by Trevor Clark
Patricia looked pleased by the compliment. “I just wish I could get more of your cock in my mouth.”
“I also like how you can put your ankles on either side of your head.”
She sniffed. “All women can do that.”
“Well, no,” Rowe said, “they can’t.”
He looked away. Dresses were hanging inside the open door of an old wardrobe in the corner. Clothes had been flung over the back of a chair. A sense of disorder existed on the top of her dresser in a kind of mix-and-match feminine bohemia: combs and brushes and cosmetics, candles, an incense dish, one old doll sitting splay-legged in a blue and white dress. It seemed an architectural oddity that the entrance to their main floor and basement was at the back of the house, while her bedroom window faced the front porch.
“Is your friend Jack seeing anybody?” she asked.
“A black stripper. At least as far as I know they’re still going out.”
“Why did you say ‘black’?”
“She’s black.”
Patricia’s smile was grim. There was an apologetic note in her voice, but she seemed subtly determined. “I don’t know why you have to say she’s ‘black’, as if that’s important in how you define her.”
Rowe sighed. “It’s not a put-down; I’m just describing her. You don’t see a lot of white guys with black girls. It’s usually the other way around.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, really,” she said quietly. “The same number of white men go out with black women as black men go out with white women. Just about all of my male friends have had black girlfriends at one time or another.”
Maybe this gentle provocation was calculated to lure him into giving her the back of his hand. She might be testing him to see if he had the mettle. He didn’t like the idea of her deliberately playing him, so it was probably working. “It’s common knowledge, it’s a fucking cliché—black men chasing white women. Anyway,” he said impatiently, “why did you want to know about Jack?”
“I was just thinking about Maggie,” she said, repositioning herself. “She’s sworn off men. Not officially, but she hasn’t had sex in three years.”
“What’s her problem?”
“She has high standards. She finds something wrong with everyone.” Patricia checked her tissue and reached for the box of Kleenex. “You came too much, I think. You always come a lot, don’t you?”
“Sure, the chicks love me because I’m a stud.”
“They love you for this? I don’t think so. No woman likes to clean up a mess, believe me. And I don’t know why you’re stoned so much when you have sex,” she added benignly. “Marijuana just makes me frigid.”
Rowe didn’t like hearing these kinds of things; they gave him the sense that he’d had everything all wrong, all along. Every time he turned around now, it seemed as if some woman was trying to tell him that his semen was a disgrace or that he’d fucked his life away.
“Mind if I get a beer?” he asked, getting off the bed. “You probably think I drink too much, too.”
“Not compared to my ex-husband.”
“Do you want one?”
“No, I’m going to go to sleep soon. And you know I can’t really afford to buy beer.”
“I’ll bring some next time.”
He walked through the living room on his way to the kitchen, and noticed a couple of Yardbirds and Ramones CDs on her coffee table. When he returned, Patricia was lying on her side. Oddly, as with his changing impression of her in the bar, he thought he perceived a kind of old style Hollywood thing in the pale eyes and the sheen of her full-bodied hair beneath the bulb. She definitely looked better without the glasses. He sat back down on the bed next to her, and took a pull on the bottle. “So your husband liked to drink.”
“When he was in the band he was out of control.” She slowly shifted up onto her elbow. “I was very surprised to find out he was cheating on me when they were on the road.”
“I guess that’s pretty common with musicians.”
“Not with him. He was in love with me.” Patricia seemed to sense his skepticism. “When I was sick for two years and we couldn’t have sex, I know for a fact that he never cheated on me or even masturbated.”
“Sick with what?”
“Mono. My health has never been very good. I’ve got asthma and have had bronchitis, shingles, infections. . . . Anyway,” she said solemnly, “if you’re in a relationship—”
“Sorry, but how would you know if he masturbated?”
“I just know him. If you’re in a relationship for a long time, you realize that sex isn’t that important because you’ve reached a deeper level with one another. You’re on a higher plane.”
“There are a lot of married people out there who can’t be bothered having sex any more, and I don’t think that puts them on a higher plane,” he said.
“You’re very cynical and negative. I prefer people who are more positive.”
“Punks and sadists.”
Afterwards, they went downstairs to the bathroom in her basement. The space was small, and the ceiling slanted. Rowe leaned against the sink and washed himself while Patricia sat down to pee. “I’m going to get fat,” she stated. “I’m just going to let it happen, and be one of those women who wears her pants up around her chest.”
Even her complacency was annoying him. Rowe cupped a hand under his testicles to prevent water running off onto the floor.
As Patricia flushed the toilet, it was clear that her unpleasant smile was intended to offset another rude reality. “I hope you’re not the stalking type,” she said. “After we break up, you’re not going to try to get back together by calling all the time, are you? I don’t find that kind of thing very attractive.”
“No, baby,” he said, “that’s not my style.” The weight of her words hung in the air as Rowe heard the kiss-off. He didn’t know if spontaneity counted for anything in sadomasochism, and tried to keep his expression neutral as he grabbed her by the hair, tilting back her head to press a kiss on her as he manhandled her tits, twisting the nipples.
