Suckers

by Z. Rider

  Ray shut off the engine. “Let’s case the men’s room first.”

  “You don’t think that’s strange?” Moss pulled himself forward by Dan’s headrest. “We walk in the door and head straight for the restroom?”

  “I’ve gotta piss anyway. If you don’t, just go grab a seat.”

  Dan was coming in separately, so he wouldn’t look like he was with them. He rubbed the door handle with his thumb, anxious to get this going, to sit at a table with a coffee and wait for nothing.

  Another car pulled in, headlights splashing their hood. It swept into a spot closer to the restaurant. Dan rubbed the door handle.

  “All right,” Ray said. “You want to go first or should we?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t forget the shirt,” Ray said to Moss as they got out. Ray put an unlit cigarette between his lips, stopping to light it before pushing his door closed. They walked around to the trunk, the trunk lid came up. After half a minute, it slammed shut. Ray and Moss headed toward the restaurant, the cigarette dangling from Ray’s lips. Moss had pulled the scrubs on over his t-shirt, then slipped his jacket on over that. The light blue tail hung below his jacket.

  Dan rested his head back and closed his eyes. The buzzing was there, his old nemesis, humming away. A headache tightened his skull. This so wasn’t going to fucking work. He was going to end up in a hospital by the end of the week.

  That frightened the shit out of him.

  The more they put it off, the less he wanted to end up there. He was having nightmares about it—strapped to a bed with those tan restraints, never allowed to see anyone he knew. They’d put a mask over his face, like Hannibal’s, turn him into a freak.

  He hummed under his breath, marking time, tapping the armrest. If the tune had words, they’d have been “I’m fucked, I’m fucked, we’re all fucked. We’re fucked.”

  Dan stepped out of the car and slid his sunglasses on, despite the dark. When he came through the door, the hostess was already pulling a menu out. “One?”

  He scanned the seating area, spotted the back of Moss’s head—hard to miss. “Someplace over there.” He nodded in their direction.

  She seated him two tables away. He risked one look, met Moss’s eyes, then languidly flipped open the menu.

  Nothing looked good.

  When the waitress came, he ordered coffee and pie.

  When she delivered the slice of pie on a plate, he waited until she turned away before pushing it to the side. The sight made his guts twist, cherry filling oozing out like horror show gore. The coffee was tolerable, if a little bitter. It kept him focused. Everything was already hyper-reality for him; the coffee just gave it that little extra edge.

  He cupped his hands around the mug and stared at nothing from behind his sunglasses.

  Ray and Moss weren’t talking. The waitress brought them food—burgers, fries, Cokes. Dan checked his watch. The meeting wasn’t for another twenty minutes. He put down another swallow of coffee.

  Time dragged on.

  Every time the door opened, he flicked his gaze toward it. An older couple came in. A trio of teenage girls. Another old guy, by himself, a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. He unrolled it as soon as the hostess left him.

  A rivulet of sweat trickled down Dan’s ribs. It wasn’t the jacket but the discomfort. The bees taking interest in the people around him. The buzzing and waiting. He took down another swallow of coffee.

  The doors opened.

  Two guys in their early twenties shuffled in, glances darting toward the dining room. The tall, round-shouldered one nodded at the hostess, not meeting her eye. His face turned, gaze passing over Dan seated alone at a table—wasn’t what he was looking for. The shock of black-dyed hair over his puffy face made him look like he’d been drained of blood already. His friend, a skinny guy with a sharp nose and a black trench coat that fit his shoulders like they would a hanger, stepped on the back of the other guy’s beat-up sneaker as the hostess led them to a table.

  Dan slid his gaze toward Moss in his light blue smock, the orange paramedic bag on the seat beside him. He could pass for a nurse just off work—Dan hoped. Ray still had his jacket on, his hair, as usual, unkempt. He caught Dan’s eye with a nod before sliding a look back at the newcomers.

  The guys slid into a booth, flipped open menus on the table.

