City of Rose

by Rob Hart

  “Well, guess what, asshole? I’m not. So does Dirk’s dad know you’re killing people, or did he tell you to get this done by any means necessary?”

  Wilson tilts his head. “Who the fuck is Dirk’s dad?”

  “Fletcher.”

  Wilson laughs. “You’re not as smart as you thought. Fletcher is the stripper’s dad.”

  Fuck.

  The eyes. The fucking eyes. I couldn’t see them on that shitty library computer monitor. That’s what I should have been looking at.

  “So, you can’t run for Congress with an ex-junkie stripper love child,” I say, feeling it out. “But getting rid of her wasn’t enough. You were going for scorched earth. Dismantle the club, blow up the drug house, knock out the cartel garage. It’s not enough that Crystal is gone. You don’t even want there to be a trail. All so this goofball could run for Congress.”

  Wilson shrugs. “It’s a living.”

  “Killing people is a little extreme.”

  He gives me a grim smile, his lips creeping up his face until I can see his teeth. “Before I blew up that house I’d never killed anyone. Came close a few times but always worked my way around it. And that guy was an accident. I didn’t know he was there. But you know what I found after they pulled his body from the wreckage?” He shrugs. “I didn’t care. Truly, I felt nothing.”

  “Well, cheers to you.”

  “You’re so fucking funny, you know that?” His face twists. “You think you’re so smart. You’re such a wiseass. Look at where it got you. You thought you could fuck with me? No.” He’s speaking so hard now he’s spitting. “I have never failed at a job. Never. And I’m not starting now. So make a joke about that. Joke about the fact that in a second you’re both going to be dead.”

  It’s there, pulsing in his eyes. A radioactive level of pride, poisoning him. The worth of a human life doesn’t outweigh his desire to be good at his job.

  “Can you repeat that?” I ask. “I stopped listening.”

  He makes an angry little noise at the back of his throat, gargling consonants, and lifts the gun.

  Then, to my complete shock, Dirk saves us.

  He shakes off the heroin haze and yells at the top of his lungs, “You can’t kill me, motherfucker. What about all that fucking money you owe me?”

  Dirk takes a step toward Wilson, probably still enough drugs in his system so he doesn’t realize this is a bad idea.

  Wilson swings the gun toward him, giving me an opening.

  I plant my foot and launch myself forward and slam into Wilson as he fires, knocking him to the ground.

  The gun roars in the small space and leaves my ears ringing, like I’ve been standing next to a concert speaker. The gun flies into the shadows at the corner of the room and I jam my fist into Wilson’s throat. He gags and gasps for air, reaching up to hold his neck, and I roll off and go to Dirk, who’s been thrown against the cabinets, a spray of blood painting the white Formica behind him.

  He’s still standing. Maybe I threw off Wilson’s aim enough that he’ll live through this. But he’s wearing a black T-shirt and black hoodie so in the dim light, I can’t even see where the bullet hit. A blood-drenched hand is hovering near his left flank, which gives me a sense. I grab Dirk and push him toward the back as Wilson is struggling to get up.

  We run through the backyard, me more dragging Dirk than him running, and I get him over the fence into the next yard. Wilson isn’t chasing us yet, but I don’t know for how long. I should have stayed. Incapacitated him somehow. Too late now.

  The next yard is a huge swath of green grass with a big shed in the middle of it, and maybe there’s something I can use in there as a weapon, because I don’t think we’re going to outrun Wilson, not with the way the color is draining out of Dirk’s face. The way he’s stumbling like he’s drunk.

  As we turn the corner into the shed I realize it’s not a shed. It’s a stable.

  It smells like hay and manure and sweat. There are two horses in separate stalls. One is brown and small, one is black and huge. The brown one makes a horse noise and the black one stares at us.

  So, new plan.

  It’s either the best plan I’ve ever come up with, or the worst.

  Maybe a little of both.

