by Jeff Johnson
“So I’m out of here,” she said. “My dildo is getting jealous.”
She was referring to Hank, her current boyfriend and the singer in a punk band called Empire of Shit.
“Might call Nigel and Big Mike,” she continued, “but of course you’ll need to, oh, you know, get a phone. Their numbers are on the fridge. So’s mine.”
“Right. Phone.”
“Going to need to do some thinking.”
“Right. Fart pee monkey action.”
Delia pulled her jacket on and gave me a long stare.
“The boys are going to want to know about stuff like their employment future. I was kind of wondering about the same thing. I mean, you have your little side gig, but the rest of us …”
I gave her back my own hard stare. It probably looked pretty good with the new scar and whatnot.
“I do have a plan,” I said. “I just need to figure out exactly what it is. You need some dough? It’s bloody and kinda sticky, but—”
Delia left.
I was a little tired after beating and robbing Ralston, walking thirty blocks through the rain after an interrogation, and then eating four enchiladas, but I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I took a long shower and when I got out, I wiped the mist off the cabinet mirror and looked at the new heel-shaped bruise forming on my sternum. Just when the rest of them were turning yellow or blue, I’d gotten a nice new purple one.
The phone thing was at crisis level. Again. I didn’t have a landline, so I might as well have been in the hinterlands of Nepal. If I wanted to operate, I needed a few new things and I needed to get rid of some other new things. So I put on some clean clothes and headed back to the dead pimp’s car I’d left eight blocks away. It was the best I could do in the way of getting my shit together.
There was a Circle K twenty blocks down with disposable cells. Keeping track of the devices was getting to be a problem. It struck me as a good idea to paint my name on the new one in toenail polish. I was entering an idea frame of mind.
Cheeks’s car was where I’d left it. I got in and started the engine. The rich mélange of cologne, hooker-grade perfume, burritos, and cigars was a little overpowering. It was my last night in the thing. I’d ditch it after I wiped it down and then get my car out of whatever impound lot it had been renting space in. I had a few customers who could chop the pimp ride up and have it spread all over the West Coast in about a day, but their numbers had been lost in the explosion. Too bad.
I pulled into the Circle K and went in. I’d bought cigarettes and beer there for years, but the pasty woman behind the counter, Nancy by her name tag, didn’t even recognize me. I plucked a phone and a card out of the rack and slipped them through the slot in her cage so she could scan them.
“Pack of smokes, too,” I said. “The yellow ones.” I had a nasty wad of Cheeks’s slightly moist and bloody money in my pocket. I peeled out a hundred dollar bill and plunked it into the tray. She picked it up with her fingernails and looked at it. Then she looked at me.
“I hate this fucking job.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Still, it’s still better than, oh …” I thought for a second and shrugged.
She stuffed my change through the slot and got to work on her hands with a handy wipe. I gathered up all my new crap and went out to the pimpmobile. The bright lights of the place had done something to my right pupil, and having the eyes of a deluxe menu clerk at a dump of a convenience store skitter over my face and then complain about my money somehow made me a tiny bit concerned about my dating future. My new look and the quality of my cash didn’t even impress Nancy. I wished I could kill Cheeks one more time.
It was raining again, but just little wintry droplets. I dug the phone out of its plastic package, slotted the card, and then got back out and filled up the garbage can with the new trash and the burrito mess from the night before. The clerk watched me through the window with a dead expression, utterly bored. It made me feel a little better. I might be a beat-on looking guy, but at least I enjoyed my new profession. Having a demoralizing job gave you the face of the zombie in that window, watching me ferry crap through the rain. My job had given me a new face entirely.
I drove the pimpmobile around the wet streets, smoking and pondering my new face. It didn’t seem like anyone was following me, which was good, but it was hard to tell with the whole right eye issue. I wanted to call Nigel and Big Mike, but I didn’t at the same time. The other two guys had probably left forever. I couldn’t even remember their names. But Nigel and Big Mike, they would be waiting.
