by Kenny Soward
On impulse, Lonnie stuck out his hand and fixed Mr. Henry with confident eyes. “Lonnie Worthington. It’s been a while, Mr. Henry, but I used to come here for paint and other supplies for my business. I owned Worthington Transmission down on Eighth.”
Mr. Henry peered over his glasses, studying Lonnie for a moment, taking in the junkie and the stuff in his cart. “Mmm hmm,” he said, murmuring his judgment in a non-committal way. “Don’t recall. Did you close shop or something?”
“I did, Mr. Henry.” Lonnie’s hand remained out, waiting to be shook. “I’m hoping to reopen soon. Working out of my garage until I can get the money to buy my old place back.”
Mr. Henry murmured again, this time in a more positive tone. He reached out and completed the handshake. “I guess that makes sense. Everyone goes through a rough time or two in their lives. Still doesn’t answer the question though. You know, about the money?”
“I…” Sweat sprouted across Lonnie’s forehead. He wanted to vomit.
“Well?”
Lonnie patted his front pockets, feeling nothing but Selix’s note. He tried his right rear pocket but there was only his dragon lighter and smokes. And he never put anything in his left rear pocket. Seemed futile to check, but he did. His fingers came across something. A soft spot there, a square of thickness more than just pants material. About as thick as a folded envelope.
“Little short, are ya?” Mr. Henry cracked a smile that held no amusement. Not a threat, either. At least not yet.
But Lonnie triumphantly pulled the thickness out of his pocket and raised it. A one hundred dollar bill. Actually, when he rubbed the bills together between his thumb and index finger, it became three one hundred dollar bills.
He didn't know where he’d gotten them, but there they were, and that’s what mattered.
A smile broke out on Lonnie’s face knowing he didn't have to steal the stuff or pull his weapon on the shopkeeper. “Nope. Here.” He tried to hand the money to Mr. Henry.
Mr. Henry lifted his spectacles and studied the bills. His expression remained dubious but he wouldn’t argue with cash, even if it came from a junkie. “Yessir. Looks like you’ve got it all right. Just bring it up when you’re ready to check out.” The old man nodded, smiled, and whistled his way to another part of the store.
Lonnie’s stomach finished unknotting, shoulders relaxing, nervous tension dwindling away to nothing. Still high though, he chuckled and dabbed at his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. A close one for sure. It only proved Lonnie could handle himself fine when push came to shove.
And it helped crack the black ice just a little more.
Free to roam now Lonnie made quick work of the rest. Rubber tubing, hydraulic fluid, screws, and a pump. What a strange set of items. Like the workings of a basic pressure system. But why?
While waiting in the checkout line he pulled the list from his pocket and turned it over, studying Selix’s drawing while a guy in front of him paid for three gallons of paint and some brushes.
He shook his head. Weird. Leave it to Selix to think up something crazy. That was her thing.
Lonnie lowered the instructions as a new memory emerged. It was of a time on the streets right after losing everything (his house, car, wife, and the Shrimp) and being disowned by the rest of his family. Those lean times when he didn't have a place to sleep or know where his next meal might come from. Rough days. He made quick friends out there, those desperate denizens of the alleys and parks. They traded ratty blankets, grouped together for protection, or dumpster dove for those who weren’t physically able. Lonnie remembered life in the streets came with an underpinning of rot. Clothes saturated with sweat and mildew and body odor. Food, even at its garbage freshest, wafted with the faint hint of decomposition and hopelessness.
No matter how hard he tried to better himself his soul was marked forever. Worse, he’d only done it to himself. Given in to the drugs until his world fell apart around him. His business first, too absent from the place, fucking up detail after detail until his clients gave up on him. Long arduous months full of lies and shoddy work. With the shop in disarray, everything else went downhill quick. The worst part was he’d hurt so many people on the way down, some of them kicking and screaming to save him.
What could he say? That’s what colossal assholes did.
And then came the railroad tracks.
He remembered crawling up the riverside rock and scree and stumbling onto the bridge of iron tracks. Walking too far out to flee once a train came barreling down; insurance against him chickening out. He’d either get hit or have to take a flying leap to his death. He remembered laying on the rails, heart bursting with remorse, eyes focused on the heavens, on any cloud formation that might form an image of hope, some sign he had more to live for. When no omen wrote itself in the sky (no surprise there) he resigned himself to the end of his misery.