  I unhook the gate keeping the black horse penned in and wave over Dirk, who’s doubled over, leaning up against a wooden post. He looks up at me and shakes his head. “No.”

  “We have to get out of here. Shut up and get on the horse.”

  He stumbles over to me and I lean down and cup my hands. He plants his foot and grunts. I pull up, and he’s not too heavy and this might work, but the horse moves away from us. I’ve lifted Dirk high enough that for a second he’s completely suspended in air, and he slaps against the dirt floor like he’s doing a belly flop into a pool. He groans and folds in at the middle.

  I laugh at him a little, because even though we’re now on the same team—Team Don’t Get Shot—I still don’t like him.

  The horse moves toward the back of the stall, away from us, clearly not pleased with any of this.

  Okay. Maybe this was not a great plan. But we have to get out of here. I go over to the horse to try again but now he looks agitated, whipping his head back and forth and making grunting noises. I put my hands up and back away slowly and that seems to calm him down a bit. Dirk is trying to get up so I drag him out of the pen and lock the gate.

  New new plan.

  There’s a two-by-four leaned up against the wall, so I leave Dirk where he is, in full view from the open door, and stand by the side. Take a deep breath. I think I hear footsteps, the sound of something crunching underfoot.

  I hold my breath.

  There they are. Slow, tentative steps. He knows we’re in here.

  The second there’s movement, I swing and catch Wilson right in the face. Something crunches and he screams.

  That felt good. Too good.

  The gun flies from his hand and he falls to his knees, clutching his face, and Dirk seems to have caught the plan, because he’s on his feet and running at me now. I put my foot onto Wilson’s shoulder and push him down, and kick his gun to the other side of the stable. I hold the two-by-four over my head.

  I could turn him in. Go to the cops. But with Fletcher and his connections to the police, I don’t know how far that’s going to get us. Maybe we get lucky, maybe we get fucked.

  I could kill him. Bring the two-by-four down and crush his skull. Problem solved. It was easy for him, to take a life. Why can’t it be easy for me?

  Such an easy solution, too. All I have to do is swing it. Won’t even take much effort. I exert more effort getting out of bed in the morning. The two-by-four is solid in my hand. Solid enough to crush a skull.

  I swing down, hard as I can.

  The wood connects with his ribs with a dull thud. He folds in on himself, groaning, choking.

  Nope. Not crossing that line. I’m not like him. I toss the two-by-four to the ground, satisfied with my smart, thoughtful choice.

  It turns out hesitating over a moral quandary was a bad idea, because it gives Wilson enough time to bring his foot up into my balls. He catches them full on and my whole world explodes. Air rushes out of my lungs and I nearly fall to the floor, but manage to keep myself up. He turns and crawls toward the corner, already closing in on the gun. I throw Dirk’s arm over my shoulder and lead him out and away, through a fence in the back and onto the street.

  By the time we get to the car Dirk is slowing down a bit, but he’s still on his feet. I prop him up against the side of it, look back to find Wilson turning the corner toward us. I toss Dirk across the back seat, climb behind the wheel, and peel out.

  As I hit the corner and turn hard into it, I catch a glimpse of Wilson in the rearview mirror, pointing the gun at us but ultimately deciding not to take the shot.

  My stomach feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out, but without disengaging from the other organs it’s attached to. The burr
ito I ate earlier is threatening to come back up. It’s all I can do to concentrate on driving.

  A few blocks away now, and Dirk is wailing like a dying animal. The adrenaline or the heroin or whatever must be wearing off. I got shot once, but it wasn’t bad. Cut a little path through the meat of my thigh. As gunshots go, pretty convenient. Honestly, my ruined balls feel about on par with that.

  A gut shot, I got nothing on that. I’ve heard gut shots are the most painful because they tear up a lot of soft tissue and you bleed out slowly. Maybe that’s true. I don’t know. All I know is he’s in a lot of pain. People get shot and don’t die sometimes, I guess?

  “How you holding up?” I ask.

  Dirk sputters. “Hurts.”

