Portland Noir

by Kevin Sampsell

  Mike comes to fighting for air, and his eyes practically pop out of his head. If it wasn’t for the hamburger face, he’d look like a fucking cartoon. Esteban waves Shortie off, and Mike’s eyes finally retreat back into their sockets as he starts snorting in air again.

  All three of them laugh, and then crack up completely when the phone in Mike’s front pocket begins playing some crappy Mariah Carey ringtone at full volume.

  “Aren’t you going to answer your phone, mayate?” Esteban asks.

  Mike continues snorting, either ignoring the question or just oblivious.

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with his ear? No?” Este-ban’s brow furrows in mock concern.

  “El lapíz.” He snaps his fingers and Shortie hands him a pencil. Squatting down next to Mike, he grabs hold of his dreadlocks with one hand and whispers in his right ear. “Can you hear me now, mayate?”

  Esteban gives me a wink, and then jams the pencil hard into Mike’s ear.

  The blond bitch lets out a scream and Mike starts writhing as Esteban digs around with the pencil. Shortie giggles, but the other Mex has to look away.

  “Hey, Connie,” Esteban calls out, “I can’t find anything. You try.”

  “Esteban … I … Please.”

  “Come on.” He digs in farther and Mike starts to go into convulsions. “It’s fun.”

  “No. Please. I … I can’t.”

  “Okay,” Esteban sighs, and pulls the pencil out.

  Mike stops convulsing. His eyes stay open, but the right one goes all wonky and looks off to the side.

  Esteban stands back up and then seems to notice the kilo for the first time.

  “Connie? Why is there an open brick on the coffee table?” He starts to twirl the pencil in his hand.

  “That’s not on me, Esteban! That paramedic you sent said—”

  “What did I tell you about opening the product?”

  “It wasn’t me! Ask him!” She points to me.

  “Him?” Esteban laughs. “You mean, the pendejo you shot in the stomach?”

  “Tell him!” Connie begs me. Her blue eyes are wide and she’s starting to go pale.

  I don’t say anything. All I can think about is the phone in Mike’s pocket.

  “Please! Just tell him it was the paramedic!” Her voice breaks into a squeal.

  “Cálmate, mujer.” Esteban smiles, still twirling the pencil. “I think our amigo here just needs a little motivation.”

  Mike’s phone makes a whooshing noise to indicate that whoever called left a voice mail, but Esteban ignores it and steps on my abdomen again.

  “You don’t want to help the poor güera over here?” he asks.

  “Fuck you.”

  “You know I’m going to kill you, no?” He presses down harder.

  I try to speak, but can’t.

  “Just tell me who opened the brick.” He takes his foot off, and gives a squeeze of the IV bag to bring me back around. “If you do that, I’ll let you load a few grams into that syringe you’re hiding behind your back, and you go off to junkie heaven …” He reaches over with the pencil and tickles my ear. “Or, if you want, we can always play a little more of Hide the Pencil.”

  “Esteban …” Connie tries to intervene.

  “Shhhh.” Esteban waves her off and speaks to me. “What do you think? Do you want to die the easy way or like the fucking mayate?”

  Connie’s given up and is just staring at me.

  Shortie and the other Mex guy are staring at me too.

  Esteban is smiling.

  Fuck it.

  “It was her.” I tilt my head at the blond bitch, figuring it might buy me some time.

  “No! Esteban, he’s—”

  “Está bien,” Esteban reassures her. “Connie, do you really think I’m going to take a pinche junkie’s word over yours?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Está bien, okay?”

  She nods, uncertain.

  “Why don’t you help Jaime and Mario move the bricks out to the truck. This house isn’t safe anymore.”

  Connie just looks at him.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She reluctantly heads back into the hall, followed by the taller Mex, but Shortie lags behind and looks to Esteban for instructions.

  Esteban hands him the Ruger and nods.

  Shortie giggles as he slips the gun into his coat and trails the other two out into the hall.

  “I guess we’re going to need a new güera.” Esteban walks back over. “And you know what? I think I changed my mind. We are going to play Hide the Lapíz after all.” He tickles my ear with the pencil again. “But first, I’m going to get that Nar-can.” He gives some sort of command in Spanish to the pit bull, and then leaves.

