Disintegration: A Windy City Dark Mystery

by Richard Thomas

  Chapter 13

  “…and Robbie, well you know twins, they either totally agree, or don’t agree at all. He wants macaroni and cheese…”

  Chapter 14

  It’s dark now, and I’m ready to take a ride. I pull on my leather coat and zip it up. I’ll bring no weapons tonight but my bare hands. I shrug my shoulders. Sore. Whether it’s the remnants of Happy or the sixty push-ups I banged out today, I don’t know. Don’t care. I laugh. It’s an inside joke.

  I decide to do something different tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Holly, so I decide on the artificial. I toss back two Happy pills and finish them off with the last frosty swallow of my beer. I’m not driving. I lean over the large black trash bag that squats at my feet and drop the can into it. A metallic clank, and I tie the red ribbons shut.

  “Crap. Gotta empty this, now.”

  I wander back to the kitchen and prop open the window. Yanking open the cabinet I stare at five hundred cans of cat food. Things just show up sometimes. Part of the deal, the payments. A scratch at my door, and seventy-two rolls of toilet paper. A thump in the hall and a case of Jim Beam. A whisper in my ear and a pallet of cat food. I tear open Super Supper and dump it into one of two bowls I own and set it on the floor. I grab the other brown ceramic bowl, fill it with tap water, and place it next to the other. They sit under the window, so I won’t trip over them later. So many nights I’ve stumbled into this kitchen only to impale myself on the sawhorse monstrosity.

  Back to the door, and I pick up the trash. Opening it I head out into the hall. I have neighbors.

  Next door, Guy. #2F. Big fat slob of a man. Never seen him leave. I think he deals drugs. The sickly sweet smell of pot constantly oozes from under his door. I’ve heard he has books piled up to the ceiling. If I ever have the desire to get stoned and read some William Burroughs, I’ll bang on his door.

  Downstairs. Whole first floor. Nice young alternative couple. Pale, black hair, tats and piercings. She’s pinup-girl hot, and he’s freaky, skinny strange. The usual around here. He must have a huge cock. And I think she brings a girlfriend home now and then. Youth.

  Up top. #3R. Right above me. French girl. Paulina. We’ve passed in the hall. Well rounded and shy. I think she’s a nurse. I could fall asleep in her cleavage. From her screams and stomping around, I figure there must be a boyfriend back in Nice. Her eyes wander. I may have to borrow some sugar.

  #3F. No idea. Another ghost. I smell curry now and then. The mailbox only says Avinash. I don’t know if that’s a man or a woman, a first name or last.

  Down the steps, sixty-four of them. I count them every time. In my childhood, I would do the same thing, at water fountains, I think. Sipping cold water and counting the swallows. I don’t know why.

  Keys at the front door and voices. Vlad. And somebody else. I stop.

  “I’m telling you, Officer,” he says in an especially loud voice. “Not him, no way. He’s only been here for six months, not three years.”

  I turn around like I’m sneaking out of my parents’ house. Past their bedroom and their brass bed, high as a kite, on tippy-toes. Back up the stairs and I skitter down the hall.

  “No, I’d say more like six foot two, one eighty, not six feet, two twenty. And definitely not blond hair.”

  They keep on coming as I head to the back door, pushing it open and I’m down the back stairs, praying I don’t bang the bag of crushed aluminum and alert them to my flight. Faster and faster around and around I go. It can’t be me. The van?

  Heading out the back door, for a split second I can still hear them. The door at the top of the stairs is open, and right before the door at the bottom closes shut, right before it seals the voices out, I hear one thing.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, sir. He’s been missing….”

  And the door clicks shut. I’m out the back, down three steps, and across the cement path to the back alley. I deposit the black trash bag into an open dumpster and head north toward Division. A bus to catch. Back over to the 21 south on Milwaukee. Down to Fulton Market.

  What was that about?

  Chapter 15

  I can see the 21 coming from across the tiny plaza where Division, Milwaukee, and Ashland meet. Happy is kicking in, tracers flying off the back of the bus, and I realize I’m not moving. I thud down the sidewalk, eastbound toward the corner. I have to beat it to the stop. It catches the red light at Ashland, and I’m going to make it. Slowing down I glance down the street toward my apartment, and two white cop cars are sitting out front. Nobody is looking this way, nobody on the street.

