We don’t talk much, passing the bottle back and forth, but we don’t need to. Guy thinks one thing is going down, but I think it’s something else entirely. I’m not here for muscle, I’m here to erase a problem. But Guy doesn’t need to know that.
We pull up to the apartment, and it’s Section 8 housing. Great. A low run of concrete blocks push back into the property. Most of them are dark and look abandoned, cardboard taped over broken glass, some of the remaining glass painted black, other gaps simply filled with plywood.
“Stay here,” I say.
“Okay. I never did like Damon anyway.”
I stare at Guy. He’s twiddling his fingers, his face flushed, staring at the floor of the car. I pop open the glove box and take out the package.
“Be right back.”
Guy eyeballs me and nods his head. I open the door and step out of the car, and transfer my gun to the back of my jeans. I adjust my coat and shrug my shoulders, and close the door gently with a quiet thud.
I walk down the alley, garbage everywhere, stepping over a bag of diapers that reeks of waste, rotten milk, and vomit, a solitary lightbulb hanging over the doorway. I reach up to knock on the door and it opens, spilling out smoke and low bass, the little man standing in front of me. His dreads dance around his head like a basket of snakes, dark jeans, and the same ratty wool poncho from the other night.
“Right on time,” he says.
He pushes the door open wider and I go in. It’s a tiny space, with couches on both sides and a long low table running down the middle. It’s littered with empty beer cans, forty-ounce bottles, trays of pot and rolled joints, and a mirror with a small pile of coke.
Sitting on the couch are two of the fattest black men I’ve even seen. They are dressed in matching sweatsuits, one black, the other gray. They don’t get up. I’m not sure if they can. In the tiny gap between them is a tall, skinny woman with dark skin and a shaved head, two gold hoops hanging from her ears, maroon lips sucking on a cigarette, her red dress hiked up high on her thighs, a peek of white panties underneath, her long legs crossed. She’d be attractive if it wasn’t for the scabby track marks running up and down her arms and the hint of a mustache over her lip. A curl of incense drifts up into the air, sickly sweet, just masking a layer of body odor, the lamps draped in a red sheer fabric, the room darker than I’d like.
The other couch is empty.
“Sit down, my man. Is Guy still nursing that bum leg?”
The big men laugh.
“Man, he’s a tough motherfucker, I’ll give you that. I beat on that damn leg for half an hour, and nothing. Must be those fat-ass bones of his,” the one in black says.
The chick cackles, leaning forward, and out of instinct I stare down the blouse. Her tiny tits have large, puffy nipples, two bolts pushed through them, crisscrossed with thin scars.
The kid stares at me.
“Don’t worry about these guys,” he says, waving a hand at me. “They’re just waiting for you.”
The mountains reach down into the cushions of the couch and pull out two handguns and place them on the table. The girl leans back and crosses her arms, a grin easing across her face.
“So, Damon…”
“What’d you say?”
“Isn’t your name Damon?”
The men laugh again, deep chortles, the fat jiggling.
“It’s D-Ron, motherfucker.”
His eyes go dark and spittle hits my face.
“Don’t nobody but my moms call me Damon, got it?”
He reaches down into the couch cushion and pulls out a long hunting knife, black rubber grip, slick and sharp on one side, serrated on the other, and sets it on the table. He pulls out a wad of cash, wrapped with a rubber band, and drops that on the table too.
“You got a bathroom I can use?” I ask.
Something about this isn’t right, and I need a moment to think. There’s too many people in this room, and I’m not that good of a shot.
“Sure man, straight back. Take a left at the dance hall, a right at the swimming pool.”
The men give a guttural chuckle, and I head back. I take off my coat and drape it over the kitchen counter, sweat running down my armpits into my jeans.
The bathroom door is hollow, no knob, and the sink and toilet are covered in grime—stray pubic hair and piss all over the floor, the bowl brown and stained. The shower curtain is silver and shiny, tiny circles raised all over it, as if this space was a disco, part-time.