He heard footsteps. Someone humming a song. He opened his eyes to a woman staring down at him. Eyes so deep blue they seemed alien in her gaunt face. He sat up, glancing around with a junkie’s paranoid uncertainty. They were alone on the tracks. She, tallish. No mohawk then. Just strips of white hair hanging in braids and tied off with black ribbons. Still ghostly pale, still skinny, she glowed against the sky.
Lonnie had to remember to breathe.
“Get up, kid.” She held out her hands. “I need a favor.” Her smile disarmed him, teased him into letting her help him up—far be it from him to insult her by declining the offer. She took his hands and pulled so hard Lonnie suffered a moment of panic thinking she might slip and tumble right off the bridge. So he gripped harder, let her pull him up, and got his feet under him.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Selix.”
Lonnie let go of her hands and dusted himself off, a little embarrassed at being caught trying to off himself. “I’m Lonnie. What’s the favor?”
“A real simple one.” She re-balanced herself on the tracks and shifted one foot on the rail. Her smile was nice. She still had her teeth. But those eyes, man. Those eyes were killer.
Lonnie scratched his beard. “Okay. Hit me.”
“I need you to live. Just live.”
The cash register dinged. Mr. Henry said, “That will be two hundred ninety-one dollars and thirty-eight cents.”
Lonnie handed over the three hundred dollar bills and pocketed the change.
“Have a good one, Mr. Henry.”
“You too. Uh, good luck with the business.” Mr. Henry stared at him, eyes tinged with curiosity and surprise as Lonnie adjusted the things in his cart, everything now in plastic bags.
“Thanks, Mr. Henry.” Lonnie grinned as he pushed the cart out of the store and turned left on Reading Road, thankful to be done with that business. He strutted, head held high for once. It was coming together piece-by-piece, Selix’s hold on him breaking fast.
What would happen when he remembered the entire truth? What memories were on the verge of returning to him? Would the weight of them drive him insane, or would they be his salvation?
The discovery, and the potential end of the mystery, excited him. There was one other place that might jar more stuff loose, maybe even shatter the black ice for good.
Lonnie pointed his cart, his stolen cart, North up Vine, further up the hill and closer to where his heartbreak lived.
Chapter 10
The detour led Lonnie to an old white building on the corner of Vine and East Rochelle, a place that sent his emotions into a slow, painful twist. In a way it was poisonous for him to come here, bad for his disposition. On the other hand, it was the best idea he’d had all day.
He glowered at the huge pane of glass and freshly painted brick. The sign now read Carlito’s Auto Parts and boasted an established date of 1989. A lie. A cruel lie, too. The company might have been established in 1989 but not in this building. No, Lonnie's place was humming in this spot just three years ago. Lonnie’s life, Worthington Transmission, yes sir.
The two garage doors next to the store were painted shut. Hadn’t been that way when Lonnie owned it. Back then the sounds of compressed air hissing and tools clanging around were common noises. The reek of grease and oil wafted for a block in every direction. Clients wore out the front door, bells ringing as they came and went.
Today, nothing but the quiet rumblings of cars and trucks, an occasional horn blat. The near silence a reminder of how he’d failed everyone. How he’d taken a piece of the American Dream and wiped his ass with it.
Evening crawled over the city on cold claws, yet sweat covered his skin beneath his stale shirt. Lonnie approached the glass, cupped his hands around his eyes, and peered inside. Studied the nice arrangement of shelves in Carlito’s, each row labeled with white signs and navy blue lettering. A section with bulbs, another with windshield wipers, another still with paint touch-up kits. Batteries piled behind a counter. Two employees engaged customers with smiles even though the store was closing.
A young man admired rims stacked inside against the glass. Lonnie studied him through the spaces, the guy’s eyes marveling at the flashy chrome designs. He’d always thought these kinds of fancy rims were a waste of money. Three-hundred dollars for rims to impress who? Other people with rims? Business people driving downtown to work? Shit, they’d laugh at such a dumb purchase while their money multiplied in stock investments. But part of him yearned for the display with a needling envy. If he had his old place back, he’d probably sell rims just to rip off idiots like this guy.