  The bus eases up to me, hissing like a long white snake, its belly filled with mice and lizards, hot air whooshing out as the doors spread open. I stare at the driver and start to giggle. He’s a huge guy, oozing over the seat, his tan uniform bursting at the seams. For a moment when he opens his mouth, I think he’s Jabba the Hutt.

  “There will be no bargain, young Jedi. I shall enjoy watching you die.”

  “What?”

  “Before I die? Come on, son.”

  I step on board and slide my pass into the slot. These show up too. Different-colored envelope. Definitely not yellow.

  I head to the back, the way back, and sit down in the middle of the very last row. We cruise south on Milwaukee, right past my building. Just in time to see Vlad walk outside, shrugging his shoulders, his hands in the air. I can’t look away, though I know that I should. The two cops stand there, with their thumbs in their belt loops, looking around with long, sour faces. I catch Vlad’s eyes for a second, and a smile creeps across his face. He sees me. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy. For a gunrunning, drug-dealing, slave-trading Russkie.

  Chapter 16

  The streetlights are too much for me, a black hole imploding, a sunspot on my brain. Every long black coat is a nest of vipers, squirming under their woolen topcoats, alligator faces under tight knit caps.

  “Damn.”

  I close my eyes for a second. I have fourteen stops until I get to Fulton. At ten seconds per stop that’s almost two minutes. I’m hedging my bets on the conservative side, so I can find some peace for the count to 140. I close my eyes knowing I won’t miss it. I start counting.

  One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…

  Chapter 17

  “…he wants macaroni and cheese, so we’re going to hit the grocery store real quick. I’ll get you some Ben & Jerry’s, sweetheart…”

  Chapter 18

  I have my suspicions, what these clients have done, but I never ask. Let God sort them out. They creep into my head at every quiet moment, clawing their way into my skull whenever I let down my guard. The brakes hiss and I am gently jostled, but I keep my eyes closed tight, gripping my knees as if dangling off the edge of a bridge. In many ways, I am.

  Eighteen Mississippi…nineteen Mississippi…twenty Mississippi…

  Wherever I find them, they reveal themselves. At home, sitting in a dark kitchen, a solitary glow from over the brushed metal sink. A glass of clear liquid in their hands with a lime wedge floating listlessly amongst fractured cubes of ice. The hangdog face and dark circles under the eyes. The tie loosened, alone in the night, welcoming me as I come to take them away.

  Thirty-five Mississippi…thirty-six Mississippi…thirty-seven Mississippi…

  Sometimes they run. Those are the ones I find out in the dive bars, the sex clubs, the dark reflections in the night. They are always looking over their shoulders, because the evil of their acts is like a black halo ringing their heads, neon flashing VACANCY, broken burnt-out letters, incomplete. They feel exposed at all times so they try to hide in plain sight, hoping that when the lightning strikes they are not the tallest mangled oak, not the only fence post standing in a field of broken cornstalks. Amidst other sinners and pederasts they pray they are not the worst.

  Fifty-four Mississippi…fifty-five Mississippi…fifty-six Mississippi…

  A bump at my shoulder and mumbled apolo
gies, but I still wallow in the chase, the hunt, the capture, and the swift retribution that I dole out without pause. Every client has been a man so far, and for that I am grateful. But the day will come when my assignment is a woman. It already scratches on the windowpane, its claws extended, this beast I run with, that I cannot tame or ignore. It will be soon, too soon, but not tonight. Tonight it will be erasure, one less murderer, the irony never lost on me, one less rapist or pedophile. They are all deserving and equally void.

