They looked on as a number of homeless men huddled around a garbage can – on fire – drinking cheap spirits – and as a gap-toothed homeless woman squatted to urinate.
“Festering body of Lazarus. What odious effluvium is this?” grunted Pumpkin Eater, expressing his displeasure.
Buddy pointed out a decaying building.
“Second floor, corner apartment. That’s where she lives.”
But before they could take another step, a group of rowdy gangbangers surrounded them, flashing weapons, demanding their possessions. It was just not the best idea to show up in this neighborhood on foot wearing fitted designer suits with matching ties and gleaming black leather Italian shoes.
Jon instinctively raised his hand in miracle mode but Pumpkin Eater grabbed it, stopping him.
“Don’t.” he said, throwing Jon a pointed facial expression meant to warn him against miracle dispensation.
Jon gave up his only 2 possessions. His switchblade and his credit card, but he made the mistake of including the credit card receipt for their new clothes. When the gangbangers realized just how much those clothes were worth, they demanded them as well.
Pumpkin Eater began to shed his attire, resigned to his fate. Jon and Buddy submitted shortly afterward, acting in accordance. Buddy, however, had no plans to give up his satchel, which carried his Polaroid and photos. As he undressed, pulling a tailored vest over his head, he adroitly slipped his fingers deep into his throat, causing himself to throw up – and he did so all over the satchel.
One of the gangbangers, the youngest, was ordered to check its contents anyway – and he did. The Polaroid, in the gangbangers’ eyes, was junk, much like a VCR is today. Buddy tossed his lunch for nothing.
Shoeless, and draped only in their undergarments, the trio snaked through the aisles of a budget-minded clothing store, haphazardly selecting modest pieces of apparel as they approached a checkout counter.
Once again, everybody was gawking, security personnel were deploying, small children were wailing and a toy breed of dog was snarling from the confines of its female owner’s purse.
Pumpkin Eater set his credit card down on the counter, proud that he had managed to conceal his from the thieves while Jon had not.
The cashier took the card, eyeing Pumpkin Eater suspiciously.
“I’m going to need to see some I.D., please.”
This happens all the time. Use a credit card in a high-end store to purchase high-end goods – no problem. But just try using one in a modest shop to purchase anything over fifty dollars and see what happens. Course, the act of walking into any shop clad only in your underwear creates a certain type of suspicion in its own right.
Jon and Pumpkin Eater exchanged glances. Now what?
“No choice, right?” offered Pumpkin Eater as a veiled way to suggest to Jon that they should take the items and make a run for it.
“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, then the answer is no. I will not flout the eighth commandment.”
“You enjoy parading around like Jim Palmer?”
“Who’s Jim Palmer?”
Before Mark Wahlberg made his Calvin Klein underwear debut in 1992, it was former Baltimore Oriole Ace pitcher, Jim Palmer, posing in Jockeys.
“A guy who’s making his living these days walking around looking a lot like us. Only handsome, and in much better shape.” explained Pumpkin Eater.
“I won’t do it. I will not violate my father’s ordinance.”
“Fine.”
Pumpkin Eater politely plucked his credit card back from the cashier’s grasp smiling apologetically all the way. Then, in one quick unexpected move, he snatched the clothing Jon was carrying, folded it into the bundle he was carrying and made a mad dash for an exit.
Chaos ensued, of course, as security personnel hurried after him, shouting for him to stop and as frightened shoppers knocked over clothing racks and other displays in their mad scramble to get out of the way.
Buddy, who was still holding his bundle of clothing, just stood there for a moment before finding Jon’s deer-in-headlights gaze. To this day, it’s unknown who broke first, but both of them disappeared, escaping through a rear exit.
Fusco pulled into his modest driveway, exiting his vehicle and grabbing his mail. He entered his living room and instinctively reached for his service revolver because somebody was standing there urinating all over his furniture.
“You! Freeze right there!”
Yves LaPomme turned to face him, still urinating.
“In a minute. I’m busy.”
And before he had a chance to do anything further about it, Fusco felt a cold piece of forged stainless steel pressing up against his larynx. A butterfly knife.
Fusco craned a look over his shoulder – way up – to see Atiu. Fusco dropped his weapon. Atiu gave him a sharp prod, forcing him further into the room as LaPomme zipped up.
“My apologies. I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee.”
Fusco nodded, responding back as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
“It’s a powerful diuretic. Worse than beer.”
“Yes, I think I’ve read a few studies on that.”
Atiu shoved Fusco down into a wet armchair.
“What’s this all about, fellas?”
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken the liberty to go through some of your things. Curiously, I found no evidence of female belongings, no clothing, no toiletries, yet there’s a frilly shower curtain and plenty of scented candles. Are you gay?” LaPomme asked.
“What?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“No.”
“Good. Homosexuality is such an unhealthy lifestyle.”
“Wait a minute, I know you. You’re that guy on the cover of Forbes.”
Atiu unexpectedly thrust his fist into Fusco’s gut – hard – sending Fusco jackknifing forward, eyes pinwheeling with pain.