  “We’ll take care of you. Just stay with me. Are you sure you don’t know anything about the family that got Rose?”

  “They were from… the coast. That’s all I know.”

  “And you thought that was a good idea, just give her away to some strangers?”

  “They were… checked out. They were good people. I can’t be a fucking dad, man. Crystal can’t be a mom.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “She’s a fucking stripper.”

  “That doesn’t make her a bad mom.”

  “Don’t fucking talk to me… like you know what’s better for my kid than I do. I’m trying to make things…” He takes a deep, wheezing breath. “… right.”

  “And you’re making a mess of it.”

  “Who the fuck are you to say that?”

  He’s got me there, kinda.

  I sneak a peek into the rearview mirror but can’t see Dirk. He must be all the way down on the seat. “You’re such a towering moral presence,” I tell him.

  Silence. Then, “I never… I never… fuck. Just get me to a hospital.”

  “I don’t think that’s the best idea,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t respond. Whether he’s passed out or ignoring me, I can’t tell.

  After a few moments, I hear what I think is weeping.

  I pull out my cell, dial Crystal. Shouldn’t be talking while driving. Fuck it. She answers straight away. I don’t give her the chance to talk. “Got Dirk. He’s been shot. What now?”

  “Does he know where Rose is?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Getting there. If you two check into a hospital then Wilson and Fletcher might be able to find you. But he needs medical attention.”

  Crystal says, “Get him to me. Meet me at your apartment.”

  “That’s definitely not safe. Wilson might check there.”

  “Where then?”

  “I know where we can go.”

  Hood is standing at the bottom of a walkway that leads up to a large Victorian-style house with four doors in a vestibule. He’s in a light gray sweat suit and as I pull to the curb I can see that he does not look happy to see me.

  He leans down into the car to look at Dirk, who’s writhing around. “Why not meet in a fucking parking lot or something?” he asks.

  “This wasn’t exactly a well-formulated plan. We’re in some serious shit now. I don’t feel good about being outside. Can we go in?”

  “Fuck no. My gram is sleeping.”

  Crystal pulls to the curb behind the hatchback. I yank Dirk out of the car and look at Hood, figuring he’ll help me carry him, and he shrugs. “I’m not getting covered in some motherfucker’s blood. Cop sees me covered in blood he’ll shoot me without even asking.”

  I’m about to insist on the help when Crystal comes flying at Dirk. She reaches back and plants a solid haymaker across his jaw. Dirk lands against the car and she pounds on him, screaming, “Why did you do it, you son of a bitch?”

  She’s crying now, big tears running dark rivulets of mascara down her face. Her entire body shaking. This is the first time throughout this whole thing I’ve seen her cry. It looks like her entire body is coming apart.

  Dirk falls to the ground, fading fast. I pull Crystal off him. “Not the time or the place, okay? How do we get the gunshot taken care of?”

  “Give him to me.”

  “Where are you going to take him? The hospital—”

  “I’ll get it taken care of.”

  As we’re loading Dirk into the back of Crystal’s car, his cell phone falls out of his pocket and clatters to the pavement. Hood picks it up and stares at the face of it and says, “Yo, guys.”

  “Hold on,” I tell him.

  “No, don’t hold on.”

  I slam the door of the car and walk over and Hood holds up the phone.

  “See that little arrow thingy there?” he asks.

  I look at the screen and can’t find it. “No.”

  He shows me the face of the phone and up by the battery display is a little pointed arrow.

  “Location services are active. Like a background GPS. That could mean someone is tracking this phone right now. In case that might be relevant.”

  “Fucking Wilson.”

  “So the motherfucker who shot this other motherfucker is on his way here? My fucking gram is here, man. What are we supposed to do?”

  I’m thinking of an answer when my phone buzzes. Hood’s phone buzzes too. We pull them out and we’re both copied on a text from Tommi: One of you get here now. Got a bad feeling about the crowd tonight.

  “Now, now, everything right fucking now,” I say. I want to slam the phone against the curb, like that’ll make the message go away, but it won’t.