I’m not in the bathroom a minute when the door opens and in walks the girl.
“Hey, baby.”
“Jesus, can I take a piss?”
“Before you do that, how ’bout I suck you off?”
“What?”
“I’m good, baby, you know it. I need a little green, been quiet with all the snow out there. Lazy motherfuckers won’t even come out for some good pussy.”
“You know, miss, I’m going to pass.”
She pushes up against me, her breath sour, teeth yellow and browning around the edges.
“Pass?”
I feel a blade up against my gut, and think this is not my week for sharp objects.
“I’m sorry, I meant, how much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Like a fox, baby.”
“You better be good,” I say, reaching around my back. “Let me get my wallet.”
She smiles, not a good thing, and tucks the knife away. When she grabs for my pants I reach around with the gun in my hand and crack her across the skull. She lets out a tiny grunt and collapses in my arms. I place her on the toilet seat, and lean her up against the sink. There’s a ticking clock now.
I exit and Damon is standing there.
“You flush?” he says.
“What?”
“Flush, motherfucker, what you think, I live in a pigsty?”
I stand in the doorway. Where do they think the whore went? Maybe she disappears all the time.
“Sure, D-Ron.”
I lean back into the bathroom, and push the girl aside, flushing the toilet. When I turn around he’s gone. I head back to couch.
“Let me just sample the product, bro, and you can take off.”
The fat man closest to me in gray sweats starts to stand up.
“If you’re done with Cherise, I’m gonna take a turn,” he says.
“If she can find it, fat man,” Damon says, cackling into the package that he’s cutting open with the knife.
The big guy in gray pauses, a look of confusion running over his face. Then he smiles.
“Right, D-Ron. Find it, because I’m so fat. Funny.”
He reaches over to grab his gun, puts a hand out onto my shoulder as he starts to tip over, and squeezes. I wince as his thumb digs into my shoulder.
“Sorry, buddy,” he says, heading on back.
The package tears open and inside is nothing but a big bag of oregano. I can smell it from here. Damon’s head turns to me, eyes squinting, and the fat man in black sweats goes for his gun.
I pull my gun out and aim for the big guy first, pulling the trigger twice. His chest explodes and two darts of blood spurt out, his hands flying into the air. There’s a crack behind me as the man in gray fires, the globe hanging over the tiny kitchen table shattering. I turn and fire, catching him square in the face and his details disappear, the wall behind him covered with blood, and he stumbles back into the bathroom with a loud crash, dislodging the sink, water spraying out.
I turn to Damon but he’s already up and headed out the door. I have no time to wonder what he did to Vlad, but I know he fucked up Guy. I can shoot him in the back or chase him down and ask him some questions. He pulls the door open, and the room fills with cold, the alley stretching out in front of him, the white car sitting there, miles away.
I pull the trigger and shoot him in the back. He flies out the door face-first, skidding to a halt. I hurry over and grab him by the collar, flippi
ng him over. Blood runs over his teeth as he grins up at me.
“I’d do it again, motherfucker.”
“Do what?” I pant.
“All of it.”
In his eyes I see drug deals in back alleys, young women strung out on crack, the slap of his hand, his laughter and smoke filling a club somewhere, music pounding, a syringe offered up, fake breasts and empty eyes slumped over a toilet, skin gone slack. I see a wife pregnant with her third child, two boys running around her feet as he steps out the door with a sandwich in his hand, a wad of cash left on the counter. I see an empty room in the back of a warehouse, a Hispanic girl tied spread-eagle to four poles, lying on top of a mattress that is soaked in urine and blood, a line of men out the door, Damon up first, unbuckling his jeans.
I drag him back into the apartment, his head banging against the concrete steps. I place the muzzle in the center of his forehead and pull the trigger.