It was time, however, to ditch the car. I drove up to 39th and Belmont and got a big bottle of Windex and a two-dollar T-shirt at Walgreens. I drove the car around the corner into the parking lot of a church with tow warnings all over the lot and used Windex and the shirt to wipe out all of my prints. I’d left some blood behind, so I considered torching the thing when I was done, but it seemed excessive. I nuked the driver’s seat with the Windex and kicked the door closed.
Walking around at night with a bottle of Windex in one hand and a wet shirt in the other is never a good cover. I wondered where I would be without sewer grates. At the next one, I chucked the bottle and stuffed the shirt in behind it. At the next block down, I held up the keys to Cheeks’s car. There were six of them on the ring. I wondered what the other five were to for a moment before I underhanded the wad of metal into the sewer. Another mystery unsolved, but a little more shit down the drain.
It’s weird, the things you think about at that time of night, especially if you can’t see too well. I thought about paper. I thought a little about bugs. My mind drifted over some abstract notions about the merits of certain kinds of pies. The list of shit I had to do never seemed to shrink. I ducked a little further into my coat and stared out at the dark, blurry world and tried to direct my rambling brain in some direction. I needed to get my car. I had to call my former employees. I needed to start up a new shop. I had to stash all my greasy new cash and get rid of those bloody golf clothes.
But mostly I really needed to fuck up the Russian dude.
When I woke up, I took a shower, then smeared triple antibiotic ointment on my face and my ass. There was a good song in there somewhere. Johnny Cash was gone, but Empire of Shit might be in the market for new material.
After I got dressed, I went into the dining room and looked at the pull-up bar I’d installed a few years ago in the doorway to my little home office. I used to do a hundred a day. I gripped it and got through twenty before my right hand started to hurt and my ribs stiffened up. Still, I felt better. Sometimes it was all about trying to convince myself that it wasn’t this year that I stopped bouncing back, that it wasn’t this time I discovered the cigarettes had ruined my lungs and the booze had ripped my guts up beyond repair, that it wasn’t this week that I would slow in my long running with the wolves and suddenly become food. Sometimes.
I ate the cold leftovers of Delia’s enchiladas in the cold, quiet house and considered. The first order of business was to get my car. Second, call Nigel and Big Mike. Third, visit my landlord Dmitri. That was going to be a bummer, but it had to be done. Then I had to book an appointment to see the Russian dude. I’d learned in the last few months that if you really wanted to fuck with the wealthy and powerful, you generally had to check in with their secretary first, just to make sure they had the time.
When I finished washing the dishes, I stared out the kitchen window for a minute before I plucked the note Delia had left on the fridge with everyone’s cell phone numbers and sat down at the table. Nigel was first.
“’Sup,” he answered.
“It’s me. Darby.”
There was a pause. In the background I could hear the clink of glasses and a droning sound, like a vacuum cleaner. He was probably at his favorite bar.
“Oh hey, dude.” Just like I’d talked to him yesterday. Nigel was one of the most purely sinister men I’d ever met. It was nine a.m. and he was probably wearing a tailored Italian suit an
d drinking something foreign and awful out of a strange-looking glass.
“So,” he continued. “Big bomb. You disappeared. The cops. Also, my job.” He yawned.
“Right. Got beat up. Spent some time healing at a resort spa. The cop thing looks OK for now, but that’s strictly temporary. I’m getting to work on a new setup for the Lucky in the next few days or so. Got a few things to tidy up first.”
“Right on,” he said. “Right on.”
We listened to each other’s background noise. He spoke first.
“Good to hear from you, boss. Delia says your face got fucked up. You just let me know about that. And let’s get back to work.”
More silence.
“I got you,” I said eventually. “Thanks, bro.”
“Anytime.”
Next up was Big Mike. He picked up on the first ring.
“This better be you!” he barked.
“It’s me.”
Pause. “Darby?”
“Yeah. Who were you expecting?”
“Karen didn’t come home last night. So, uh, what’s up? Delia told me you got all mangled and shit. And the cops, man …” He trailed off. “Should you be calling me?”
“Don’t worry. The mangling is going away, and so are the cops. Both may be temporary situations.”
“Oh.”
“Yep.”
