay.” Pavan shivered. “Uncle is a nasty dude. That was a very good call.”
Pushing up with the little energy afforded me that early, I stood, all my bones and joints cracking and popping. I needed a drink. Surprisingly, water would be the preferred choice, at that point.
I opened my eyes and looked just past my friend’s shoulder. I hadn’t noticed the huge pile of trash in the backyard. That would explain the bug bites.
“Your uncle. He a garbage man or something? Taking a little work home?”
Pavan wandered to the side of the house, thankfully, out of the punishment of the sun. He put his hand out to steady himself. Leaning forward, he closed his eyes, coughed and something awful came out.
“Rolo doesn’t think you should pay for basic services. He’s got this whole… social welfare thing in his head on account he lived in Cuba for a while.”
“He lived in Cuba?”
“Well, no. Close to Cuba.”
“Close.”
“Orlando.”
“Ah, sure.” I said, pulling my shoulder blades together and losing count of the vertebrae as they cracked. “So he doesn’t pay for garbage pickup. He piles it in his backyard.”
Pavan turned just slightly, cracking one eye open. “That’s his pool.”
“I don’t see a pool, man.”
“Under the garbage, dude.”
I needed a shower, but there was no way my tender morsels were going to be exposed at Uncle Rolo’s. Before getting too far into the case of beer last night, Pavan and I had talked about heading back to his place to get cleaned up. The Mentor seemed to like the nightlife, he liked to boogie—it was probably okay to venture into potentially dangerous territory when the sun was up.
We’d both had passed out in the lawn chairs on the back deck. I was soaked with dew—I prayed to God it was dew—and feeling really, really nasty, like I was covered in a cold film.
“You ready to pick up your ride, man?”
I smiled. On the day's agenda: go get “my” van.
I didn’t have any ownership papers or insurance or even a valid license. Worst case scenario, Pavan drives it over to some skeevie used car lot and we get a couple bucks for it.