  Seventy-two Mississippi…seventy-three Mississippi…seventy-four Mississippi…

  It’s surprisingly easy to get up close to them. But I don’t work in public, I don’t give them that quiet exit. It’s personal to me, and because of that I need time alone with them. I need to look them in the eyes, to make sure that they know they have been revealed. That this isn’t chance or bad luck or coincidence. This is a planned action, the exact result of their animal urges, and while I’m a kindred spirit in many ways, I have come for them specifically, and they will not escape. I could slide an ice pick in between the sixth and seventh rib, and pierce their heart while they still laughed at the joke they just told, dying in the night air, cackles and chortles all around. I could place the tip of a gun in their ear and pull the trigger while their eyes shine in the rearview mirror, words still forming in their throat, disbelieving. But I don’t. This is my choice.

  Ninety-two Mississippi…ninety-three Mississippi…ninety-four Mississippi…

  I never speak to them. Not one single word. I don’t dignify their existence with any sort of palaver. They do not deserve my ear, or one minute more. But they speak anyway. They beg for forgiveness, they search for an explanation, a past as sordid as the one they created for others, broken homes and repressed memories, their reasoning nothing more than an annoying screech of chalk on a blackboard, and when it turns to fingernails, scraping the surface in a high-pitched whine, the world disappears and my hands find their neck. With every flexed muscle and knot of tension, the screams of my children fill my ears.

  One hundred nine…one hundred ten…one hundred eleven…

  Tonight will be no different. His face swims into focus, the pale skin, wild white hair shooting out in all directions, the mask on his face filled with teeth and laughter, a drink in his hand as if the party just started and it will never end. He looks like a pedophile to me, possibly little boys, stopping at his door in a soccer uniform, or maybe in full Boy Scout regalia, badges earned, displayed proudly. No mother behind them, watching out for this wolf in sheep’s clothing, because they’re big boys now, and embarrassed by such nonsense. Just stepping inside for a glass of iced tea in the summer, the tall thin man no immediate threat. The offer of hot chocolate, declarations of freezing weather received by rosy-cheeked nodding little faces in the wintertime.

  One thirty-eight…one thirty-nine…one forty.

  Eyes still closed, my hand reaches out and grabs the line, yanking hard. A bell chimes across the horizontal cavity of the bus and it lurches to the right. My eyes shoot open and for one moment I am encased in white, the brightness blinding me, echoes on the wind.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, son?”

  In the span of one hundred and forty seconds I have transformed once again. I spill out of the seat, and to the back door of the hissing white beast, the crisp night air filling my lungs as I disappear down the street. The metal spits out exhaust, hardly pausing, not a single head raised or any eyes to my back as I slip down the concrete sidewalk, a ghost in the night. A dog barks in the distance. Back on Milwaukee Avenue cars roll by, streams of light, red carcasses sliding away from me, out of sight but movement at the edge of my periphery. There is plenty of life out here. Hands shoved into my coat pockets, my eyes are filled with rage, the laughter of a circus clown echoing in the alleyways between the tiny houses, the brick apartment buildings, the long warehouses that extend away from me. And I can already feel my hands on his neck.

  Chapter 19

  “…I’ll get you some Ben & Jerry’s, sweetheart, New York Super Fudge Chunk. I have the cellphone, call me if you get home before we do…”

  Chapter 20

  I pull my hands out of my coat pockets and blow on them. Habit. I’m not that cold. A flutter of white falls to the street, an old wrinkled receipt, with several items on it:

  Walter E. Smithe

  Furniture Store

  “You Dream It. We build it.”

  Espresso Dining Table $899.00

  High-back Dining Chairs (6) $720.00

  Southern Enterprises Armoire $1200.00

  Valencia Dresser $799.00

  Cars line both sides of the street, a mixed bag of aging Camrys, new Beamers, and SUVs of every possible make and model. I kick the black BMW as I pass it, for old times’ sake, shattering the taillight. Maybe he won’t notice later, and when he’s driving home hammered, some bored cop will. A guy can dream, can’t he?

  The closer I get to the address, the more noise I hear. Car doors open and close. Pockets of people lean against brick walls, inhaling cigarettes and groping each other in the shadows, laughing all the while. A wide metal door with rounded-off rivets opens, and out spill two young women in torn wedding dresses, heavy black raccoon eyeliner, and combat boots. Fuck. 2139, that’s the address. He’s having a goddamn party.

  They stumble past me, pale arms interlinked.

  “Hey, killer,” the redhead says.

