The cardboard box containing Louise’s makeup, clothes, candles, lotions, books, and playing cards had collected a thin layer of dust from the morning’s work, the waterline across the street having busted open and them in the yellow vests and sun hats having to dig it up and fix it and pour concrete over and smooth it out with long cumbersome brooms. Parks nudged a broken piece of wood with his good foot. He’d broken several things the night prior. Took a bat to his couch and kitchen counter and the rocking chair out front.
But there sat that box, untouched for the dust. And there in his pocket went his phone, and there he went ignoring it again for the warm beer in its soft-edged home. The bite was getting a little upset already, the hot red of the center and now this blooming soft pink around the edges. He didn’t pick at it though it bothered him.
After the day had worn on and Parks had sufficiently tied one on, Bill Baldwin knocked on the door and opened it, as it was half-open to begin with. The house smelled like a wet dog. Big flag up on the far wall. A poster of a Bud Light. Green couches and cross-stitches laid out on the recliners. John Parks there on the floor, pouring beer into his mouth and spilling it down into the folds of his neck.
Baldwin brushed dog hair from the couch and took a seat. He smelled himself, heavy duffel bag sweat and dirt and gasoline. “You planning on coming to work again?”
Parks burped. “I imagine not.”
Baldwin patted his thighs. “We have a lot of jobs yet. You know how it gets in the summer.”
“You work on that river birch today?”
“Well, no John. I didn’t. Can’t do that by myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
The sun in the process of dipping. Baldwin cracked one of his own. Warm. “I saw the box out front.”
“Did you.”
“I did.”
“You ever been bit by a spider?”
“Of course. Many times.”
“Is it a hospital thing?”
Baldwin shook his head. “Nothing they can do. Just kind of have to stay healthy.”
Parks tossed his empty at the wall. “Will do.”
“What happened with Louise?”
Parks blinked the blur away. “Nothing. She’s just not here no more.”
“Well. What happened?”
“I figure it’s my fault.”
“I think we’d all figure that.”
“We’d all figure that. I am up to here with fault.”
Baldwin stood up and crushed his can. “Tomorrow. We have work to do.”
Parks closed his eyes and passed out on his floor.
Branson Collins played Pokemon on his Gameboy. He checked his phone and handed Steve Haywood the nine. He drove with his knees.
Jesus take the wheel.
Haywood tied the rag around his face and leaned out over Collins and fired out the window. 618 Fuller: mailbox folded in on itself / windows shattered / dogs started up in the backyard.
Flashes from inside. They heard the bullets connect with the trunk of the car and Collins stomped the gas.
Haywood ejected the clip and pushed the slide back and pulled the pin. Collins parked around the back of the China Wok and they dropped the top half of the pistol in the dumpster. Waved goodbye to the bottom half behind the Circle K.
Parked in Roosevelt neighborhood and wiped the Lumina down and hoofed it to Brooke’s place on D Street. Haywood tossed his gloves on the endtable and adjusted to the smell. Collins dropped onto the couch and took a handful of Brooke’s ass in his big hand.
Brooke made dolls. Fabric on the floor/grey feathers floating like dust motes/sewing machine with a coffee stain down the side.
So many fucking cats.
Collins played several games of Pokemon on the television. Haywood sneezed.
After a time, Collins and Brooke retired to the air mattress in the back room and Haywood left the house wiping his eyes. Couldn’t quit the shaking in his hands and legs. Tried to walk it out.
He dipped into Hudson’s and bought a dark beer and finished it and got another. Breathed heavy and watched the foam form a divot and roll over the side of the glass.
The jukebox in the corner was quiet and if it started up on some bullshit he promised himself he’d break the glass in front of him.
A fat man in a button down shirt took pictures of himself with his phone. Haywood squinted at the flash. The man leaned over like he had a secret. “I’ve got ten cameras at home and I haven’t taken a single picture. The quality on these phones.”
He pouted his lips and held the camera out again. Face glowing bright white for a second. He checked the photo.
Haywood left his money on the bar and went home and went to sleep and when he woke did some yoga in his room and tried to forget about the violence of the previous night. Felt the burn in his legs and lungs. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran through it: the gun is gone, there are no prints, you won’t get a visit today.
He clocked in at the garage and got to work. Jacked up a Scion and changed the oil on a Civic and balanced and rotated tires and spoke to his co-workers with nods and glances.
The morning started off cool and overcast but by midday the sun was all up in his shit. He stepped around the building and lit a cigarette and drank some water and checked his phone and ignored the texts. The world tightening up.
He walked back into the heavy warmth of the garage and saw his boss talking to the owner of a Chevy Lumina. The customer pointed at the bullet holes in the car’s ass and Steve’s boss nodded and waved him over.
Haywood’s stomach was already pissed off at the heat and the cigarette. The woman looked at him and he felt the edges of his vision go white. Push it down.
Haywood’s boss clapped him on the shoulder. “Take care of her.”
Cleared his throat. “Where are the salesmen?”
The boss smiled and leaned in closer. “Take care of her, Steve.”
Haywood didn’t know what to do with his hands.
The woman said, “Some dickless fuck stole my car.”
