by Richard Long
“Talk to me, boy,” Paul goaded him after many minutes passed in silence. “I know what’s eatin’ you.”
“I keep thinking about that girl,” Martin said softly, unable to erase the image of Firth’s daughter from his mind. “Why did you do it?”
“I’ve told you that before, Martin, and I’m getting tired of repeating myself,” Paul said after a heavy sigh. “It goes in one ear and out the other.”
“I know what you told me,” he replied. “I just don’t like what you did.”
“I’m quite aware you didn’t like it. Your complaint was duly noted the first time.”
Martin hugged his knees tighter to his sinewy teenage chest, bracing himself against the chill and Paul’s icy reply. His next words were much more harsh.
“I think the time has come to dissolve our partnership,” Paul said, voicing the words Martin so often ached to say, but still couldn’t. “When your heart’s not in your work…well, that’s when accidents happen…and neither of us wants that.”
Martin trembled. Paul was telling him to go? “But you promised to take me to the…”
“All da little birdies have to leave da nest,” Paul interrupted. His Irish lilt was still trying to twinkle, but a sadness Martin had never heard in his voice burdened the words that followed. “Even so, a promise is a promise —that’s one thing you can always count on from me. We’ll meet again another day and take that final journey. But for now, you’ll have to make your own bed…and lie in it.”
Martin wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew he had to. Paul made it easier. Not the way Martin would have guessed, with a cruel shove into the pouring rain, maybe followed by a gun blast or two if he kept moping, but instead with a warm arm draped across his shoulder. He kept his arm there in silence as the rain dripped and splattered all around them. Martin made no move to discourage him. They sat there together for the better part of an hour, saying nothing. Martin’s mind was empty, not in itself an unusual thing, but given the tightness in his chest, he was surprised there weren’t at least a few words in his head to accompany it.
When the rain finally stopped, Paul spoke again, pulling his arm back, letting him know it was time. “If you find yourself in the mood to see me, you’ll never have far to look,” he said gently. “And don’t ever forget how special you are.”
Martin stared at him blankly, then picked up his backpack, shouldering the strap over his worn-out denim jacket. The sack bulged with one change of clothes and four-dozen Greyhound locker keys where they had stashed his share of the precious treasure. He rose in a stoop to avoid knocking his head into one of the beams and looked at Paul again. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. Paul nodded slowly, for once at a loss for words himself.
Martin didn’t look back as he cleared the underpass and straightened up. He didn’t look back as he ambled down the grassy slope to the highway below, searching the horizon for oncoming headlights. There were none. He adjusted his backpack and slowly plodded down the road, glancing behind every ten seconds or so to see if a car was coming. He was almost a quarter mile away when he finally thought of something to say, but when he looked up at the underpass, no one was there.
Martin finally let the tears fall. He allowed himself ten full seconds before he turned the switch and snuffled up the snot with his coat sleeve. “G’bye Daddy,” he said to the wind.
In the many years since their farewell, Paul popped up from time to time, usually when Martin was thinking about him, seeking guidance, like today. Now here he was again with his hand stretched out, ready and willing to help.
But things have changed, haven’t they? he thought, looking at Rose supporting his arm. And other things haven’t, he realized, feeling the blood flow from his gunshot wounds into his pants. Looking from Rose to Paul, he was more inclined to say no than yes. Then he lifted his shirt to check his back. The blood was coming out fast. Too fast.
“Okay…c’mon up,” Martin finally said, his knees ready to buckle.
When he started up the stairs again and saw the way Paul was staring at Rose, his bones ached even more with dread.
I watched Paul trudge up the stoop behind Martin and Rose. Michael trailed behind him with his head bowed and his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Paul never even looked in my direction. Oh well. I let out a blended sigh of relief and disappointment. All he cares about is Martin. Martin. Martin. Martin.
I parted the plastic curtain of the deli’s outdoor flower section and strolled back onto the sidewalk, walking at a leisurely pace, wondering what Paul was going to do next, when a hand gripped my arm as tightly as a tourniquet, yanking me down the block as easily as a toy poodle on a choke-chain leash.
When I saw who it was I felt relieved and terrified in nearly equal measure. Relieved that it wasn’t Paul. Terrified because I was being pulled along helplessly by the long, bony fingers of The Striker.
Before I showed Rose my suitcase, as our work together was drawing to an end, I could detect a sadness in her voice that seemed to be about more than the loss of income.
“I’m gonna miss you, William, but there’s nothing more I can do,” she said with a sweet smile as she finished the final inscription running across my waist like a belt. “For the rest, you’ll have to go to The Striker.”
I didn’t know what I loved more, hearing her say that she would miss me, or hearing her use my name. When I opened my mouth to speak, I didn’t make any reference to either observation. At least I’m not that clueless.
“Why do they call him The Striker?” I asked instead, suddenly feeling shy and tongue-tied again. In other words, normal.
“You’ll see,” she said with an odd grin, wiping the last of my blood away and hanging up the tattoo gun.