  I listen to his footsteps going down the hall, my eyes fixed on the faint outline of a phone in Mike’s front pocket. Knowing I’m only going to have one shot at this, I wait until I actually hear the backdoor open before making my move. I can barely lift my arms and my hands are so clumsy that they feel like oven mitts, but after a minute or so of struggle, I manage to pull out the phone.

  There’s a muffled gunshot down in the basement, followed by Shortie’s giggle. The pit bull lets out a tentative growl.

  “Good doggy.”

  I use my teeth to help flip the phone open, and then use my knuckle to dial.

  Nine …

  One …

  Shit. I hear the creak of the backdoor and footsteps coming quickly down the hall again.

  I fumble with the phone and manage to jam it in the pocket of my hoodie just before Esteban walks in.

  He spots it anyway.

  “I knew I forgot something.” He pulls the phone out of my hoodie and checks the numbers on the screen. “Ninety-one! Oh … you were so close, amigo.” He laughs.

  “Fuck you.” I try to spit, but it just dribbles down my chin.

  Despite the fact that it was barely audible, for some reason this final Fuck you seems to get to him. He bends forward as if he’s gonna hit me, but stops short at the last second. The smile returns, and instead of smacking me, he laughs.

  “You know, I’m going to tell you a little secret.” He bends forward to whisper in my ear. “I believe you, amigo. You’re not working for the Tijuanans. You’re just some piece-of-shit junkie who broke into the wrong house, no?”

  Esteban stands back up and waits for my response, but I don’t give him one.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” He laughs again, then pulls out the pencil again and gives it a slow twirl. “So now we get to play our little game just for pleasure, no?”

  He pockets both the pencil and the phone, and then blows me a kiss before leaving.

  Once Esteban’s gone, everything just drains out of me.

  I look down at Mike. His right eye is still all fucked up and looking the wrong way, but his left is staring at me. Almost pleading.

  “Sorry, man. I tried.”

  Figuring I might as well speed things up, I make a feeble attempt to pull the IV out of my neck, but my arms are so heavy I can’t seem to raise them above my shoulder anymore.

  The pit bull growls again at my movements, and I start to wonder if there’s any way I can provoke him—hell, even getting mauled by a pit bull has to be better than that fucking pencil.

  “Hey, dog. Fuck you,” I try to yell, but it comes out more like a whisper.

  The pit bull promptly trots over and starts licking my face.

  Goddamnit.

  Out in the hall, I hear what must be Connie’s body being dragged out, and then the backdoor slam shut. There’s another giggle from Shortie outside in the driveway, and after a minute or so, the truck drives off.

  The pit bull curls up next to me on the carpet, and I begin to feel lightheaded. There’s something oddly comforting about just giving up, and the pain actually recedes a bit. For some reason I think about my stepmother, and how before she got cancer she used to try and grow radishes in that
vacant lot next to the gas station …

  Just as I start to nod again, I hear a snorting noise and glance back down at Mike.

  His one good eye is still pleading.

  “What?”

  His eye starts to move. First looking at me, and then down at his jeans. He keeps doing it. Over and over.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  And then I hear it. A faint ringtone coming from Mike’s other front pocket.

  BABY, I’M HERE

  BY MONICA DRAKE

  Legacy Good Samaritan Hospital

  Rebar’s first day out of the big loony bin on the hill, just checked into transitional housing, I agreed to meet him at the Marathon Taverna. I should’ve said no. Bad plan. But I went along with it. Over the phone, he said, “I need to get out, see people. Get back in the swing.”

  I said, “The only people you’ll see at the Marathon are drunks. Maybe your dad if we stay late.”

  He said, “I need to see you, Vanessa.”

  And I gave in.

  Before that, he’d wanted to meet up at my place. Problem was, my place was his. He owned the house. If I let him in, he’d never leave. He’d pick through my things looking for his things, any sign of him and me together, like playing husband and wife or some other sorry story. His was one of the last shacks set between warehouses in deep Northwest. Rebar’d said I could use it until he got out—out of jail, out of detox, out of the Mental Motel that was part of his sentence. Sounded like a long enough list, I hadn’t expected him back anytime soon. He’s not known for good behavior.