Haywood nodded and stared at the blurry green cursive tattooed on her neck.
“I need someone to patch these up. I have insurance.”
“I’m Steve.” Held out his hand.
The customer took it. “Hello, Steve. I’m Louise.”
“Are the bullets still in it?”
She shook her head. “Cops pulled them out.”
Haywood knelt and grimaced at the damage. “Yeah, I can do this.”
He told the customer when she could pick her car up. Louise walked away. Haywood looked up at the sky and asked god if he thought he was funny, then started bonding and sealing the bullet holes in the blue Chevy Lumina.
Detective Alexander Janairo had been watching the Super Bowl alone in his apartment and was halfway through his box of beer when the halftime show came on and Beyonce began gyrating and growling at the camera. He’d resolved to watch the game alone and as usual he received nary a text to jingle in his pocket. He admired the video dancers behind the pop star, how they weaved in and out of the flesh and blood in front of them and the way the singer controlled everyone, the crowd holding up their cell phones below and the millions of people just like him, probably not alone at home, though, probably at a party with chips and salsa and beer and play-by-play peanut gallery nonsense. At the moment the creature with a name older than humankind shorted the power in the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, Janairo opened his lonely heart and Sasha Fierce moved through him. He got off his chair and went down to a bar and ordered a beer and chatted up women and men alike. He played darts and sang a song about quails at the top of his lungs and thrusted his crotch to knock wadded up napkins into the trashcans. “Kobe!” he shouted.
The detective awoke the next day without even the faintest hint of a hangover. He sang through the foam and spittle on his toothbrush and dressed to the nines. Standing before the big whiteboard in the office he saw the names in red not as indictments of his own failures, but pot
ential successes, mysteries that were waiting to be solved. His partner, Bob Rangitsch, surfed the web at his cubicle and nursed a Starbucks cup that Janairo could smell from where he was standing.
Normally the men did not speak, both of them content to be alone in their own miseries. But Janairo was full of the spirit: “How are the bird houses coming along?”
Rangitsch burned his tongue on the coffee. “They’re birdhouses. That’s for sure.”
Janairo drummed his fingers on his desk. “I’ll bet. Lots of hungry birds out there.”
Rangitsch sighed and said, “Eat a dick, Alex.”
Janairo tossed yesterday’s Far Side calendar page into a trashcan. “Kobe,” he whispered.
John Parks woke up and made a pot of coffee and put an ice cube in it and also a finger of bourbon. He checked the bite in his foot. The center of the wound had split open. He fought the urge to scratch it.
He shook out his steel-toed boots and pulled on his polyester shirt and met Baldwin at the river birch on McAllister. Shirt already plastered to his chest. Baldwin waved from high up in the dead tree, where he’d rigged a piece to fall. Parks grabbed the rope and Baldwin set to sawing. The section of trunk toppled and Parks slowed it to a crawl before it hit the brick in the backyard. He thought on that: Who needs a fucking brick backyard?
The old impulses welled up inside of him again. Break the window. Take what you can. Move to a different city. Used to be, when he’d run low on cash, he’d be completely fine with his life as it was, long as he had a little beer in his fridge. But once the hunger hit, that all went out the window. People made of leather ready to be opened and emptied.
Focus: dead tree. His boss made another cut and he untied the bowline and sent it back up the trunk.
Throat dry. Figured he’d have sweat the alcohol out by now.
He’d been doing the job for a few months, and Baldwin promised him over and over again that a raise was right around the corner. But there was always something to ensure that it never happened. His boss was a strange man: he was kind and patient with Parks’ constant fuck-ups, but he stubbornly refused to give even a little out of the way of his agreed-upon nine dollars an hour. If Parks forgot to bring water, Baldwin would not give him a bottle.
The tree fell and they hauled it to the trailer and drove it to the dump. The sweet smell of the mountain of trash churned Parks’ stomach and he tossed the logs in the pile and sat back in the cool A/C of the truck and wondered for the umpteenth time where his life had gone wrong.
He could see where Louise was coming from: the drinking was definitely a problem. He had texted her a few days ago, begging her to come back, and had received several hopeful responses. He’d cleaned up and prepared the house for her return and called his mother and told her that things were clearing up and that Louise would be back the next day. When he’d hung up he saw the text: no, it was final.
Then that box, that big step, then the beer.
He took a shower and tried to ignore the burning in his foot. He realized that he’d forgotten to throw away Louise’s effects from the rim of the tub: soaps and lotions and scrubs. He opened a coconut scented shampoo and held his head and cried.
His foot screamed. Peeking through the tears and the hot water violent against his face, he looked down and reeled backwards and fell out of the tub and onto the cold linoleum.
A spider wriggling its way through the bite in his foot. Long black legs tickling against his toes, then the fat black body. It scurried over the top of his foot and into the corner. And then another emerged. And another. He screamed as the spiders birthed from his wound and soldiered across his person and into the nearest dark corners they could find.
Branson Collins argued with some kid about Pokemon cards. They had them spread out over the table. Empty cans of Coors along either side.
Collins stabbed a meaty finger into the cards. “I evolved that bitch.”
