by Preston Lang
The Carrier
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
THE CARRIER
Preston Lang
Copyright © 2014 by Preston Lang
All rights reserved
www.PrestonLangBooks.com
Cover photograph “Man with bag in dark hotel corridor” by Kevin Jaako Full terms
CHAPTER 1
Cyril hadn’t given another thought to the frat boy. He assumed the kid had gone back to play pool with his friends or drink beer directly from the pitcher. Cyril turned to the bar and tried to watch Monday Night Football, but the players hit each other too hard and he decided to head back to his motel room. He was halfway to the door when the girl stopped him. She was dark-haired with quick, vital eyes, and she had a voice—low and tangy.
“That boy you were talking to is waiting outside—with two of his friends,” she said. “I just thought you should know.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
They stood for a moment, neither one ready to end the conversation.
“Why did you call him a fuck monkey?” the girl asked.
“He was acting—like a fuck monkey.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but what do you gain from pointing it out?”
“It may have been a mistake.”
The boy had banged on the bar with a spoon and made two loud yips at a shampoo commercial on the TV screen. Cyril was no more than ten years older than this kid, but it felt like the gulf of a few generations. He hadn’t raised his voice; he’d politely told the boy to stop acting like a fuck monkey. He thought the boy had taken the suggestion and that all was well in the barroom.
“So what do you think I should do?” Cyril asked the girl.
“Well, if you really want to impress me, you’ll go out the front and kick all three of their asses with a really cool expression on your face. But if I were you I would probably go out the back way.”
“Where’s the back way?”
“Through the kitchen. Just walk straight. The dishwashers will probably yell at you. By that time you’ll be out the back door.”
“Or we could sit down and you could tell me all about yourself. By the time you’re done, the boys will probably have called it an evening.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?”
“Not really.”
“You were leaving.”
“I was just going to go back to my motel room, maybe watch TV, maybe steal some soap.”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“They find you and they make you pay.”
“Tell me more about this,” Cyril said, motioning to a table.
He sat across from her with a view of the door in case any angry young men got tired of waiting out in the chilly Iowa night and charged in looking for a fight. The girl said that her name was Willow, that she was a senior at the nearby college, and that she wasn’t here with anybody. Other students stood and drank with young energy; townies sat at the bar and corner tables. Willow and Cyril told obvious lies about themselves and laughed. Soon enough it was closing time.
“You have a motel room?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I think that I would like to see it.”
“It’s about a fifteen minute walk.”
“You didn’t bring a car?”
“I don’t drink and drive.”
“You’re a really good example.”
They had been walking almost a minute when they saw the Fuck Monkey approach with two of his frat brothers.
“Hey, you. Asshole, you.”
He slurred his words but was reasonably steady on his feet. His brothers were much bigger than he was.
“Go home,” Willow said.
“Okay, darlem. You just step back. I’m going to tear up your boyfriend here.”
“What’s darlem?” Cyril asked.
“I think he meant darling,” Willow said.
The boy stepped closer to Cyril. His brothers moved in a bit too, but it looked like they were going to let the Monkey do what he could on his own before they joined in. Cyril checked out the two big guys quickly—wasted and amused. The Monkey poked Cyril in the chest.
“Come on, Les,” one of the brothers said. “Don’t play around. Bring the warrior to him.”
“Warrior,” the other brother said in his deepest death metal bass.
Les came at Cyril with a big, wild punch that was easily sidestepped. Les cursed and spun, and Cyril grabbed Willow and tried to hurry away, but the brothers blocked their path.
“Fight me,” Les cried.
“Look guys. This doesn’t make any sense. You’re all going to get thrown out of school.”
Suddenly the brothers began to edge away, holding up their hands and stepping backwards. Cyril watched, puzzled, and then he turned to see that Willow had drawn a gun.
“Bitch is crazy,” a brother said, but they had now turned and were retreating at a quick jog.
That left only Les. His eyes were drunk and scheming. He hadn’t given up yet.
“If he rushes you, don’t shoot him,” Cyril said.
“I might shoot him.”
“Please, go home.”
Les said nothing, and the insane ideas that had been careening through his brain died out.
“We’re going to walk away now. Please, don’t follow.”
And that’s what they did while Les slumped against the side of a building.
“Is it normal at your school for an undergrad to walk around with a handgun?” Cyril asked about five minutes later.
“Aren’t you glad I had it?”
“I suppose.”
“What were you going to do, make a little speech to the bros—You’re going to get in soooo much trouble.”