  I took a bus down Twenty-first and walked along Burn-side. Overhead it was a gray sky. My raincoat flapped against the wind like a dying bird, slapped my knee with each step. Traffic lined the street thick as a parking lot. More cars jammed the McDonald’s. Across the way, somebody’d built a high-rise condo. The whole town was turning into a city of glass pillars.

  A guy in a pickup held back at a green light. He let me cross Eighteenth. When I got to the other side I smiled and waved thanks, wiggled my fingers in the air. The man smiled too. Looking my way, he stepped on the gas and T-boned an idling Smart Car wedged in the intersection. There was the crunch of metal, a broken headlight, something swimming-pool blue that skidded over the macadam. I pretended not to notice because the thing is, that man had been sweet. I didn’t want him to feel bad about his driving problem.

  Inside the Marathon, I found a table and peeled off my coat, put down my pocketbook. The tavern air was murky, thick with sweat, beer, and smoke, but warmer than outside. And it was dark. Instant night, in the middle of day. Scattered popcorn on the carpet was the glow of stars. I looked for the North Star, some guiding light in that mess, like an explorer let loose on a new world. Rebar, now sober, crazy, and adjusting to antipsychotics, he was a new world. A new planet. I had no idea how to handle him.

  Taki, the Greek who ran the place, dropped his rag. He said, “Ah, Vanessa, my beauty. What can I do for you?” He wiped his hands on his pants.

  He always said my beauty. It didn’t mean much, but I liked it, and liked him for it. I said, “I’ll have a beer and Snappy Tom’s, if you got it.” In that bar, beer meant Budweiser. There was nothing else.

  Taki said, “You’re alone?”

  I said, “Not alone. With you.” My hair was thick and hung heavy over one eye. I shook it out of the way, but it fell back again. One of these days I’d get a real haircut.

  Taki brought the drink to my table. “If I wasn’t working, I’d take you someplace better than this. I’d take you to Greece. You been there?”

  I hadn’t been anywhere. I’d walked the same city blocks long as I could remember. An old guy at the bar rapped his glass against the wood. Taki had to get back. Other than people like me and Rebar, who went there for cheap drink, it was geezers who inhabited the Marathon Tavern. Men who lived in single rooms for rent upstairs. When I found the place, I’d lived down the street in the Tudor Arms apartments with a guy named Ray.

  The door opened to let in a big slice of midday sun, traffic, and exhaust. It was Rebar, his shadow joining the dark with the rest of us. He saw my red beer. “Shaking off a hangover, Angel?”

  I said, “Wish I had a hangover angel. Somebody to come rub the aches away.” This time it wasn’t a hangover I wanted to shake, but a life of mistakes, wrong men, places like this dive I found myself in all over again.

  Rebar said, “Here I am.” Like he was my angel.

  His black hair stood up in front. His jeans were stained with cement mix, from the rock wall he’d been building before he got picked up. Instead of his work boots, he was wearing Sketchers, tennies right out of Payless Shoes. They were as out of place as hospital slippers on Rebar’s big feet. But still he was beautiful, wiry and strong, an olive-skinned James Dean. He was comic-book thin, muscled and taut. He said, “Got a hello for me?”

  I stood, let him pull me close. He lifted me off my feet, squeezed my ribs, tipped me out of my stilettos. I lay my arms over his shoulders. He’d been gone for months. Now he smelled like soap and shave cream. He smelled like a man on parole, trying to do things right. That wouldn’t last. When he let go I said, “Didn’t they wash your clothes in that place?” I sat, to put a tiny table between us.

  He said, “Maybe. This stuff doesn’t come out.”

  “Maybe nothing changes.”

  Rebar put his fingers around my wrist. “Maybe I changed.” His fingers were handcuffs.

  Before Rebar went in the hospital, he hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t been drinking in the last days of his crazy spell, but was talking to strangers in sounds that weren’t real words. That’s against some kind of law, I guess, because the cops knocked him flat on the sidewalk, tased him in the bus mall outside of Pioneer Square, did what they called “subdued.” They hauled him off.