Big Mike had constant problems with women. He gravitated toward abusive, needy types, and had the same awful experiences with them time and again. It was the subject of many of our discussions. I was in no mood to be his therapist at the moment, but it was oddly reassuring that nothing had changed for him.
“So, Karen,” I prompted.
“Yeah. Big fight. She threw a beer on me and I freaked out. Then she was dancing with this other dude, way too close and grindy. Long story. Plus she made me buy new curtains, and I’m currently unemployed.”
“Shitty.”
“Yeah. So, um, good to hear from you, boss. I was afraid you were dead or something. We all were. I’m kind of wondering when we get back to work. I mean, no pressure, I got some money saved up, but shit. You know, the future and all that.”
“No worries.” I tried to sound convincing. “We’ll be back up and running soon. I got a few plans in action.”
Big Mike blew out a sigh of relief. “That’s really good news. I don’t think this whole thing with Karen, I mean my being home all the time, I just dunno.”
“I understand.”
“Oh!” I heard a rustling as he sat up from wherever he was reclining. “I sort of did something. I went down to the Lucky a week or two ago and I broke in, you know, past the police tape. I went under it.”
“OK.”
“Yeah. I was looking for my shit. People had been in there stealing everything. I got one of your machines and most of the flash. Been drying everything out at my place here. Shit’s kind of moldy and water-damaged, but we may be able to use some of it.”
It was my turn to sigh. One tattoo machine and some warped, damaged, moldy art that was on the bad side to begin with. The best possible material to start a new business with.
“How’s the place look?” I asked.
Big Mike cleared his throat. He was the sort of man who got emotional.
“Pretty much fucked. I mean, the walls are still there. Mostly. The mini mart is completely toast. Gomez’s place, well, lot of water damage. Broken glass everywhere. The Lucky is … Ah, shit.” He stopped talking.
“Well, I’ll have good news soon, dude,” I said quickly. “Just try not to think about it. We needed to remodel anyway.”
Big Mike coughed.
“So, like where we goin’, man?”
“I’m exploring a few options.” I felt like shit lying to him, but sometimes lying was the right thing to do. “This is one of those times when, I dunno, we have a chance to upgrade. Stay in step with the bigger game. Some business guys were telling me about it yesterday. We were golfing, if you can believe it.”
“Hm. Sounds good to me. Fucking slow season anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“So you want me to do anything? I mean, you know …”
“I might,” I replied. “Let’s see how everything shakes out in the next few days.”
“OK.” He coughed again. “Darby, I was sure worried about you. Even Nigel went looking. Delia almost lost her mind, man. This is your new number?”
“You got it.”
“Cool. Call me if you’re going to lose your phone again. If you see what I mean.”
My right eye pulsed. “I see what you mean, bro. I’ll get back to you in a day or so.”
“Your car is in an impound lot out by Holgate. Take about eight bills to get it out. Is this your new number?” Delia was chewing something, probably gum. She didn’t eat very much.
“Just until I lose the phone. How’d you find my car?”
“Well, they have these things called tow truck companies. They in turn have these people who work on these tricky fucking things called computers. It’s all very complicated.”
I laughed, but not so she could hear me. It made my face hurt.
“So you call Nigel and Mikey?”
“Just now,” I replied.
“Good. Since I don’t have a job right now, I might be able to find the time to give you a lift out there.”
“You know, that’d be great.”
“You eat the rest of those enchiladas?”
“I did.”
“Good. Skinny whipped-on dog. How’s your butt feel?”
“Same as my face. Funny you should ask. I was thinking about a song your pet dildo might want to write along those lines.”
“Those creative juices. I left this mega jar of hippie vitamins in your bathroom, plus a bottle of Percodans. Take two of the big vitamins a day, one right now and one before you go to sleep. And go easy on the pills. They go good with booze right up to this barfy point, which sort of sneaks up on you. I’ll come get you in an hour or so. I have to find my bra.”
“Ha ha.”
“Up yours.” She hung up.
