Scar

by P. J. Post

  “This thing is too big,” she says.

  “Shelly, I can’t drive. We have to find Peggy.”

  “Who’s Peggy?”

  “The girl we have to save. Let’s go, head ‘em up and move ‘em out!” I reach out the window and slap the side of the van.

  She slides the gear shift across the steering column, putting the van into reverse and then backs up so slowly that I start to get pissed. Now that I have a direction, I’m impatient, or it could be the drugs. I’m just grateful the van is an automatic.

  “But…” she begins.

  “Remember Aaron’s? Remember the attitude? You know how pissed you are at your parents right now?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “No butts. Let it in. Can you feel it? The anger you’ve been suppressing so you can be that good little girl?”

  “Yeah,” she says less shyly.

  “Are you punk?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow.

  “You wear an anarchy pin, right? It’s not a goddamn slogan. Now it’s time to live it for real.”

  “Anarchy?” she asks.

  “Well, how much anarchy sort of depends on how well you can drive, but yeah.” I smile at her and she laughs.

  “Just let it all go, huh?” she asks.

  “Yep. Fuck that good girl shit, fuck your parents and fuck your fear.”

  “Fuck it, huh?” She’s getting enthusiastic now, the café girl is slowly disappearing again.

  “Shelly, just drive. It’s not my van, and it’s already beat to shit — just don’t run into anyone else, okay? Say it with me.”

  Together we shout. “Fuck it!”

  She’s grinning.

  “Feel better?”

  “Not really,” she says, but doesn’t stop grinning.

  “Good, don’t kill us.” I take another drag off my cigarette and blow smoke at her.

  She sets her jaw into a grim, determined smile and drops the gear shift into drive and slowly presses on the gas. She’s hunched over the steering wheel, one hand still clutching at her cigarette.

  “Shelly, lean back. It’s all going to be fine. You got this. I believe in you.”

  She smiles at me. “Fuck it?”

  “Fuck it,” I agree.

  She puts the cigarette between her lips, letting it dangle. She takes a drag and blows the smoke out of her nose. She presses on the gas and drives out onto the main industrial park street.

  I know I should be asking about her problems, but I assume she’ll let me know when the time is right. I’m guessing she just needs a place to be that isn’t home for a few days. I hope is not something worse because my dance card is already getting pretty full.

  She grins at me and without removing the cigarette and asks, “Where we going?”

  That odd gleam is back in her eyes, it’s troubling but she suddenly looks much older and much more like I need her to be right now.

  “A strip club,” I say.

  §§§§§

  We drive into the liquor store parking lot around the corner from Sweet’s and I spot Peggy’s Z right away. I motion for Shelly to pull up along side.

  “Okay, stay here. I’ll be back in a few,” I say.

  I look around Peggy’s Z, but don’t see any damage and all of her stuff is still packed into the hatchback.

  I point and wink at Shelly as I walk by the van and around to the alley. A few patrons come stumbling out of the strip club, but when I walk into the dark interior I see that the place is almost empty. The house stereo sounds hollow in the big empty room, but there’s still a girl on stage dressed in lingerie. The other girls are sitting over by the bar and stare at me as I walk in.

  I walk straight to the bartender as my eyes adjust.

  He looks at me with raised eyebrows as though asking what I’ll have to drink.

  “Have you seen Peggy,” I ask.

  “Who’s Peggy?” he questions back, already irritated.

  I sigh. “Dakota. Have you seen Dakota?”

  “Nope. She quit.”

  “Her car’s here.”

  “Okay. Thanks. She still quit.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No. You going to get a beer or what?” he asks.

  A blonde wearing white underwear slides down next to me. “I’m Cypress, we don’t need Dakota.”

  The bartender nods toward Cypress.

  “She said she was coming here last night. I really need to find her,” I say, ignoring the girl.