“What are you doing?” she said, struggling while he forced her to her knees, then worked her onto all fours with her face dangerously close to the toilet bowl.
“Disciplining you.” Rowe pushed her thighs apart with his leg as he got a better grip on her tresses, and spanked her while she thrashed and shouted. Holding her with one arm around her hip, he cupped her crotch and probed her lips for the opening while trying to manipulate her clit.
Wrestling her back into position as Patricia fought to twist free, Rowe intermittently smacked her ass while he got his knees between hers, managing to force her thighs apart and lubricate himself as he worked his prick against her. During a lapse in her resistance he pulled one of her cheeks wide to see her asshole above the progress of his penetration, her hair wrapped around his fist, and heard her grunt when he began to fuck her. She was a big girl. If this shit didn’t earn some respect from her, at least it would give him some peace of mind.
19
Robert O’Hara went home after The Black Bull to pick up more coke for a warehouse rave, where he’d catch up with Kim and Betty. When he rounded the back corner of his house he didn’t notice the men in the darkness until he was turning the key in his lock and they charged down the steps behind him, shoving him into the hallway. He tripped onto one knee, trying to grab the wall, when a pipe cracked him across his head and split his scalp. Someone’s boot caught him in the ribs as he hit the wooden floor. While he attempted to roll away and get to his feet, he went sideways into the plaster, his hair in his eyes, and kept moving.
“You’re dead meat, fucker,” the one named Vince said, pulling a knife from his fringed jacket. His face flash-framed under the light as O’Hara warded off another blow from the pipe while trying to run for the kitchen. He was tackled in the tiny living roo
m by the big one, Frank, who kept bringing his elbow down on him from behind until O’Hara struggled into another position, randomly connecting with wild swings until the pipe dropped onto the floor and he was held more tightly with a forearm across his neck. While he was beaten and kicked, his nose was broken.
He was blinded by pain but remembered while he was yelling that the people upstairs were away. “What do you want?” He was hardly aware of his tears as he swallowed blood.
Frank breathed alcohol into his face as he pinned him down on his back. “Two fucking grand.” Hawking up some saliva, he slowly spit as O’Hara tried to turn away.
“I’m gonna cut him.” Vince came close with his knife out. He lay the blade along O’Hara’s cheek and pressed the point into the flesh, drawing downwards. Blood welled from the slice.
“Stop! Please, fuck—stop! I’ll give you the money!”
“Of course you will, asshole.” Frank stared down at him with bleary eyes. “But we’re going to fuck you up anyway.”
Vince gripped O’Hara’s hair and managed to force the blade down his other cheek while he was bucking and pleading. “If I go there will be trouble; if I stay it will be . . .”
O’Hara’s face was slick with blood and spit. His nose was disfigured and one eye already felt as if it was swelling. He probed a loose tooth with his tongue. Vince wiped the knife on O’Hara’s forehead, and stood up, kicking him in the side. “Wanna do him like we did Huey?” he asked, putting his foot on Robert.
“What do you fucking want? I’ll give you the coke. Money too.”
“Oh, so you are in the business,” Vince said. “Hear that, man? He is still in the business after telling us he wasn’t.”
“I’m not. I just do blow myself, now.”
“Now he says he wants to blow us.”
Frank laughed. “Well, maybe we’ll let him before we fuck him up, if he gives us everything.” He drew his fist back. “How much do you have? You got two fucking thousand and lots of coke?” He lightly pressed his thumb on the bridge of Robert’s nose.
O’Hara screamed, struggling under the man’s weight. “Yeah, yeah, stop! Stop—please!”
Vince squatted and held the blade to his throat. “Fuck, let’s just kill him.”
Frank seemed to smile. “I don’t know. . . . How much money you got, fucker?”
O’Hara was blubbering. “Fifteen hundred, but I can get more.”
“And how much coke’s in the house?”
He swallowed. “Few grams, that’s all.”
“And you got all that right here. Fifteen hundred.”
“Yeah.”
“You better not be bullshitting us,” Frank said, slowly getting off him. His hands, sleeves and the front of his shirt were bloody. He reached for the pipe. “Where is it?”
O’Hara touched his wet face lightly. He hurt everywhere, and thought a couple of ribs might be cracked. Vince held the knife as he watched him rise, and said, “You heard him. Where the fuck is it?”
“I’ve got it stashed.” He rose awkwardly and walked slowly into the kitchen with the two men behind him. Crouching, O’Hara felt around in the cupboard under the sink among the cleansers for one of the guns. He touched the Ruger’s cylinder and checked the safety as he handled the rubber grip, knowing a bullet was in the chamber, and fired upwards at the closest one as he turned on his haunches. Frank, hit in the stomach, fell backwards over a chair. Vince stood transfixed for a second before he bolted, but O’Hara shot him in the back. He collided with the door jamb as he went down.
Frank was moaning. O’Hara walked over and aimed at his head as he squeezed off another round. There was some blowback. He stood on quaking legs, taking in the dead eyes and what he guessed was brain and bone matter, before throwing up onto the dirty tile. After a couple of steps he felt dizzy and lost consciousness.