  As soon as the hostess walked off, they started glancing around again, trying to be casual about it. The taller one, catching sight of Moss, nodded. The skinny guy looked, then they looked at each other.

  Ray and Moss ignored them.

  The guys leaned toward each other, talking, eyeing his guys. One slanted his head toward the booth, as if saying, Go on. Go see.

  The skinny guy flattened his hands on the table and started to get up. A waitress headed their way. He sat back down. As far as Dan could tell, they ordered sodas, nothing else. As she walked off, the skinny guy got up and grabbed the shoulder of the other guy’s jacket. Dan could only imagine the expression on his face. Maybe he was mouthing, Come on. His eyes bulging a little. Come on, come on.

  They crossed the dining area.

  Ray, though he’d made no sign he’d seen them coming, moved closer to the wall as they approached. Moss looked over, picked up his bag, and slid over too.

  “Sit down. Relax.” Ray dipped a French fry in a puddle of ketchup. “Try not to make this look like a fucking drug deal, all right?”

  The skinny guy slid in beside Moss, the round-shouldered one next to Ray.

  Dan tuned out the rest of the restaurant.

  “So which one of you’s the vampire?”

  Moss pointed in his direction, Dan half watching the table, half watching the cup of coffee between his hands. The guy who’d spoken turned in his seat to get a look.

  “You could just be saying that,” he said. “How do we know you even know that guy?”

  Ray said, “Yo, Freddy.”

  Dan pointed the dark lenses of his sunglasses at Ray.

  “Shit,” the big guy said, his voice edgy with excitement.

  “Is he okay?” the other one asked.

  “He’s feeling a little low at the moment,” Ray said. “That’s why you guys are here.”

  “Nu-uh,” the skinny guy said. “Not me, just him.”

  “Where are we gonna do it?” the other guy asked.

  “Here,” Ray said. “There.” He nodded at the restrooms. “After I finish my Coke. That okay? You guys want anything to eat? Or maybe you should wait till after.”

  “How—how much are you going to take?”

  Ray let Moss field that one. “Less than the Red Cross does.” They were aiming for half that, but the bottles were marked all the way to Red Cross levels, in case after this first time they felt like they could get away with that.

  “So, what, like half a pint or something?” the big guy said.

  Moss nodded.

  “And he’s really…?”

  “In bad shape,” Ray said. “Let’s get it done.” He ushered the guy out of the booth. The little guy and Moss slid out their side. As Ray pulled bills out of his wallet, he said to the little guy, “Maybe you should hang back here—it might be suspicious, all of us walking in there together.”

  “I’m his back-up man. He’s not going in there without me.”

  Dan looked back down at his coffee, listened to Ray saying, “Let’s get it done, then.” They brushed past him, Ray knocking his knuckles on Dan’s table on his way by. He turned his eyes up to watch them head past the hostess station and into the restroom alcove.

  “Top that off for you?” his waitress asked, coming up from behind with a carafe of coffee.

  “No, I’m done. Thanks.”

  She set the pot down to fish his check out of her apron. “I’ll just leave this with you then.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stood and left a ten on top of the check before making his way to the men’s room.

  At the door, he stopped, made sur
e no one was watching, and rapped quickly. It opened, and Ray pulled him in.

  “I can’t watch,” the skinny guy was saying, pacing away from the stall where his friend was seated on the toilet, the needle already in his arm, blood running down the tube into the glass bottle.

  Dan’s head swam.

  “You all right?” Ray asked, right behind him.

  He nodded, up and down jerks. He closed his eyes and turned away, arms crossed, fingers pushed into his armpits. Just a few minutes. Just a few fucking minutes. Then they’d know if this “fresh blood” idea had any merit, though if nothing else, it’d at least take some pressure off Ray as the single donor.

  “What if someone comes in?” the big guy asked.

  Moss shifted closer in the stall and swung the door shut.

  “Yeah, ’cause nobody’s gonna notice four size-fourteen feet in there.” Ray leaned against the restroom’s main door, holding it closed.