Yes, I saw. It was The Striker who set the final gears in motion. After that, all the other pieces fell smoothly into place. Paul, Martin, Rose…and Norine, of course. I’ve debated it for a while, but now my course seems unavoidable. I’ll have to show you the journals.
Just do me a favor, please. Don’t tell a soul!
The Striker. With a name like that I was prepared for anything. Anything, except for what happened. When I called to make an appointment, I heard someone pick up the phone and then…nothing. No voice, no hello, just dead air. I waited for a second in the silence and then, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, I spoke first. “Hello?”
Nothing. “Hello?” I tried again. I could hear someone breathing. I was about to hang up, when I felt a prickly urge to say what I would have said if he had bothered to answer.
“I’m William. I’m looking for The Striker. Rose sent me. Is this the right number?”
“Yessssss,” his voice slithered into my ear. It was so creepy I wanted to hang up right away, but I hadn’t come this far for nothing.
“I’d like to make an appointment,” I said, half-hoping he’d say no.
“Did she give you my address?” His voice was so deep, it reminded me of Lurch in The Addams Family. When I told him she had, he said, “Come over now.”
“Now?” I asked, totally thrown off.
There was no one on the other end to hear me.
The Striker’s “office” was a boarded-up storefront on Third between C and D. It was filled with junk and he threw some porno mags off a rickety chair to make room for me to sit.
Again, he didn’t say anything. In the silence I heard a skittering sound coming from inside the plywood walls. “What’s that?”
“Rats,” he said, sitting on a wooden three-legged stool that was full of nail holes.
I was glad he sat down. He was slightly less intimidating. Not only did this guy sound like Lurch, he looked like him too. He was really tall. His head was huge and out of proportion to the rest of his bone-thin body. His skin was waxy looking, pale with a hint of yellow, like parchment. His head was long and rectangular until it reached the top where his ridiculously high forehead became more do
melike. Blue veins snaked up the side of his skull, which was a more apt description than head. He had long, white hair with a three-inch lock of jet-black hair dangling over the side. It looked like a cross between Cruella DeVille and Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
He sat down and adjusted his loincloth. His loincloth. He answered the door naked, except for the brown leather rag, which was obviously handmade, but so old and worn maybe the hands were Geronimo’s. He didn’t have many tattoos. The few he had were simple black patterns around his skinny arms. I wondered whether he was a junkie, because the veins on his arms looked so thick and inviting. I couldn’t see any needle marks, though his body was covered with piercings. His nipples, his chest…his throat. Not that many in his face. Except the nails driven into his temples. Yes, the nails.
“I talked to Rose,” he said in that Frankenstein-deep voice, yanking my bulging eyes away from the nails. “Why don’t you show me the work she did?”
I wanted to correct him and say, “the work we did,” but I just took off my shirt. He was impressed. He didn’t say much, but I could tell. Impressing a guy like this made me feel pretty special. He didn’t just give it the quick once-over. He looked. He studied it. “Nice work,” he said finally, nodding with half-closed eyelids. It sounded extra flattering in that deep, deep voice of his. “What do you need me for?”
“Implants,” I said.
“Rose does implants,” he said dismissively.
“Not the kind I want.”
He asked for details and I gave them. He nodded as I spoke, When I finished he said, “It’ll take a few weeks.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Five thousand. In advance.” I was expecting more, though not in advance. Could I trust a guy with a loincloth to deliver the goods after he’d been paid?
“That’s a lot of money. How about half and half?” I asked, wincing.
“I don’t negotiate,” he said, standing up, knowing the effect it would have.
“Okay,” I said, looking up. Unfortunately, given his height and the angle of my chair I was looking up under his loincloth. Holy shit. I wanted to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. He noticed my eyes popping and laughed. It sounded like Hell’s Bells.
I blushed and leaned back farther so I was looking into his face and attempted a nonchalant segue: “When can we start?”
“When you give me the money,” he said, letting me off the hook. He walked over to a dingy refrigerator, picked a wooden box off the top and carried it back to the stool.
He sat down again, but not before I noticed an odd little lamp on the table next to the fridge. The lamp wasn’t really that odd, in truth. The lampshade was. I recognized it.
“Is that a Gein?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding with the first real enthusiasm I’d seen.
“I have one too.” I said, watching his eyelids rise to the point where you could rightfully call them open. “I was thinking about selling it to pay for this work.”
I was taking a pretty big risk telling him. I didn’t want it getting back to Rose, or anyone else for that matter. I probably wanted to show off a bit and increase my bad-boy status. My biggest motivation though, was working out a barter arrangement.
“Perhaps the man who gave me this would be interested. He’s a real…collector.”
“What’s his name? I might know him.” He looked at me suspiciously. I could tell he was about to close the subject so I blurted out, “There’s a guy I sell things to that I met on the web. I mail things to a post office box and he mails me the cash.”
The Striker kept listening…and watching.
“I’ve never met him but his cyber name is King of Spades.”
The Striker’s eyelids rose again, more slowly this time. “Yes, that’s the same gentleman. You know, I think you two should meet.”
“Why?” I asked, my turn to be suspicious.