“A word of caution. Atiu here doesn’t understand much English. He communicates by reading facial expressions. If I don’t look happy, for example, that makes him very angry. He’s also somewhat of an expert on human anatomy, knows how best to soothe and how best to cause discomfort. Extends from an ancient Polynesian practice that I can’t pronounce. Anyway, please keep those things in mind as we go along.”
Fusco was a tough-as-nails cop, but right now, he was intimidated. LaPomme found a dry place to sit, producing a pack of cigarettes.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Look, there’s something you should know. I’m a cop.”
Atiu took Fusco by the head, twisting it at an impossible angle. Fusco could barely get the following words out coherently.
“Wait. Maybe I should make you look happy.”
“That’s a good idea. Atiu likes it best when I look happy.”
“I’d love to try but it’s hard when I’m choking on my saliva.”
LaPomme motioned for Atiu to release Fusco. Atiu did but he never backed away, opting to continue to stand there ominously over Fusco. Fusco swiveled his neck as a way of checking on its health. This was going to require some extra strength Ibuprofen.
“Okay then, I’m guessing this has something to do with the whereabouts of an artifact.” Fusco offered.
“Did you see that? My lips just slanted upward in appreciation.”
LaPomme’s expression hadn’t changed at all.
“That’s nice. But at the risk of having them slant some other way, you’re confronting the wrong guy.”
“Funny. That’s not how your friend reads it.”
“You’ve spoken to Rogers?”
“He also mentioned, and quite emphatically I might add, that you have it in your possession.”
“He’s lying.”
Atiu poised for action.
“Wait. I’m telling you the truth, I don’t have it, I swear. It got lost in some alley.”
Atiu took Fusco by the hair, wrenching back his neck, plunging thumbs into Fu
sco’s eye sockets. The pain was excruciating.
“Allow me to translate for you what Atiu is trying to say. He doesn’t believe you’re telling me the truth. He thinks you’re lying, trying to keep me blind, if you will. And now, in retaliation, he’s going to blind you.”
“Please! I’m not lying, I don’t have it, but I can track it down, I’ve got the resources, just give me some time!”
LaPomme lit his cigarette, deliberating, taking all the time in the world. He finally chin-tilted in Atiu’s direction – a signal for Atiu to let Fusco go. Atiu obeyed, grunting his displeasure before doing so. Fusco came up blinking furiously, checking on the condition of his eyes, hoping they weren’t damaged.
“Atiu is a suspicious man, completely distrustful of others… not at all like me. You have sixty hours… that’s two and a half days. I’ll be unable to guarantee the quality of your eyesight beyond that time frame.” LaPomme warned. “Among other things. Am I making myself clear?”
Fusco nodded, watching as LaPomme’s eyes seemed to glow for a second. Like, actually glow. It was eerie. Demonic.
LaPomme ground his cigarette out on the coffee table, leaving without saying another word. Atiu kicked in the television set’s screen before disappearing after him.
Fusco took a moment to gather himself, then grabbed the phone.
Wet, upscale hotel suite furniture. A shattered TV set. Rogers and his bruised face were hastily packing a suitcase as his cell phone rang. An old school cell phone, the type that looked like a brick.
“Hello?”
It was Fusco on the other end.
“What the hell are you doing, telling them I had that artifact?”
“They’ve contacted you already?”
“They just left, why the fuck do you think I’m calling?”
“I left you a message – warning you. That’s why I thought you were calling.”
“Ok, I see my answering machine’s light is blinking, but I didn’t exactly have time to check messages.”
“Look, I’m sorry for involving you but I couldn’t come up with anything else. I have trouble concentrating when I’m in pain, that’s always been a problem for me.”
“You’re a fucking asshole. How’re you going to fix this?”
“You have to find that key.”
“Me?”
“Do you have any idea who Yves LaPomme is? He snaps his fingers, you disappear.”
“Listen you piece of shit, you’re getting me out of this. Call him.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? You’re in this now. Do yourself a favor and track down that key. Make preparations to leave the country in case you can’t find it. Some place far and not very well civilized, he has people everywhere. And do it as secretly as possible because someone will be watching.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“We’re all dead if he ever gets his hands on that key. But I have a plan.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He’s got the box. I’m going to try to steal it.”
“Look, you moron, this isn’t about your asinine delusions anymore, this is about my fucking life.”
“You’ve been warned.”
Rogers hung up and exited the room.
The key fit smoothly in the lock despite the lock’s corroded appearance. Jon swung open the door to reveal a dreary one room apartment furnished with peeling paint, moldy water stains and landfill décor.
Pumpkin Eater and Buddy stood there out in the hall for a moment with Jon, all three of them modestly dressed now and taking it all in. This was their new home.
“Insipid dungeons of Caesar.” griped Pumpkin Eater, who wore a T-shirt that read, I’m With Stupid, complete with arrow that was directed at Jon from an onlooker’s vantage point.
Jon ignored him, entering the room, crossing for the window, drawing open the curtains. Across the street was a perfect view of Grace’s apartment. It didn’t appear that she was home, but there was a large breed of dog sitting at her window, staring out.