He imagined customers with pockets full of cash ogling his rims.
The young man noticed Lonnie peering through the window. At first he jerked back, startled to see a junkie staring back at him. But then he laughed and pointed out Lonnie to one of his friends. Lonnie must look damn awful to get such a reaction. A once tall, formidable guy who used to weigh 190 pounds, now a fraction of that. Sunken cheeks. Eyes hopeless and dark. That’s part of the reason he’d stopped looking at himself in the mirror.
Lonnie’s expression at being discovered must have been priceless because the guy laughed harder, grabbing his gut and jabbing his finger at him. The guy’s friend, a big dude who could have been an offensive lineman before he figured out Taco Casa had a late night drive-thru window, joined in with deep laughs that shook his entire mid-section. Their laughter was a chorus of ridicule Lonnie could hear through the glass.
Heat blossomed in his head. Lonnie didn’t need a fight. He sure as shit didn’t want to risk shooting anyone. But with everything building up inside him, he found it impossible to be patient. To keep his mouth shut. He put his middle finger against the glass and mouthed the words, “Fuck you.”
He was still wagging his fuck-you-finger back and forth when the sharp jingling of bells jolted him sober. He turned to see the bigger guy, the hulking Taco Casa drive-thru monstrosity, ooze through the front door. Lonnie’s insides squirmed as the guy’s wide shoulders and Neanderthal head turned in his direction.
Arms held out at his side, giving him an even more menacing posture, the guy took his time getting to Lonnie. Fat undulated in waves beneath his 4XL T-shirt with each step, but his upper arms and shoulders rippled with bulk. Five paces away, the guy stopped and glared at him with piggishly fierce eyes. “What the fuck you want, bitch? Staring at us like a fag.”
Lonnie should have run but his feet were frozen, the fingers of his left hand tracing the edge of the cart as his middle finger retracted, arm sinking. The guy glanced at the contents in Lonnie’s basket. “What’s all this shit?” His voice resonated with a deep roundness. His meat hook arms flexed.
Lonnie gripped his cart. “It’s mine,” he said, lips pursed tight.
“You steal this from Carlito?” The guy pressed in, putting his fat hands on the front edge and pulling.
“No. I bought it.” Lonnie gripped harder. No way was anyone taking his stuff. The stuff Selix needed. The stuff they’d rightfully purchased.
The big guy smirked. “Yeah, right.” He pulled again, causing Lonnie’s hands to jerk forward, panic tweaking his nerves.
Lonnie found a wild strength and jerked the cart back, nearly ripping it from Taco Casa’s hands.
“You fuck.” The guy yanked harder, this time tearing the cart and its precious items from Lonnie’s stinging fingers. It started to tip, contents threatening to spill out across the sidewalk.
Lonnie reached for his gun. Was this the time for it? Was this his last resort?
Instead, he drew back his fist and swung.
Surprisingly agile for his size, the giant jerked away from the swing. Lonnie tried again and missed. Then he lunged forward, put his hands against the thick chest, and shoved. The Lonnie from a few years ago—the well-muscled guy with forearms corded from handling tools daily—would have put Taco Casa on his ass, or at least moved him from his spot. The new Lonnie was about as strong as a ten-year-old boy. Years of malnourishment and neglect had left him weak. The monstrous dude didn’t budge a single inch. In fact, he gave Lonnie a shove that sent him careening backwards. It took every bit of Lonnie’s balance to stay on his feet.
“You fuckin’ touched me. You touched me, you nasty motherfucker.” The giant closed in, drew back a meat hook ending in a fist as wide as Lonnie’s face, white knuckles ready to mark him.
Something switched on in Lonnie’s head. A combination of instinct wrapped with fear. He wanted this guy out of his face, wanted him off his cart and away from the stuff he was supposed to bring back to Selix.
Raise the runes.
His right hand brushed the top of his left. A surge ripped through his muscles, a spasm of motion forcing his body to move. Lonnie ducked the swing and, with barely a thought, drew his fists together and thrust them into the guy’s gut, bending him over with an “ooof.” Lonnie got his legs under him, leveraged himself, and drove against the 300-plus pounds of bulk.