Delia pulled up in her restored fire-engine-red Ford Falcon an hour later. The custom exhaust made it sound like a helicopter was landing. I was on my porch in one of the wooden chairs, smoking, wearing my damp peacoat, a wad of the worst of the nasty money in my pocket. I’d vengefully pulled all the most ruined, wet, bloody, snot-crusted, toilet-water-stained, hooker-crotch bills out of my new collection. A tow truck lot was the most ethically satisfying place to cash them in.
It wasn’t raining, but the sky was dark and heavy and a steady wind was blowing. I went down the stairs and climbed into Delia’s car. It was warm inside and smelled like vintage car heater, hair spray, bubble gum, and whatever perfume concoction she’d dumped all over herself that morning. Angel food cake mixed with cookies.
“Seatbelt,” she said. “Got enough messy shit going on with your face without making it worse.”
I gave her the once-over and she stared back, her face set in a pre-pout. She was wearing a lime-green sweater that hugged her birdlike frame like a second skin, a rabbit fur vest, and weirdly rubbery gray leather pants that terminated in her favorite gratified combat boots. Almost conservative.
“No fashion tips, golf boy.” She hit the gas.
“Did I say anything?” I fumbled with the seat belt.
“No, but I know that look, even with your new face.”
“You might actually be the worst telepath ever born, Delia. I was actually thinking about your perfume. It reminds me of dog shampoo and semen.”
“Special blend. Goes with the vest.”
“Fabu.”
We drove in silence for a while, Delia smacking her gum, me staring out the window with one eye closed.
“So how’d it go with Nigel and Mikey?” she asked casually.
“Good, I guess. They both want to know when the Lucky is going to be back up. They want to help.”
&nb
sp; “Ah.” She fished a cigarette out of the pack on the dash and passed it to me to light for her. “That’s good. Everybody is ready to be pointed at something.”
I lit the smoke with Cheeks’s Zippo, took a drag, and passed it over.
“Yeah. Just have to figure out where to shoot.”
“This Russian guy you were talking about seems like a good target. Unless you think that’s exactly what Pressman and Dessel want you to do.”
“My instincts tell me that they still want to hang me for something, plus Dessel actually told me as much, so …”
“You have done your share of fucking up.”
“Yeah.” I looked out of my left eye at the passing city.
“So,” she continued, “I have an idea.”
That didn’t surprise me.
“Good thing someone does. Let’s hear it.”
Delia took a drag and paused to collect her thoughts. It took the little genius monkey about a minute.
“Have you been down to look at the Lucky?”
“Nope. Big Mike said he snuck in there and got some of our stuff out.”
“Huh. Well, I’ve been down there a few times. The building is pretty wrecked, but it’s mostly just the roof and all the furniture. So here’s my idea.” She paused for dramatic effect.
“Go ahead,” I prompted.
“I say you buy the place.”
I let the idea tumble around in my head like a marble in a kaleidoscope, turning it this way and that, looking at random outcomes. Delia continued.
“Bargain price. A half-gutted shithole. But think, Darby. We have all those contractors in our customer pool. We can trade for part of the work. All the backup equipment you have in your storage space? The shit you’ve been hoarding? You also have all those clever yuppies you tattoo, with jobs like mortgage broker and real estate agent. One plus one equals three here, man. Do the math.”
Our landlord Dmitri had been steadily losing his mind for years. It was entirely possible that he might be receptive to the idea of selling me a building that had just been blown up, even though he probably thought I was the one who’d done it. In that light, it was also possible that he might try to shoot or stab me on sight. Dmitri owned two buildings in Old Town, one “mitri’s izza,” the other the shell that had once housed a Korean convenience store, the Lucky Supreme Tattoo, and the Rooster Rocket. He also owned a dilapidated four-story tenement down the street, where he ran a pizza operation with toppings like rat droppings and roach eggs. The city had been pressuring him to move on for two years. Dmitri was the fragile sort of trust fund kid who had aged disgracefully into a depressed, bored weirdo, and then he’d rolled with it all the way through to morbid freakazoid. I’d been trying not to think about him, and now that I was, I caught a whiff of some kind of pattern resolving in the ether of possibility.