  Dan grasped a sink and bent his head. Holding himself together. It was worse, being in this small room with the blood right there.

  “Hey, I can see you in the mirror,” the little guy said.

  “You watch too many fucking movies,” Ray said. “And I need a fucking cigarette.” He rummaged in his pocket for his pack.

  Dan kept his head down, concentrating on keeping hold of himself. Something was coiled inside him, ready to burst right through his guts, take him over. It was still being patient, but for how much longer?

  “You okay in there, Vin?” the skinny guy asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you gonna drink it right in front of us?”

  “Watch it,” Ray said. “He’ll drink it right out of where your head used to be if you get any closer.”

  “I want to watch,” Vin called from the stall.

  “I don’t,” said the skinny guy.

  The bathroom door bumped Ray’s shoulder. Dan turned the faucet on and pushed his hands under the stream as Ray stepped away, saying, “Oh, hey, sorry about that,” louder than he needed to.

  The skinny guy whipped toward the urinals with his hands on his belt buckle like he’d just finished.

  Dan turned his hands under the water, listening to the newcomer move past, unzip his fly.

  Ray said, “Yeah, so like I was saying, we should be in Chicopee in, what, another hour? Hour and a half?”

  “Something like that,” Dan said slowly.

  The skinny guy snuck a look at him, probably thinking, He talks. Personally, Dan liked this whole thing better when he didn’t talk. He withdrew his hands and turned the tap off. Shook them out. Stepped over to the nearest blow dryer and punched the button with his elbow.

  Moss and Vin were being admirably quiet in the stall.

  A public restroom was a stupid place to do this. They needed ten minutes of privacy to get the fucking blood.

  The door bumped open again. Now there were two strangers in the restroom, one stepping up to the urinals and the other walking away from them, heading for the door without bothering to wash his hands.

  “Almost done,” Moss said, probably thinking the door opening had been their visitor leaving.

  Dan caught white flashing in Ray’s eyes, but Ray’s voice didn’t betray it: “Take your time. No rush. We can wait.”

  “Y-yeah,” said the skinny guy. “We can wait. Really.”

  Ray’s gaze traveled sideways to the skinny guy.

  The second stranger stopped to not wash but scrub his hands. Time ticked by. Dan shifted his feet. Finally the guy moved to the hand dryer.

  “So you guys are going to Chicopee?” the skinny guy asked. He didn’t seem to know where to put his hands—front pockets, back pockets, coat pockets.

  “No,” Dan said.

  “Oh.”

  The second stranger finally headed out the door.

  Ray pushed it shut behind him, shoved his foot against the bottom. “Coast’s clear, but let’s make it quick.”

  The stall door swung open. Moss handed the bottle to Dan, full to the one-cup mark, its sides hot where the blood was. His face was passive but tight, like he wanted to say something, and Dan was sure he would once he got the chance.

  Vin had one pasty arm out of his coat, his elbow crooked to keep pressure on the cotton ball. Moss gave a small shake of his head and started putting everything back in his kit.

  Dan swung away from the stall, putting the opening of the bottle against his lips and tipping his head back, swallowing and swallowing with his eyes closed. Silencing the fucking nervousness, feeding the engine-hum of bees in his belly.

  “Holy shit,” the skinny guy said in an awed voice.

  With two-thirds gone, Dan lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cap,” he said.

  Ray got it from Moss. As Dan passed him the bottle, Ray’s eyes searched for something, some confirmation that it had worked—not the blood, but the plan. Dan gave a ghost of a nod. The corners of Ray’s mouth creased upward as he capped the bottle. He handed it to Moss, who tucked in in the bag.

  “That’s off the fucking hook,” the skinny guy said. “Completely off the fucking hook. Can I try some?”

  Moss zipped the bag shut. “If you want to end up on a slab with the coroner scratching his head over how someone else’s blood got in your stomach.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Probably not really, Dan thought, but the reality wouldn’t be a whole lot of fun either.