Taco Casa raised up, off balance and arms windmilling, and staggered back three steps before crashing on his big round ass.
Lonnie stood there gaping at the guy’s goofy expression. The surge of energy lingered, bounced around inside him like a pinball. A huge grin broke out on his face. He pointed. “You just got put on your ass by a junkie fag.” Not that Lonnie had a problem with guys who swung that way, but he knew it would drive Taco Casa crazy. And Lonnie was feeling reckless.
A cloud passed over the giant’s face. He rolled to his left, put his hands on the ground, and lumbered around until he was upright again. He squared up on Lonnie, face crinkled into a mass of anger. “Okay, you’re dead, asshole.”
Lonnie took a boxer’s stance, waiting for the ping of energy to surge through him again. “Let’s do it, you big sonofabitch.”
The guy cocked his fist to swing again but a strong hand caught him by the forearm, keeping Lonnie’s face from being re-arranged. Taco Casa’s brow furrowed, and he half turned to find the shop owner, Carlito Rodriguez, holding him. Carlito wore a smock covered in oil. Had smears of it on his cheeks and hands.
“Come on, Carl,” Taco Casa complained. “Let me bounce this guy.”
“Let it go, Tay.” Carlito fixed Lonnie with a worried expression. “These junkies. They don’t give a shit, man. Just want to get hit so they can sue someone. Why don’t you let me handle this?”
Tay let his arm drop, eyes still wondering how this skinny junkie had put him on his ass. “Yeah, Carl. You can handle it.”
“Thanks. Go inside.”
As the giant lumbered back into the store, Carlito turned his leery eyes on Lonnie. “Hey man. I told you. Don’t come back here. You been here three times this week.”
“It’s my place.” Lonnie spoke through tight lips as he righted his cart and pulled the wheels out of ruts in the sidewalk.
Carlito shifted positions, putting his hands on his hips. Not much older than Lonnie, the shop owner was a big man. Short but wide-chested with a shaved head, Carlito burned with hot Spanish blood and a quick mouth. Yet, he’d never lifted a finger
against Lonnie.
“It ain’t your place, man. Maybe you had a place somewhere, but it wasn't here.” Carlito’s face softened. “You’re lost, ese.”
Tears rose in Lonnie's eyes. If he blinked they’d streak his face. Tears because it was the truth. And if he could’ve found his way back to his old life he would've gladly crawled back down that path, splitting fingernails and skin to get home. But there was no path. Or it was far too overgrown with weeds and scrub and thorn bushes for him to ever find it again.
“This is my place.” Lonnie’s eyes flicked to the building. “I had both those doors open. Four mechanics working full time. Now it’s gone. You took it from me.”
Carlito glanced uncertainly over his shoulder at the painted-shut doors. His face settled into a relaxed but firm expression. “Look, man. Don’t come back here no more. Don't let me see you again. I’ll call the police.”
Lonnie didn’t have a response except to retreat, shaking his head. Fighting Tay was one thing. Pulling his gun on Carlito was insane. Getting picked up by the cops in either case would be disastrous. “Coward.” Lonnie grabbed the side of his cart and pulled it with him.
Carlito’s face softened a fraction more and even that little nip of sympathy made Lonnie angry. “Coward,” he repeated, backing away. “Why don’t you come fight me down the Lower West where you don’t have any fat ass bodyguards, huh?”
“Why don’t you get some help? Let me help you. For your family. They got programs—”
The mention of Lonnie’s family from this guy was a punch to the gut. How dare Carlito presume anything about him. “Fuck, you,” Lonnie spat. “Fucking coward. I will get my place back someday, and then you’ll be out on the street wiping your ass with candy wrappers. And if you ever come around I’ll put a fucking bullet in your head.” Lonnie emphasized this by jabbing his index finger at his own temple.
Carlito’s menace returned. “You threatening me now?”
“Yeah. I will kill you, man. Kill. You!” It was the wrong thing to say on so many levels—Carlito wasn’t to blame for Lonnie’s problems—but he was so damn angry.