  He takes a deep breath as though winding up, like he’s had to give this speech before. “I don’t give a fuck what she said or where she fucking parks her car, but she doesn’t fucking work here anymore, and I don’t know where the fuck she is. Fucking got it?”

  Asshole. “I need to talk to Curly,” I demand.

  He reaches under the bar and pulls out a black .38 revolver and lays it on the bar between us. He rests his hand next to it.

  Cypress bolts as the other girls scatter.

  “You’re talking to him,” he says, “and I’m not going to help you. We clear here?”

  “Crystal,” I say as I raise my hands and slowly back away.

  This shit just got too fucking real. I’ve never had a gun pulled on me before or threatened with one for that matter — or whatever the fuck this is.

  I turn and head for the front door when I hear one of the girls call to me. “Now why are you taking that fine ass home? Come on, honey, stick around and we can play Doctor.”

  I forgot I was wearing scrubs.

  I feel an arm slide around my shoulders and red hair falls across my face. I smell cheap perfume. It’s Tempest.

  She lays her cheek against mine and whispers, “She’s at number seven over at the Blue Diamond Motel with her boyfriend. He’s out of his mind.”

  She looks at me for only a moment, but I see the fear for her friend in her eyes.

  And then she turns and shrugs, walking back toward Curly, pretending to be the good little stripper again. “You’re no fun, honey, no fun at all. Come back on payday,” she calls over her shoulder.

  I pretend to ignore her, hoping Curly didn’t see through her ruse and walk outside into the blinding sunlight, but I’m grateful to her. I don’t know what’s going on here with Curly or why no one stopped Peggy’s boyfriend from taking her, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters now is getting her away from him.

  We’ll sort the rest out later.

  §§§§§

  The Blue Diamond Motel is located on the west side of town along a stretch of road lined with old fifties style buildings, many advertising cheap oil changes, transmissions, glass repair, antiques and tattoos. All of them are in serious need of repair and paint, except the tattoo parlor. It looks new, the neon framed windows calling attention to the expert artists on staff.

  The motel itself sprawls behind an old miniature golf course, Space Golf the sign says, or rather said. Storms and neglect have taken their toll and now it just says Pac Go. It reminds me of the playground behind my house, my dad’s house that is. It’s a wreck too.

  The motel only looks slightly better.

  It’s a single story building with faded and pealing yellow paint. The manager’s office sits at one end, and then maybe twenty rooms stretch out behind the golf course. It’s angled away from the street and has parking all along the front. An algae-ridden swimming pool is planted out front, surrounded by Oklahoma’s relentless intrusion of nature. Weeds have sprung up between the concrete joints. Huge sunflowers stand guard next to the diving board.

  Under the late afternoon sun and blue sky, my memory of a lone family vacation resurfaces. I can see what it looked like back in its prime. Kids and families are running out to the pool to relieve the summer heat before having fun at the mini-golf. Big cars are parked all along the bright yellow and cheerful motel. Everyone is so excited.

  More dead memories.

  But today, there are only a few cars and one motorcycle parked out front.r />
  “Shelly, park sideways, but don’t block us in.”

  She’s circles the van around the pool in a giant loop and points us back out toward the main road.

  “Make sure you can pull straight out. Here, stop in front of number fifteen and keep the engine running,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “We’re probably going to be leaving in a hurry.”

  “Should I be scared?” she asks nervously.

  I look at her still childlike, yet disturbing eyes. There’s something going on in her head that’s worrisome. It sucks I had to drag her into this, but I think she’ll be okay. I hope so. I can’t do this alone and she’s all I got.

  I give her a reassuring smile, like I’m posing for a goddamn picture, but I’m sure it comes out as a grimace. “Yes.”

  “Why don’t we call the police then?” she asks.

  “Because I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of drugs in this room and God knows what else. I don’t want Peggy to get arrested. It’s not her fault she’s here now and I don’t think the police are going to buy her side of the story. Punk, right? We have to protect our own. And we have to do it ourselves — no one else wants the job.”