When O’Hara came to he was lying in blood and vomit. He got up and looked around, touching his face. He wanted to do a line to alleviate the pain, but breathing through his nose was an ordeal. He went to the washroom to check the extent of the damage and could see that the lacerations were going to scar if he didn’t get to a hospital, where he’d have to have his nose reset, his head stitched or stapled, and he might even need plastic surgery. He started to wash the blood from his face and matted hair, but stopped, wondering if he should keep it like that for the police, or get somebody to take a photo of him.
One of them had been shot in the back, though, and the second bullet in the other guy would be hard to explain too. Plus, the Ruger linked him to the bank. O’Hara paced the house as the impossibility of the situation sunk in. What if he said he’d somehow shot them with their own gun? He’d have to get one of their fingerprints on it. . . . Would he have to confess to the coke thing to make it more believable? That is, after he flushed everything in the house down the toilet.
O’Hara got a beer from the refrigerator and walked back into the bathroom, where he stanched the blood and tried to seal the slashes with Band-Aids and toilet paper. He had to pause to wipe away tears.
After wandering around, he picked up the phone but replaced the receiver. He looked too ruined to go find Kim or even Betty to help him figure it out. Maybe he’d have to take his chances with the police after going to the hospital. Call his mother to hire a lawyer. Get somebody to take that photo. But first he’d have to think through the part about it being their gun, and why he’d shot one guy at close range who was already down, what they might call execution-style, and the other in the back. Maybe he’d have to call Derek, but he’d be so fucking pissed off about the gun and everything. There hadn’t been time to worry about it when he’d been rooting around under the sink.
O’Hara finished off his beer as he walked around, tracking blood, trying to get it together. It was ten after one. He might have to use the other number Derek had given him for emergencies if he wasn’t at home. While he was in the kitchen opening another beer, he jumped at a barely perceptible groan from Vince on the floor. Grabbing a steak knife from the dish rack, he stabbed him in the back and left the blade in him. Now the prick was dead.
20
After leaving Rowe and his girlfriend at the Bull, Lofton decided to take the subway to Parkdale to catch up with Marva following her shift at the bar.
He was sitting on the edge of her bathtub while she wiped her face with a washcloth, admiring the integrity of those breasts which culminated in two dark, protuberant nipples. There was a red heart on the crotch of her panties. It occurred to him that without her make-up her face exuded the kind of neutrality that could have easily belonged to a church volunteer or hotel maid. It was certainly better that she was a stripper. Her lack of sophistication was becoming less important with each passing day.
“We ought to go to Montana’s sometime,” she said.
“I hate line-ups. I won’t go anywhere there’s a line-up.”
“I don’t mind waiting, because if you get there too early you look like the welcoming committee. I usually go around ten when it’s just starting. It doesn’t take very long.” Marva walked to the doorway, pausing as he got up, and said, “I don’t think the bouncers at Montana’s like me very much. I had a birthday party there last year and reserved one of the rooms, but they gave it away before I got there—even though I was only fifteen minutes late.”
They crossed the hall. Pushing aside the sheet, she said, “I asked them if they were prejudiced, and they didn’t like that.”
“They can’t keep a room reserved if nobody shows up.”
“I was going there all the time. They knew I was a good customer.”
“Look,” he said, climbing onto the bed, “you’re on the pill so we don’t have to use rubbers anymore, right? You know I can’t really feel anything.”
“You’ve got to get tested. Go to the doctor.”
He sighed. “I won’t come inside y
ou.”
“No, you can still get AIDS that way.” Marva watched him pull his shirt over his head, then leaned back and raised her bum to wriggle out of her panties. “You’re very gentlemanly when you have sex, aren’t you? You look so big and bad, but like we hardly even break into a sweat or anything.”
He squinted at her. “You don’t know how lucky you are. You wouldn’t like my dark side, believe me.”
As she was looking back at him, the telephone rang. Lofton tensed. The chance he was taking by being there was ridiculously apparent. He sucked his teeth in elaborate disgust as he looked up at the ceiling. “Don’t answer; it might be that asshole again.”
“Maybe it’s important.” Marva turned over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” There was an actual expression of surprise on her face. “Oh . . . hi. That’s okay . . . Yeah, he’s here; just a minute.” She held out the phone. “It’s for you. Your friend Derek.”
As Lofton took it, she ducked under the twisted cord and moved away while he rolled over. “Hello? Yeah, hi, what’s going on?” He frowned, listening. “What? Are you kidding? Holy shit . . . Tell me exactly—oh, man, I don’t fucking believe this.”
When he hung up, Lofton reached for his beer and wondered how much he could tell her. He took a pull and said, “I have to go out. It’s an emergency. I can’t go into the details, but there’s been a shooting involving a friend of ours.”
“Who? How come you have to go? How did he have my number?”
“I gave it to him in case he needed to reach me for something important. He’s picking me up. He couldn’t go into too much about it over the phone, but we have to go see this guy because my expertise is needed.”
“Is he in the hospital?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, getting off the bed, “but it’s serious and it looks like they may need my assistance with an investigation. The police are going to be involved, and they’ll want my input.” He gave her a significant look. “I’ll check things out and tell them only what they need to know.”