  “Ready?” Ray asked Dan.

  Wiping his mouth again, he nodded. His hand came back clean. He took a quick look in the mirror, making sure he didn’t have blood smeared on his face. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

  “Thanks, guy.” Ray unfolded his wallet, handed Vin some bills. “Get yourself something to eat. The fries here are good.”

  “So that’s it?” the skinny guy asked.

  “Unless you want to donate to the cause too.”

  “Unh-uh. I’m not good with needles.”

  “Well that’s it, then. Thanks again.”

  “Thanks,” Dan said before following Moss out the restroom door. They headed straight out the front doors and into the parking lot while Vin and his friend lingered inside, probably debating whether to stay and eat.

  On the way to the car, Dan said, “I’ll drive.”

  “You sure?”

  “I feel good.”

  “What I like to hear.” Ray tossed him the keys.

  As he cranked the engine, Dan said, “How about you, Moss?” He flicked his gaze to the rearview. “You doing okay?”

  “A restaurant bathroom is a stupid fucking place to do this.”

  Dan nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the morning, with the motel room’s curtains blocking the sunlight and Moss snoring on one of the two double beds, Dan fished the bottle of blood out of the bag and cranked the cap off.

  “Already?” Ray asked, coming out of the bathroom.

  “I don’t need it, but I wouldn’t mind bringing myself back up to normal levels again.” The hum in the base of his skull was a mosquito, almost not worth worrying about. The hangover from the cheap wine they’d killed after leaving Vin and his friend, however, ramped down his tolerance for even mosquitos. Sniffing at the opening, he wrinkled his nose and turned his face away. “Maybe it’s too early for this shit.” After another quick sniff, he fastened the cap back on.

  The smell of stale cigarettes lingered. Had Ray lit a few while they were toasted? He couldn’t remember for sure.

  Maybe.

  Maybe he remembered Ray leaning against the wall beside the window. Maybe the window’d been cracked a couple inches.

  The smell made him kind of green. “I think I just need to spend some time with my head between my knees.” He shuffled past Ray, into the bathroom, where the tile floor was cool under his toes. Brushing his teeth, he decided the headache was just a hangover, not the usual harbinger of hell
. He pulled himself upright and got into the shower to let steaming water pound the back of his neck.

  When he came back out with wet hair and yesterday’s jeans hanging from his hips, Ray had the laptop they’d brought open on the bed, rubbing his mouth while he read the screen. Already he looked a little better. Pinker-cheeked. More fleshed out. Maybe it was the light.

  When Dan fished a t-shirt from the floor, Ray looked up. “Got a few more possibilities in the works.”

  “Yeah? Where’d Moss go?” Dan asked.

  “Out in the parking lot calling Deb.”

  Dan pulled the shirt on. “Anything look good?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe.” He hunched and typed, one finger from each hand. “Maybe.”

  They got back on the road after lunch—soup, crackers, and ginger ale for Dan. He felt marginally better after eating.

  Moss tried his wife again from the back seat; he’d missed her earlier. Dan let his eyes slip shut and gave in to the drone of the road as Moss made things up about their so-called acoustic tour of indie record stores, just the three of them. “Uneventful,” Moss said. “Not a big crowd, but a good one at least.”

  Dan felt like shit, but it was an existential shit feeling, not a physical one.

  From Providence they headed west. The next stop was just over the New York border, a town on the Hudson. The three-and-a-half-hour drive put them there a little past four in the afternoon. Nothing to do but check into the motel and sit around.

  Moss turned on the TV.

  Ray said, “Fuck this,” around an unlit cigarette, pocketed one of the keycards, and went outside to smoke.

  Dan, sitting on the end of one of the beds, dropped backward, laying his hands one on top of the other on his chest.

  “You hear that?” Moss said.

  “Huh?”

  “Gonna rain tonight.”

  Dan stared at the ceiling.

  A thump against the windows brought him up quickly.