  Shelly nods, understanding and grabs my smokes from the junk tray and lights one.

  I stand up and forage around in one of the tool boxes in the back and pull out a small crowbar. I heft it. I’m not sure I can swing it hard enough with my broken ribs, but it’ll have to do, because punching isn’t an option. Neither is a fight. This needs to happen quickly or Peggy is going to have to save my ass instead.

  I hope the prick isn’t here, but with the motorcycle out front, I doubt I’m that lucky.

  “Is that necessary?” Shelly asks.

  I slide across the passenger seat and out of the door. I close the door and look back through the open window. “Yes.”

  I step close to the motel. The front is a long series of large windows and doors. When I get next to the window for number seven, I pause. I hear Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Needle and the Spoon playing inside.

  The motorcycle is parked out front. I glance through the thin curtains, trying to focus without being seen. It’s dark, but I can see Peggy sitting on the bed. I can’t make out what she’s doing. A boom box is setting near the pillows.

  I don’t see her boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean anything.

  I lean back against the siding, thinking.

  I know this has to be quick, but do I take him out with the crowbar or just threaten him? No matter how much of an asshole he is, I don’t want to take a chance on accidentally killing him.

  No head shots.

  I take a deep breath and try to get psyched through the fog of the medication.

  Pass the window.

  Knock on the door.

  I hear movement and voices inside.

  He’s here.

  My hands are sweating. I take a firmer grip on the crowbar.

  I’ve been in more fights than I can remember, but I’ve never done anything quite like this and for the first time in my life, I’m afraid, afraid that I might get Shelly and Peggy hurt, and afraid that it might be worse than hurt — afraid that I can’t do what’s necessary.

  I remember the .38 laying so business like on the bar at Sweet’s.

  I don’t know what I’m stumbling into here, but in the end it doesn’t matter. I glance back at Shelly and nod. I want her to know it’s about to go down, whatever the fuck that means.

  I motion for her to hide behind the steering wheel.

  The door cracks and I realize time has slowed down. I see Peggy standing on the bed behind the asshole. She’s wearing a short, plain, white t-shirt and pink panties. Even in the dim yellow gloom of the motel room lamps, I can see her eyes are both black, her cheeks purple and her lips are split.

  The dick is barefoot and wearing jeans and his leather vest. He has marks on his knuckles as he raises one hand to the door frame, and I’m sure they came courtesy of Peggy’s face.

  The carpet is a deep and dilapidated blue shag. The walls were once white painted paneling, but are now as faded and peeling as the siding along the front sidewalk. There’s one of those paintings hanging over the bed normally reserved for children’s dentist’s offices.

  They always scared the shit out of me, just like clowns.

  I see the asshole’s dark and stoned eyes, and he smiles as he notices me glancing at Peggy. He sees the crowbar as I raise it and his eyes widen as understanding floods his face. He knows what’s about to go down, but he doesn’t look scared.

  He looks like my dad — excited.

  I notice an automatic pistol in his right hand rising at the same time as the crowbar.

  He’s going to shoot me.

  I should have died out on a country road last night, but as it turns out, this is where Connor Clay dies — in front of a ratty by-the-hour motel.

  Shit.

  Less than a second has passed and time suddenly explodes forward.

  I shove against the door and push the crowbar through the crack, hitting the guy in the head like a jab. He drops the gun and grabs his forehead as blood rushes down his face.

  Once in the room, I rush him and place one leg behind his ankle. My ribs and shoulder scream in protest, but I force myself to follow through, pushing against his chest with my left hand and shove him off balance.

  He tumbles back onto his ass.

  “Motherfucker!” he shrieks at me.

  I spare a glance at Peggy. She’s off the bed and near the door in a flash.

  “Grab your shit,” I command.

  She looks terrified.

  She starts rummaging around while I turn back to her ex-boyfriend. “This can go a few different ways. I didn’t call the cops, but you can’t beat on Peg anymore, got it? Get over her.”