Standing up, I feel a whoosh of air behind me and then I’m down. My head. I hear screaming behind me, and my back, I’m being beaten with something over and over. Blood runs into my eyes and the world swims away from me. The girl, Cherise. She’s standing over me, covered in blood, a baseball bat raised high over her head. She pauses for a second, her eyes filled with hatred, so I pull back my boot and kick her in the left knee, snapping it, her leg collapsing, her shriek filling the air.
I struggle to my feet, looking for my gun in the darkness, running my hand over the carpet, searching, searching, praying that she doesn’t get back up. I find it, and lurch to my feet. Out of breath, my skull throbbing, scattered pain across my back, I walk over to her and stop. She’s rolling around, holding her knee, crying. I bend over and finish her off, a quick shot to the head and she’s still.
I check the fat men, no pulse. I check Damon, no pulse. I put the gun back in my jeans and step out the door. Snow is drifting down, and the white car sits there, waiting for me, vibrating. I look around for a grill, and find one. I find a half-empty bottle of lighter fluid and go back inside. I step gingerly to the back of the apartment and grab my coat, flipping it over my arm. Backing out I spray the carpet, the drapes, both of the fat men, soaking their sweats, the table, the couches, the girl’s dress, and finally Damon. I drop the bottle. No match. I laugh for a second, not sure who I am, what I’ve become. On the table are several lighters. I grab one and light it, and hold it to the drapes. They burst into flames, fire running up the wall. This cinder block home won’t burn to the ground, but it might just turn into an oven, cooking everything inside to a crisp. The carpet will go, so will the furniture. It’ll all go up.
I bend over and grab the cash. It’s a couple grand maybe, no sense leaving it behind.
I’m out the door, with one look back. Damn. Four dead.
I pull the door shut, and wipe it down. I stroll down the alley as smoke leaks out from under the door. If there were windows, they’d be full of fire. I pull open the car door and Guy looks up, pulling the iPod plugs out of his ears.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Had to take a piss.”
I toss him the wad of cash and climb in. I grab the Jim Beam and take a deep pull at it, gulping it down.
“Home, James,” I say.
Guy pulls forward and it’s back to the apartment. Was Vlad setting me up, or Guy? Was this some sort of test? Whatever it was, I don’t like it. Vlad isn’t so cute anymore.
Chapter 67
When I wake up in the morning there’s another envelope by my front door, but it isn’t yellow this time. It’s white. I pick it up and set it on the table, and go to take a shower. I’m dying to know what’s in there, but I need to get clean first.
I soak under the hot water, leaving the lights off, a cold beer nestled up against the bar of soap. Beer in the shower for breakfast—it’s the lifestyle of the rich and famous. It isn’t long before the women start to drift into my head, which is certainly better than the bodies. I think about Isadora, and the violent sex, and wonder if I’ll see her again. Should I make the effort? I don’t usually go back for seconds, preferring to stay a one-night stand, just some drunk they met in a bar, nobody that they’d want to look at too closely, ask questions, give a call on the phone one night. Who doesn’t have a phone these days? Me, that’s who. I’m used to grabbing my clothes, sneaking out, and dressing in the hallway, walking home in the middle of the night, still drunk. I’m used to kicking them out, the few I’ve taken back here, hoping and praying that they were too drunk to remember, that they won’t show up someday asking why I didn’t call. To ensure my anonymity I crush half of a Rohypnol into a beer or glass of water, and they tend to forget my face. My address. Unsure what really happened.
My mind drifts to Holly and I lean into the water, eyes closed. Is she gone for good? Is she still in town, in the state? I should let it go. But it doesn’t seem finished.
I step out of the shower and grab a towel. As I walk into the kitchen, Luscious is sitting by the back door, scratching to get out. She glances over her shoulder to the other room, once, twice and goes back to scratching.
“Hold on, hold on. It’s cold out there, you sure you want out?”
She glares at me.
“Okay, don’t go too far.”