  Now, between the rash of razor burn and a scar on his forehead where he hit the sidewalk, he had the face of a baby and an old man at the same time. Least he wasn’t wide-eyed, wired, ready to crack someone’s jaw. He didn’t look electric. He said, “Feels like I been gone for years.” His voice was shaky. That wasn’t new. His voice was always shaky.

  I said, “Just stay off the sauce.”

  He nodded, and squinted at that soundless TV on in the corner. “Got a bracelet.” He pulled up his pant leg. I’d never seen him wear shoes without socks before. His calve was wrapped in a brown plastic band with two boxes, one on either side. “Transdermal, they call it. Scram.”

  “Scram?” I thought he wanted me to leave. I was more than ready. I reached for my pocketbook, pulled it to my lap.

  “Secure Continuous Remote Alcohol Monitor,” he said. “SCRAM. I don’t think this sucker works, though. Supposed to read your alcohol level through sweat. Five percent of everything you drink comes out through the skin.”

  “They made you take a class in it.” I could tell, by the way he talked.

  “If I don’t drink, they won’t know I been here, right?”

  “Booze leaches through the walls in this place. It’s in the air.” I sipped my red beer. I ran my fingers over the glass. I ran my hand, wet from the glass, over my forehead and across my neck.

  Alcohol-induced psychosis. That was the theory doctors offered for Rebar’s tripped-up month, like he drank more than anyone else. He sure didn’t drink more than the men who lined the counter, those old sea gulls on their posts. It didn’t mean anything—he was crazy. Drinking made him crazier.

  I turned a clean amber ashtray over in my palm, felt the weight of it, sharp edges of beveled glass. That ashtray was solid. My plan was to quit taking things I didn’t need. I didn’t need anything. I’d already filled Rebar’s shack with salt and pepper shakers, coffee cups, sunglasses, doormats, hood ornaments, construction barricades. I had a plastic lawn Santa to watch me all year long, keeping tabs, naughty or nice.

  The ashtray was a sure thing, hard and sharp. I slipped it in my purse. Rebar rolled a cigarette. I shifted
one end of the tavern’s orange curtain to see the street and knocked a curled and faded Help Wanted sign from the window. There was no one outside except traffic, and hardly anyone in the tavern. Rebar’s eyes on me, his body so close, made the place crowded.

  “You need to start eating,” I said. I threw a piece of popcorn his way.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “I’m glad you’re better.”

  “Yeah?” A fleck of tobacco danced on his lip. When he reached for my fingers, I pulled my hand back. He held on. “You don’t give a rip.”

  I pushed with my other hand against the rock of his forearm. His skin was a thin cover over muscle. “I want to drink my drink,” I said.

  He pulled me closer, until my ribs leaned into the side of the table. My hand grew hot; a candle burned in a red glass globe on the table below. Rebar whispered, “When I was crucified by those cops, you were the voice in my ear. You were laughing, but you were at my side.” He let go of my arm and I fell back, tipped the rickety table enough to slosh red beer against the rim of my glass. Slosh wax against the inside of the candle’s little world. I lifted my glass and let beer drip.

  Taki put the Help Wanted sign back in the window. He ran a rag over the table. “Don’t break anything, you hear?”

  “Like my arm,” I said.

  Taki said, “You okay?”

  I nodded. My wrist felt the residue of Rebar’s strength. I tried to rub it out. His cigarette burned in the ashtray, a long ash off the end. I couldn’t stand that smell, and yet I lived in a cloud of smoke. I said, “If you’re going to smoke, smoke. Don’t burn ’em like incense.”

  Rebar said, “So, when do I get my place back?”

  I knew it’d come around to that. “Thought they set you up, a place to stay.”

  “Only till I can prove I got my own.”

  “You’ll have it back. Just give me time to pack, wouldya?”

  “You could stay,” he said, and his eyes got soft in that way that made me want to head for the door.

  I found lipstick and a compact in my purse. I painted my lips red. “With you? A happy home, all over again?”

  He nodded, watched me.

  “Not in the least likely.” I clipped the lid back on the lipstick. Dropped it in my purse and signaled Taki for another drink.