  I notice syringes and a few small baggies full of cocaine on the dresser. A mirror is laid out on the end of the bed with lines already cut and waiting.

  Shit, what has Peggy gotten mixed up in?

  “I’m going to kill you motherfucker,” he says as blood runs down his face from the injury on his forehead. His eyes go flat, kind of like Chad’s did at The Underground, but this guy is the real deal. He’s strung out and crazy.

  “I don’t want to hurt you anymore. Let’s end this now,” I negotiate.

  I’m so far over my head here and I’m in a panic about Shelly and Peggy. I don’t know how I can live if anything happens to them. I should have called the police or at least Dan-o and taken my chances with the drugs.

  At least that would have been safer.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Peggy walks up beside me and she’s holding the gun. She steps to the bed and leans over and takes one of the rolled up dollar bills and snorts a line. She stands back up, her eyes swollen and bloodshot, flashing pure hatred. She levels the gun at the guy. Her eyes narrow and she slides her finger to the trigger.

  She’s way cranked.

  Unpredictable.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Peggy?” I ask, getting her attention.

  Now he’s wearing a different expression because he’s seeing the same thing I am.

  Her eyes are wide and not entirely sane at the moment.

  He looks mildly concerned, but he’s still grinning as he holds his hands up defensively. He doesn’t look like he should — freaked out because the girl he just beat the shit out of is pointing a gun at him.

  “Peggy, let’s go,” I say louder.

  “I’m going to kill both of you,” he hisses with troubling certainty.

  Fuck me.

  Some long buried primal instinct is screaming at me to beat this fucker to death. And part of me is enjoying this primitive confrontation. I’m jacked on the danger and the excitement. When I look at him, I see myself staring back and it scares the shit out of me.

  I pretend to take a swing and he flinches, pulling his hands up to fend off the blow.

  Peggy slides her purse over o
ne shoulder while still keeping her arm outstretched, shakily holding the gun on him.

  I transfer the crowbar to my left hand and reach over and gently take the weapon from her. I never take my eyes off the psycho.

  “We’re going to leave now,” I say, training the pistol on him.

  I’ve never held a gun in my goddamn life. I hold it up, like I’ve seen in the movies and hope it looks threatening, but I keep my finger away from the trigger. I can’t take the chance of accidentally shooting him.

  I push Peggy behind me and back out of the room.

  He slowly gets to his feet and begins to follow us.

  “Get in the van,” I say to her once we get out on the sidewalk. She turns and runs for it. Seeing her run down the sidewalk barefoot and half-naked in the late afternoon light is just too bizarre. The fact that I’m holding a pistol at the moment is no less so.

  I lower the gun, concealing it against my leg.

  The guy stops in the door frame. He stretches one arm out and leans against the door frame, almost casual now. I don’t think he thinks I’ll shoot him, or at least is less concerned that when Peggy had the gun. He positions his other hand into a pretend pistol and points it me. And then does that thing kids do when they’re playing — he twitches his thumb and shoots me.

  He grins.

  He’s fucking scary.

  One of us just fucked with the wrong person, but I’m not sure which one.

  I look at him and cock my head and smile right back at him, staring at him with as much amusement as I can muster.

  “Asshole,” I say and look at his bike. It has to go, otherwise he’ll just follow us. Shelly will never be able to lose him.

  It’s a nice custom Harley, black with blue flames along the tank and a ludicrous amount of chrome. I put one foot up against the gas tank.

  “No man, not my bike,” he cautions, which sounds weird under the circumstances, like a dweeb at school begging the bullies not to give him a wedgy.

  He could give a shit if Peggy shoots him, but don’t mess with his bike?

  My smile widens and I shove it as hard as I can. I get it off the kickstand, rocking it. His eyes are wide with fear of a different sort. And then I push again and it crashes over to the pavement with a resounding crunch. The chrome mirrors bend back as the glass shatters and other parts break off and skitter across the pavement.