  “Shut up,” her brunette friend mutters, bulging eyes glued to me, giggling.

  “Ladies. What’s going on?”

  They pause for a moment, turn to each other, back to me.

  “Can you roll a joint?” Red asks, her free hand on one hip, leaning toward me. She’s the vocal one.

  “Rebekah!”

  “Well, you sure can’t, and I’m too drunk.”

  Four eyes on me, the streetlamps shoot light up and down the broken street. One deep breath and I inhale their profile: the silver Tiffany’s charm bracelet on Rebekah’s wrist; the rush of gin from Red; the glistening cleavage of their restrained breasts, always tempting, always trouble; the Prada Cervo Antik Hobo Tote over the other girl’s shoulder. $1,895. Nouveau goth. Money and time.

  “So, you up for it, mister? Care to rescue a couple of damsels in distress?” the slender flame asks.

  I glance up to the loft windows, yellow light and a deep bass spilling out into the air. Masterson Gallery. Fuck. I’ll have to come back.

  “Sure, why not?”

  A flush rushes over the brunette’s face, and Red’s grin slowly intensifies. She holds out her long thin fingers, a china doll hand. For a moment I flash on Holly, her hands on my shoulders, rubbing, squeezing.

  “Rebekah,” she says. “This is Cammie. What’s your name? You a friend of Peter’s?”

  I take her hand in mine.

  “Listen, Red, we’re gonna go roll this thing, but let’s not get too chummy, okay? I could use a little mellowing out and you two aren’t murder on the eyes.”

  They stare back at me as if I just pissed on their legs. I ease open my leather coat and flash them a bit of gold. Their eyes widen and they take a step back.

  “Easy, no big thing, all right? You two watch too much TV.”

  “You’re a cop?” Cammie asks.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  Rebekah points back up the street in the direction that I just came from.

  “I’m parked over here,” she mutters.

  We wander a couple of cars in that direction, them in the lead, long legs kicking down the concrete, furtive glances back over their shoulders, thinking this is a mistake.

  “Motherfucker,” Rebekah mutters, “my taillight is busted, Jesus Christ, you just can’t park on the street around here, I told you, Cammie.”

  “Oh, Becka, relax.”

  A grin slides across my face, and they glance my way.

  “I hope you can roll the fuck out of this joint, buddy, or I’m really gonna be pissed.” Alway
s Red.

  Rebekah places her hand on the door handle, her thumb over a tiny button, and the locks disengage. She pulls open the back door and climbs in, bending over, the dress riding up her thighs, and I get a bit weak in the knees.

  “You first,” Cammie says, biting her lip. “I have to go…um…”

  “Take a piss?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  I ease into the backseat, all black leather, like a glove. Rebekah’s pushed against the far side, rooting around in a small metal tin. The musky scent of dope fills the air, and it smells good. Been a while.

  “Here, all yours.”

  Even in this meager light I can see the tiny red hairs scattered in the bag of pot. Her thigh is pressed against mine and the heat she is giving off pulses up my leg.

  “Where’s Cammie?” she asks.

  “Taking a piss.”

  “Jesus.”

  A blur of white from between rusty brick walls and Cammie slides back into the car, the door shutting with a dull thud. She turns to me and I realize how close I am sitting to these two young women. They must be in their twenties. Suddenly the car feels very small. I turn back to the business at hand, pulling out a rolling paper and sprinkling it with loose weed. A little shifting back and forth between the fingers, settling the shake, and they’re pressed up close to me, watching my every move. Two fluttering birds alight on the side of my thighs as their hands press against me, leaning in, eager. I run my tongue across the edge of the paper and catch Rebekah’s eyes. Green with flecks of amber. A trickle of sweat runs down my temple.

  “We’re good. Who wants the honors?”

  I raise my eyes to Rebekah, but Cammie takes it, and slides it in between her glossy lips. A lighter materializes out of thin air and she inhales, the paper crackling, red lava shooting up the sides. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she holds her breath. Passing it to me, I take a long slow hit, and pass it on to Red. She sucks it in, the edge burning up, sucking half of it down. Cammie exhales slow and smooth and her mouth is on my neck.