The kid shook his head. Skin and bones and hatchet man tats. “You already attacked, son. You can’t do that shit after you attack.”
“I got these speciality cards.”
The kid sneered. “The fuck does that even mean.”
Haywood stepped up to the table and cracked his beer. “Guys, guys.” Pointed at a card in the middle of the melee. “See this one?”
Collins shrugged. “Yeah.”
“This one right here. It shows that you’re both fucking queer.”
Collins laughed hard. The kid just stared.
Haywood leaned on the table. “We need to talk.”
Collins folded his cards. “Alright.” To the kid: “Time to go, buddy.”
The kid threw his hands up. “The fuck.”
“I know.”
“We just got started.”
“Yeah, but it’s time to go.”
Hatchet Tats pushed away from the fold-out table violently. Gathered his cards and stuffed them in his backpack. “I’m taking my beer.” He picked up what was left of the 30-pack. Collins gave him a look. The kid set it down. Fished out a cold one. “I’m taking a beer.”
Slammed the door.
Collins collected his cards in a neat stack. “He’s a good kid.”
“Fucking spaz.”
“He is that. Didn’t wear his clown makeup today, though. Baby steps.”
Haywood told him about the woman. The car.
Collins leaned back and stretched out. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Yeah.”
Lit a cigarette. “But, I mean…so?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a trip.”
“It’s a small town.”
“Too small.”
Collins got up and grabbed a beer. “Not here for much longer.”
“I know.”
“The city.”
“The city.”
“What about Dallas?”
“What about Houston?”
“Houston, I could do for sure.”
“Once we sell to the Gutierrez crew, we’ll be good to go.”
Three months ago, Haywood had picked up a book from a local coffee shop about starting a small business. He’d paged through a chapter on franchising, the idea catching his attention: build something up, show that it’s profitable, and sell it to those with deep pockets. Collins took to the idea immediately. Formerly content to sell their cheap imports to red-faced meth addicts, they’d begun cornering markets: cocaine, weed, heroin. The big dealers from the big cities had no interest in taking a risk on a small town, but once they saw that a market was gift wrapped, they could take the monopoly and put their connections and their money behind it. No bodies on them. A healthy chunk of change in Collins’ and Haywood’s pockets.
Only a few loose ends, now.
Collins grabbed his laptop from his room and set it on the fold-out table. They smoked a little and watched videos online. Shots/lean/more shots. His phone kept ringing.
Finally they stopped ignoring the calls and opened the safe and loaded the car and made their deliveries and counted their cash. Back at the house Haywood opened the safe in the cubby he’d hollowed out in the floor and dropped the crumpled stacks onto the pile. He removed a large bag of 4fa and a bottle of Niacin capsules and twisted the pills and dumped the Niacin in a trash can and filled the caps with white powder.
Dropped the pills in with the money and shut the safe and locked it and replaced the wood panel and folded the carpet down.
Collins hopped online and made another order.
They left and locked the door and drove to Burger King and ordered their food and nodded at Wesley Hammond on the frier. He pushed his headset down and held up a finger like “one second.”
Old man pushing a mop/brats in the ball pit/a woman pumping ketchup into little paper cups and singing gospel to herself.
Hammond stood over them for a second and Collins held his hand out and the boy took a seat next to Haywood.
Collins dipped his fries in ranch. “You spit in this?”
Hammo
nd cackled high pitched. “Of course not.”
“We spoke to Jerry.”
Hammond cracked his knuckles. “Yeah.”
“Y’all take that money and quit it.”
“Jerry’s thinking.”
Jerry Isassi spent three years in prison for holding Israel Cole’s eyes open while his brothers raped Cole’s sister. Always waved his beer around and laughed when he told the story. Haywood didn’t know Cole well but after he shot himself even mention of Isassi’s name set him on edge.
Collins shrugged. “Tell him to think quicker, or it’s your ass.”
“Jerry-”
“I’m not talking about Jerry, now.”
Hammond went pale and adjusted his glasses. Took his hat off and ran his hand through his thick hair. “It’s the internet.”
“I know it.”
“It’s not like its a scarcity thing.”
“It’s a business and you two are fucking me right up the ass. I offered y’all a big sum. Take it and quit it.”
Hammond put his hat back on. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”
Collins frowned at his burger and lifted the bread. He lunged across the table. Quick for his size. Grabbed Hammond’s collar and yanked his jaw open and hocked a big one in the boy’s mouth.
Hammond puked on the floor. A manager shouted half-heartedly that she was calling the cops.
Collins knelt next to the boy. Careful to avoid the puke. “I don’t like doing shit like this. But Jerry needs to listen. I can only talk so much.”
Watching the kid cough and dry heave, the specks of vomit on his blue uniform, Haywood felt a little bad.
He dropped it and pushed out the door behind his friend into the hot night.
When they got home Collins watched a movie with Brooke. He looked up from the couch and waved and told him to sit down. He jumped up on the couch and pulled his pants down. Brooke sighed and started sucking his dick.
Haywood couldn’t figure why he liked it when he watched. But Collins was his friend and he liked to help.
Our Blood in Its Blind Circuit Page 8