I open the door, cold hitting my ankles, and she darts out. I turn around and head back to my bedroom and see a strange man sitting at the table, a gun in his hand, pointed at me, dressed in blue jeans and a black shirt, with black leather boots as well. He’s got the uniform on, this distorted doppelgänger, but he’s not my twin. His head is shaved, there’s a brass ring in his nose, and a long, angry red scar runs from his forehead to the back of his skull. When he snarls at me, one incisor juts out, his mouth a crooked wreck.
“My time?” I ask.
He stares at me, his eyes shaky.
“Did Vlad send you?”
His jaw clenches.
“I’m here as a favor, brother,” he says.
“A favor?”
“Go get dressed, we need to talk.”
I walk past him, unsure of where this is going.
“Don’t bother looking for your gun. It’s out here on the table. And don’t try anything cute, my friend, I’m not here to make things harder.”
I dress quickly and come back out.
“I guess there’s no point in introductions,” I mumble.
“Sit down,” he says, pointing at a chair across from him.
“You mind not keeping that thing aimed at me?”
“We’ll see,” he says. “I’m just here to give you a message. We’re cut from the same cloth, brother.”
“I can see that.”
I stare at the man—same stubbled face, same wardrobe, same gun, I think, and the same dead eyes, a dark, deep cold expanse that falls down his pupils.
“What’s the message?”
“You’re not the only killer on the payroll, buddy. And you’re not the only one who can show up in a kitchen in the middle of the night, and wait outside a bathroom with a pipe in their hand, a quick stab of a long blade, a shot to the back of the head.”
“I can see that.”
“Don’t trust the Russian,” he says.
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“He makes all nice, hooks you up now and then, tosses you some hot ass, but he keeps you diluted, drugged, and dependent, no place to go, no resources left, and when he’s done with you, or if you somehow manage to figure it out, or stop doing what he says when he says it, BAM, you wake up one day dead.”
His hand shakes and he lets out a cough.
“How long have you been clean?” I ask.
“Three days.”
“That’s it? Man, you look like crap.”
“You don’t look so great yourself, brother.”
“Have you tried to get off the meds before?”
He sets the gun down and rubs his eyes. I glance at the gun and consider it.
“Go ahead, do it, put me out of
my misery,” he says.
He opens his bloodshot eyes.
“I’m so tired. Exhausted. I can’t sleep. They know where I am, the envelopes keep on coming, and I keep on doing what I do. But sometimes there’s collateral damage. I took out a woman who was cooking crack in her garage, stringing along the local kids, screwing the boys, her own little army of sex slaves and thugs. But they were like fourteen years old, man. They started to overdose. She had a bad batch, and she knew it, and she sold it anyway. She was stuck in a circle of selling drugs to get the cash to pay her mortgage to get more drugs. I delivered a package as a UPS man and shot her in the gut. Her daughter was supposed to be at school, but she was home sick that day.”
“Oh man.”
“What could I do? She saw my face.”
A cold rock sits in my gut and I want to hate this man, but he’s just like me. I don’t know if I’d have done anything differently.
“I don’t know what’s worse, thinking my family was dead, or knowing that they’re still alive.”
Something stirs in my gut. What did he say? His face crumpling, his jaw trembling. This guy is almost done.
“What do you mean?”
“There was a fire, the house burned down. There weren’t any bodies to identify—everything turned to ash. I fell apart. I met the Russian and he offered me a job. I took it. I was drunk, suicidal, and ready to end it. He gave me a job to do, a reason to keep living. Sound familiar?”
My sight is gone. A wall of darkness descends over my vision.
“Yes. Go on.”
“One day I got a bit mouthy and he showed me a picture, with a time stamp and date that was only a few days old. It was my family, alive and well, the wife and kids. He didn’t tell me where they were, only that they were alive—for now. He kept that chip in his pocket, no explanation for why I was picked, why my life was ruined, but after all that I’d done, I let sleeping dogs lie, brother. Beyond repair, this guy, if you know what I mean. No longer a functioning member of society.”
Disintegration: A Windy City Dark Mystery Page 12