  Control your anger before it controls you.

  Inhale, exhale.

  Inhale, exhale.

  My fists are clenched so hard the bones in my hands are creaking.

  I lean down to Crystal’s window. “You go.”

  She peels away and I turn to Hood. “I’ll go the club.”

  “Okay.” He holds out a hand. “Give me the phone.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to get involved.”

  He smiles at me a little. “Fuck it, man. Just go. I’ll drive around a bit and dump the phone somewhere.” Hood stuffs it into his pocket and turns to a gray Jeep, fiddling with a large set of keys.

  “I’m sorry it got this far,” I tell him.

  “Community is all we got, son,” he says. “Just make it right.”

  Here’s my problem: I spent so much time pretending I am something I am not.

  What I am is a blunt instrument.

  Point me at a job, I get it done.

  So much about the life I tried to build has been stacked on an uneven foundation of lies and falsehoods. That I could change who I was. But nobody changes. We’re all the same until we die, and all that matters is how we handle and channel those things inside us.

  Who I am is someone who wants to do the right thing but can’t do it without hurting someone.

  Since I got to Portland I’ve felt like a tourist on a long vacation. That one day I’d toss everything in my bags and be on to the next thing. I had no real sense of permanence, no sense of place.

  And now I feel like this is the kind of place where I can stay for a while, and that’ll be all right. This might even be the start of something good. All that quiet that unnerved me so much when I got here, it’s settled into my bones.

  This isn’t about me or my bullshit anymore. This is about people who need help, and might not get it because some asshole with delusions of power thinks he can stomp them into the earth to get what he wants.

  That, I will not let happen.

  I tear around corners, passing slow drivers, nearly cream three bikers who are riding in the middle of the street, cutting the lights on the side streets.

  Finally, it feels like I know where I’m going.

  The plywood is torn down from the front of Naturals. It’s lying in the middle of the road alongside a barstool. Other than that the street is empty.

  I slam on the brakes at the curb, don’t bother locking the car, run through the open door, get caught in the black curtain
that’s still hanging down on the inside, and what I find past that fills me up with rage fast and hard, like water gushing into an empty space.

  Calypso and Carnage are dressed to dance, huddled on seats in the far corner. Tommi is standing behind the bar, her hands up and behind her head.

  Brillo Head is holding a bat up, the end of it pointed at Tommi. Rat Face is here too, a bandage across his nose. There are four other guys of varying type and size. So that makes six total, smashing stools, kicking mirrors, tearing things off the walls.

  One guy has a rusted, beat-up canister of gasoline in his hand.

  When I step through the curtain everyone in the bar stops, like it’s a movie and someone hit the pause button.

  Brillo Head grins. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

  Tommi looks at me and screams, “Run! Call the cops!”

  There’s a little pile of phone guts on the floor. Smashed to shit club phone and cell phones. Which explains why she hasn’t called them.

  I could call them. But some things it’s better to handle yourself.

  “You’ve got one chance,” I tell the group. “Put down everything and leave. No one gets hurt. Stay and I’m going to hurt all of you real fucking bad.”

  Tommi groans. “Don’t be a hero, Ash.”

  Brillo Head laughs. “Two of us handed you your ass the other night. You think you can take us all?” He steps away from Tommi and slings the bat over his shoulder. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to beat the shit out of you, then we’re going to burn this place to the ground. And we’re going to have fun doing it.” He points his bat toward Calypso and Carnage. “I’ve already called dibs on the goth bitch.”

  That black part of my brain reaches out a crooked hand and waves, desperate to get my attention. That part that rages at a world that took away innocent people—my father, the woman I loved—and shaped me into this sharp thing that hates with muscle memory.

  I let it take over.

  Maybe violence isn’t not the answer.

  Control your anger before it controls you?

  Fuck that.

  Anger is a weapon if you know how to use it.

  “Do you know what I feel right now?” I ask Brillo Head.