They kept walking, past the main business district and into the darker residential streets. Cyril’s motel was off a side road somewhere close by. He hoped he could find it in the dark, but everything looked very much alike. First he led Willow down a street that died at the barbed wire fence of an empty lot.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were taking me down a dark alley on purpose,” she said.
“Why, so you could shoot me?”
Willow smiled.
They found his motel, a cheap little two-story chain: the Firstway Inn. The room smelled flat and dusty, and only one of the three overhead lightbulbs worked. She jumped on him, wrapping her legs around him, toppling him onto the bed. She kissed his face and his neck then worked inside his mouth, biting his inner lip. They tore off their clothes quickly and tumbled off the bed. Willow was urgent, like they were the only
humans left in a world full of zombies—there’s nothing else out there except mindless death, but this has got to happen now. Then she put her clothes back on. When she got to her shoes, Cyril sat up.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
Cyril started to get dressed.
“You don’t have to get dressed,” she said. “I just like to have clothes on.”
“That’s too bad.”
Willow put on her jacket and then she pointed her gun at Cyril.
“I’m going to need all the money,” she said.
CHAPTER 2
Saida was upset that a convicted sex offender had moved into the apartment complex. She told Marcus that the man, a short Asian guy named Danny Chin had been looking at her.
“Looking at you?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah, walked me all the way to the stairs. And then he made sure I went up first,” Saida said.
“Isn’t that being a gentleman?”
“No, it’s so he can look at my ass.”
“But you’re supposed to let a lady go first.”
“On level ground, not up stairs.”
“But you can look at a lady’s ass on level ground same as you can look at it walking up stairs.”
“It goes upstairs, it comes right to eye level.”
“What does?”
“The ass. So he can bite it.”
“Did he? Did he bite your ass? Because if he did, then I’d go over there right now, kick in his door.”
“Well, all right. Fine. He bit my ass—took a bite like he was at Taco Express, enjoying a meal.”
“He’s Chinese, why’s he eating a taco?”
“Chinese man can eat a taco.”
“He didn’t touch you, right? Didn’t do anything other than let you go first up the stairs, right?”
Marcus was a big, stupid-looking guy, but once you got to know him you realized he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. A little bit after that, you realized he wasn’t exactly a genius either. He was a sweet man, and he loved Saida very much. But she’d sacrificed a lot for him, hadn’t she? It was for the sake of his job that she’d moved out here to Leprechaun-fuck, Massachusetts, where everyone drank hard and talked in that stupid accent that sounded fun the first time you heard it, but after a few weeks it turned into donkey. These people talked like a pack of jackasses. Saida was sick of it, and now Marcus was being difficult about an actual sex criminal?
Saida had tried to see if there was a legal way to get Danny Chin banned from the apartment complex—too close to a school, a playground, something? But they were out in the middle of nowhere, near a gas station, a warehouse, and a quarry. If you had to put a rapist back into the real world, this would be the place to put him, out here next to some rocks.
“Anyway, you’re always saying how there’s nothing but white people around here. Now a man of color moves in and you want me to kill him,” Marcus said.
“Let me see if I get you: I’m supposed to be happy that a pervert moves into the complex because at least he’s a man of color?”
“You’re always complaining.”
“How would you like to live in the ‘hood—whitest person you see is a half Puerto Rican? How would you like that?”
“I’d be all right with it.”
Yeah, that was true. Old Black ladies loved Marcus—he called them ma’am and didn’t mind when they compared him to large animals. With his size and his Virginia manners he’d be fine in Saida’s old neighborhood.
“I just want you to take care of one little, dirty man. Step up to him and let him know he better run and hide when he sees me coming. Can you do that? Please?”
***
It was two days later that Marcus saw Danny Chin walking back to the complex. Danny wore a bright blue shirt and white jeans, and he had a bounce in his step. Either his clothes were new or he used a better detergent than Marcus did.
“How’s it going,” Danny said with a smile, recognizing a neighbor.
“No. I need you to understand something.”
“Sure.”
Danny stopped and gave Marcus his full attention: he was ready to understand.
“You know my girlfriend?”
“No, who is she?”
“Short, African-American girl—lady. She lives in the complex.”
“With you?”
“Yeah, with me.”
“I think I have seen her, yes.”
Marcus had lost his menace. It seemed pointless. Small as Danny was, why couldn’t Saida take care of it? It must be something like how she felt about water bugs. She was capable of crushing them herself, but she didn’t like to hear the squish.
“So. She thinks you’re looking at her,” Marcus said.
“I’ve said hello to her. She seems very nice. I hope I haven’t done anything to upset her.”
“You’re a sex criminal?”