“Hey, check it out, there’s a mint on the pillow.” Buddy said as he moved to investigate. It was a dead cockroach.
Grace sat in a health clinic’s examination room eating a double cheeseburger, grease filtering down her chin. A very young looking male doctor entered, surprised to find her eating. She met his gaze, her eyes drifting down, taking in the entire package.
“I’m sorry, you’re not allowed to bring food in here.” advised the doctor.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How many trips around the sun have you taken?”
The doctor ignored her question, directing his eyes to the chart he was carrying.
“You’re complaining of stomach pain, intestinal cramps, loose stools, insatiable appetite… and dry heaving.”
“Look, kid. Get back out there and ask a real doctor to walk in here. We’ll continue our chat after you earn your high school diploma.”
“I earned that by the time I was thirteen, lady. Now I own a thriving private practice in Sherman Oaks. The only reason I’m here is because I volunteer my valuable time to help ungrateful people like you with no insurance. You don’t like what you see, I’ll get you someone less qualified.”
“Wait… this digestive thing, I have a friend who thinks it might be something viral.”
“Is your friend a doctor?”
“He’s a cop.”
The doctor pointed out the paper gown that she had failed to change into.
“If you want a doctor’s opinion, you’re going to have to put that on. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Jon sat by the window, briefcase by his side, keeping vigil over Grace’s apartment as he whittled away on a piece of wood with a kitchen knife. He knew she wasn’t home because no lights were on over there. Down below in the streets, the usual neighborhood activities were taking place. A garbage can on fire, people drinking and getting high on drugs – the same gap-toothed woman urinating.
A young mother, burdened with pregnancy rummaged through a garbage bin, two small children with her, helping their mom sift trash. The entire exhibition just broke Jon’s heart.
He had just finished whittling his newest creation – an impressive looking abacus. He counted the number of people down below, consulting his abacus afterward, whispering softly to himself as he thumbed beads.
“Eighteen people, two loaves of bread each… nine. No, that can’t be correct. Eighteen people, two loaves of bread each… one hundred and forty four. Hmm… could that be right?”
Buddy wheezed and snuffled, sound asleep on a stained couch as Jon continued his mental exercise. Pumpkin Eater tossed around on the bed, eventually waking up because the mattress coils were digging into his back.
“This is impossible.” Pumpkin Eater declared, sitting up in bed. “Have you slept yet?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to?”
“Soon… What happened, Peter? What caused you to become so cynical?”
“I work the gate.”
“You work the gate. That’s your answer?”
“Visit for once and you’d understand.”
“I haven’t visited because I take exception to your methods. You can’t simply reduce people down to a single number. Sometimes there are mitigating circumstances.”
“Oh, and I have the time to deal with qualitative measures, do I? In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a population explosion burgeoning in Dogflat Hollow. My workload hasn’t only increased a millionfold, it’s gotten overly complicated because of you.”
“Me?”
“If the sandal fits, Pinky Boy.”
“What did I do?”
“You’re not going to retaliate? Call me Pumpkin Eater?”
“I’ll turn the other cheek for now.”
“You cast the deciding vote to abolish Purgatory without even an ounce of consideration for me. Once upon a time, they’d arrive at the gate, purged of their sins, no guesswork. Now, I have to
assign demerits to an endless array of transgressions. And it doesn’t end there, believe me. You have no idea the repercussions you’ve caused.”
Jon shook his head. As long as he lived, he’d never understand Pumpkin Eater. Never.
To offer full disclosure, Purgatory was a state of final purification for those not evil enough to enter Tartaros, but not righteous enough to enter Ouranos. After an undetermined period of suffering, the elect would become sanitized of their sins and be granted entrance into Ouranos.
The Vatican’s official position as of this writing remains that Purgatory is real and continues to exist. They abolished Limbo in 2007 however, which was believed to be a permanent status and/or location that existed somewhere outside Ouranos and Tartaros, and was used to house those not baptized who died in infancy. For eternity.
According to an unidentified spirit medium who claimed to be in regular contact with someone from Ouranos and spoke in anonymity, Limbo had been abolished in Ouranos since 1007, a full one thousand years before the Vatican decreed it defunct so it’s likely we’ll need to wait another thousand years or so for news about Purgatory to arrive.
“You’re wrong about her, Peter.” Jon said.
“Shall we strike a wager on that?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“When you lose, I’ll expect a formal apology and a firm reversal of your Purgatory vote. And, you’ll distribute an edict throughout our metropolis demanding that people never refer to me as Pumpkin Eater ever again.”
“Fine. But if you’re mistaken, you’ll modernize the gate and implement an equitable, unbiased system based solely on qualitative research. And, you’ll distribute halos only. No more of those cheap plastic harps.”
“Agreed.” Pumpkin Eater belted out confidently.
They shook hands to make it official.
Jon dug into his pocket and produced the one thing he managed to keep hidden from the gangbangers – the strand of Grace’s hair that had tangled around his finger back in the alley. He offered it up to Pumpkin Eater.
“Here. It’s one of hers. Tell me why she’s so bad.”
The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow Page 5