“Well…” he began, his voice coolly condescending, “…you obviously share common interests. Aside from that, I think he’d enjoy what you’ve done here,” he said, pointing to my chest.
“Really?” That got my attention.
“I’ll see if he’s interested,” he said, like he was suddenly bored. “Now let’s get back to your request.” He reached down and opened the lid of his box. “Were you thinking about something like this?” he asked, the light flashing off the metal inside.
Wow. “They’re beautiful. I’ll see if he wants the lamp.”
“Don’t bother. Just bring it back here.”
“It’s worth a lot more than five,” I said, nervous again.
“I know. I’ll keep it here as collateral until I can arrange a meeting.”
“Okay,” I said uncertainly, but my heart was soaring. We were ready to start! Then I remembered the question I promised myself to ask from the moment Rose first mentioned his name.
“Why do they call you The Striker?”
His eyelids drooped even lower. Then he spread his legs wide apart, so the fringe of his loincloth draped over the edge of his stool like a theater curtain. “Well I’m a blockhead, for one thing,” he said, taking a four-second pause to see if I got it. He could tell I didn’t, so he picked up a four-inch-long carpenter’s nail from a junk-filled toolbox on the floor. Then he picked up a hammer. He took the nail, pushed the point into his nostril and began pounding away.
“See?” he said, after driving the nail three inches into his face.
“Yep,” I grunted, trying to catch my breath.
“I do private performances on occasion. There’s even audience participation.”
He pulled the loincloth over his thigh and gave me an unvarnished look at what I thought I’d seen before, but didn’t think possible. Now I knew where all the holes in the stool came from.
“Go ahead,” he said, yanking the nail from his face with the claw of the hammer. He handed them both to me and pointed back down between his legs. “That’s a good spot.”
Clump, clump, clump. Rose was having a hard time. Not only was Martin getting heavier with each step, but her thoughts weighed on her even more as she struggled to make sense of everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes. She had been in a gunfight. Martin had been shot. He killed four people. She helped him. And now they were going up the stairs…not going to the cops…not going to the hospital…going up the stairs…so Martin could get some medical attention for that exit wound from this wide-eyed maniac and his scraggly sidekick. What was she thinking?
She was weird. No doubt about it. She looked weird, dressed weird, had a weird job, weird friends and a weird sex life. But this other guy was W-E-I-R-D. For one thing, he stank. She didn’t know which was worse, the smell of evaporating whiskey wafting off his skin or the moldy perspiration clinging beneath. The way he looked at her was even stranger. Did he know her from somewhere? Did he want to fuck her? Kill her? Both? And what was the deal with him and Martin?
As she struggled to support his increasingly sagging weight, it occurred to her that she didn’t know anything more about Martin than she did about his two creepy friends lagging behind, neither one lifting a finger to help or saying a single word to break the uneasy silence. Nothing about Martin made any sense. He was a walking (not talking) contradiction. He was older, late-thirties at least, though his body looked like a Calvin Klein underwear ad. He fought those punks like Bruce Lee, yet acted like a sullen teenager. What did she really know about him? He could fix a sink. He liked soft sheets. He fucked like a starved animal. And he was deadly. Deadly and experienced. Anyone capable of killing two armed men with such relative ease must have done something similar at least once before.
Fuck. Martin was a killer, like her father. Was he crazy too?
She thought of her dad again, remembering how people stared at her, whispering when she kissed him one last time before they took him away. She pictured the screaming headlines and his raving letters…the ones she couldn’t bear to open anymore.
/> Clump. Clump. Clump. Shit. Shit. Shit. She’d been with plenty of bad boys. Now that she had one more flight of stairs to think about it, she wondered if her outlaw fetish had more to do with her father than she could comfortably admit. Bad dad. Bad boys. Bad men, actually. Almost all her boyfriends were quite a bit older and marginally criminal types. Drug dealers. Tattoo freaks. Rockers. Anything that looked good in leather. But the daddy parallel didn’t hold up so well when it came to her unfathomable feelings for this strange, childlike lug she was lugging up the stairs…and it didn’t give her a clue what to do about the completely insane situation she was embroiled in. Should she make some excuse and run down the stairs as fast as she could? Martin’s fucked-up friends would help him, right? She glanced at the smelly guy behind her and quickly looked away when she saw his angry stare. Then she looked at Martin and felt so protective she cursed herself again for being so foolish. She couldn’t leave him. Not now. Not with them. He needed her.
Maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her again. Martin wasn’t some cold-blooded murderer! He was acting in self-defense! So was she! He was probably an ex-soldier…maybe a marine with that buzz-cut. His big, stinky friend looked like a grizzled ’Nam vet…and the young one was wearing an army coat too.
Rose relaxed her shoulders and tightened her grip on Martin’s arm. Then she thought about the way Martin handled himself with those drug dealers again. Even though some of her old beaus seemed very tough indeed, she couldn’t imagine any of them doing what Martin had done. At least not with that kind of…flair.
He’s like James Bond or something, she thought, recalling how he used that punk’s body as a shield while she clawed at the other guy’s eyes with her nail file.