Danny paused, not a guilty pause but recognition that this was heavy enough to stop the conversation for a moment.
“I’ve got a conviction. Yeah, I do. It’s not right how they railroad you.”
“I don’t have time for that, but you better leave her alone. If you see her coming, you better hide around a corner.”
“Now wait a second. If I see her coming, the last thing I should do is hide around a corner. If you want, I won’t speak to her or anything, but as soon as I start to slink around like a criminal, that’s when the misunderstandings start.”
“We don’t need misunderstandings.”
“I respect this—what you’re doing. You a Redskins fan?”
“What?” Marcus glanced down at the old burgundy sweatshirt he was wearing. “Yeah. I mean, sure.”
“You watching the game tonight?”
“We don’t have ESPN, because our TV is kind of—it’s not important.”
“Kickoff is eight-thirty. If you want, stop by. I’m 1K.”
Saida was at school that evening, at a study group where they pretended they were running a business and made displays on really shiny pieces of oak tag. She wouldn’t be back until late. And that’s how Marcus found himself in the apartment of a sex criminal, drinking Rolling Rock and watching Monday Night Football. When Marcus was five beers in, he asked Danny about his arrest.
“It wasn’t right,” Danny said, without bitterness, more like he was describing a friend’s comic misadventures. “They’ve got this thing up in Boston where they put a lady cop on the T—in a little tube top and short shorts. Then when some guy gropes her, they arrest him. I even knew about the program. I’d read this thing in The Globe; they had pictures of these women, the bait. They were beautiful. I mean, they were the kinds of girls you had to say, what are you doing working for the Boston Police Department instead of—I don’t know—just sitting around and letting men buy you things?”
“So they showed the undercover cops in the paper?”
“I saw this lady on the subway. And it is a train, you know? So there’s lots of starts and stops, and people do jostle up against each other—that happens. So I saw this lady. Now, I’m not saying I didn’t hope that the motions of the train would position our parts in exciting alignment. I hoped for all that, but it really was some short stops that brought us together—mostly. But next thing I know six or seven cops grabbed me and booked me. Half that train was cops, and they really needed a bust that day. That’s how come I’m a sex offender.”
Marcus got up for another beer just a little too fast. He had a lower tolerance than most people expected from a 270-pound man, and he had to steady himself against the flimsy wall of the kitchen. He could probably punch right through into the next apartment if he wanted. What was the pervert going to do, call the cops? If he punched through the wall, then at least he could tell Saida that he’d done something. Maybe he’d do it later.
“And try finding a good job with that on your record,” Danny said.
“How do you get by?”
“They’ve got some programs, found
ations to help us out. This wealthy sex offender died without any children; he left his money to a fund for the rest of us. I have to live off that.”
“That doesn’t really seem right. I mean regular guys—who never touched a woman wrong—we have to work for a living.”
“Jesus, man. I’m kidding. There’s no fund for sex offenders. I’ve got some very serious cash flow problems. But luckily I know a way in to some money.”
“How?”
The question of how would hang in the air for the next few weeks. In the meantime, Marcus became a regular at Danny’s apartment, and he never got around to punching a hole in the wall.
CHAPTER 3
Duane’s left index finger still gave him a little pain when he gripped the steering wheel—likely the bone was broken and the flesh was a nasty pulp. He didn’t think it was infected, though. It would all heal fine, but it was a reminder that things were going off the rails, falling apart. The whole organization was going to hell.
The idea of seeing Tony made him sick, but Top had written him a stern text message: Make this meeting with T. Duane always heard people with straight jobs complain that they had to sit at meetings listening to worthless noise without killing everyone in the room. But that was exactly what he was driving to Newburgh for. It was going to be useless and stupid, and he wondered if he would be able to keep himself from doing something harsh.
Tony and Top were both ex-army—buddies from those days. At least that’s the way Tony told it. It was hard to believe he’d been military. If that’s what the army was coming to, we’d all be speaking Chinese in ten years. Hell, we’d be speaking Swedish if we really had an army full of imbeciles like Tony. The Swedes could row over in one of those Viking longboats, then just march to Washington while Tony worked on a cigarette and grinned—I’m supposed to do something, bro?
Yeah, Tony was bad and getting worse. Duane had seen it before: users rotting out their minds. It wasn’t that Duane didn’t understand—heroin was wonderful, a delight, the only way God really let you know there was something pure and holy within reach. But Tony had worn out the meager connections of his brain. He was left with just greed and a streak of self-preservation. And now Duane had to drive an hour to get scolded by this man who was actually the cause of the trouble. Was Tony Braxton really going to try that on him?
