by Rick R. Reed
“Yeah, you would look at it that way. The Lord moves in mysterious ways and all that, right?”
“You’re so mad at everybody, you won’t even see that some good could come out of your life.” Jimmy listened to the priest’s words and thought they were nothing more than B.S., something he’d probably said to other kids to make himself feel better about what he’d done with his own life.
The only comfort the priest was giving him right now was physical: the arms wrapped around him, the feel of his stubble at the top of Jimmy’s head. Jimmy finally did what he’d been wanting to for the last several minutes: crawled into the priest’s lap. He felt Richard tense, his spine going rigid when Jimmy did this, but then he softened. He whispered something like “Is that better?” but Jimmy wasn’t sure and he wasn’t sure he wanted to even talk right now. He nestled his head into the crook between Richard’s chin and chest and closed his eyes. Jimmy would have liked to fall asleep like this.
He felt the priest’s lips at the top of his head, kissing. “You know, son,” Richard said in a voice so soft Jimmy almost felt rather than heard it, “you’re special. And I’m not just saying that because I’m a priest who wants to help wayward kids, I’m saying it because I see something in you that I haven’t seen in anyone in many, many years.”
Jimmy closed his eyes tighter. He didn’t want to hear some buck-up-and-face-the-world speech now. He wanted only to be alone with this man, to feel warm and protected.
Loved. Jimmy pushed this last thought out of his mind. Love’s for the movies. He knew the real score.
“I really care about you, Jimmy.” Richard ran his fingers through Jimmy’s hair, down his back. “I love you.”
Jimmy tensed as he heard the words. Sooner or later, a lot of tricks would mumble those words to him, not all of them, but a good percentage would mouth those three little words. Usually right before they came.
Jimmy turned his head then, into the top of the priest’s chest and his neck, shutting his eyes tight. “I don’t want to hear it,” he breathed into Richard’s flesh, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears, wishing the ball in his throat would go away. It hurt.
He moved his bottom slightly in the priest’s lap and relaxed: he could feel the guy’s hard-on. He loves me…right. He reached down and placed his hand on the bulge in Richard’s pants, almost like it was an accident. He moved his hand away, then shifted himself around so he was straddling the priest on his lap.
He looked in the priest’s eyes, his head cocked, a smile playing about his lips. “You wanna kiss me, don’t you?”
Richard looked sad: the way his eyebrows came together above his glasses gave it all away. “Oh, Jimmy, that’s not what I—”
Jimmy leaned forward, placing his open mouth over the priest’s, just to shut him up. The guy didn’t resist when Jimmy put his tongue in his mouth. Jimmy bit the man’s lips gently and rubbed himself against him.
“You love me, huh?” Reluctantly giving up his security, he pulled away and stood. “It’s okay,” Jimmy said and shrugged. “Guess I gotta give you a little somethin’ in return for helpin’ me.” Jimmy reached for the button of his jeans, undid it, pulled down the zipper, and finally pulled his jeans down to his knees.
“You want it, don’t you?”
Jimmy couldn’t figure out why the priest was just staring at him, looking all sick and confused. He thought this was what he wanted.
He had a hard-on, didn’t he? So why wasn’t he goin’ for it? He felt a weird panic begin to rise up within him and his own erection began to ebb. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, his breath coming a little shorter, feeling sort of queasy now.
He thrust his pelvis forward, so his dick was within reach of the priest’s mouth. “Go on, take it,” he almost screamed, suddenly filled with an anger and hatred so intense it stunned him. “You love me, right?”
He could see the priest’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, hard, staring at his cock.
Richard whispered, “No,” and the word hung suspended in the air. He pushed Jimmy out of the way, lunged for the door, and clattered down the stairs.
Jimmy pulled his pants up and went to the window, where he watched the priest, his head bowed, hurry west on Lawrence Avenue. He lit up another cigarette and willed himself not to cry.
“He’s just like all the rest.”
Chapter 22
The sky was beginning to turn grey. Houses along the street, sparse naked trees, and the shadowy forms of cars parked in driveways became easier to see. The world was filling with a dull light. Miranda stared out the window of the pickup, wondering where this trick would take her. She was tired. The bottle of Cisco she had drunk the night before had left in its wake a dull throbbing at her temples and a churning queasiness in her stomach. Every once in a while her stomach gurgled and Miranda pictured bubbles in a test tube.
She looked to the east, where over rows and rows of identical houses, the sky displayed a band of pink to mix in with the grey.
Soon the sun would be up and she would be at this trick’s house, making money. And this one was weird! To start off with, he’d made her stand away from the truck while he fooled with something in the back, muttering and cussing all the while. Who knew what he was up to? She’d been with some strange ones before, but this one took the cake. She slumped back into her seat and closed her eyes, promising herself she wouldn’t fall asleep before she got there.
There was a thumping coming from the back…again.
“What is that?” Miranda asked, finally, turning in her seat to look over at the guy. “I’ve been hearing it all the way out here.”
“Got a spare tire back there. It’s loose. Need to look at it.” The guy spit the words out, quickly and without intonation.
Miranda sat up straighter. “That doesn’t sound like a spare to me.”
Thump, thump, thump. The sound reached them, muffled, but Miranda felt a sense of panic.
The guy swung his car into a driveway. He smiled, his eyes getting bigger. In a singsong voice, too high for a man, he squealed, “We’re here.”
Miranda looked at the brick bungalow in front of her and wondered, as the effect of the alcohol ebbed more and more, if she had made a mistake.
The garage door slid up on its rollers.
*
Avery lay, gasping. It felt as if he’d sucked up most of the air in the back of the truck and now he tried to calm the panic and terror he was feeling. Earlier, Dwight had gagged his mouth with duct tape and thrown a dirty, oil-stained cloth over him. He’d mumbled something about Avery’s friend being dead if he tried anything funny.
The blanket covering him was dusty and smelled of radiator fluid.
Avery felt like he was going to be sick. His stomach had been aching ever since this asshole stuffed him into the back of the truck. Sharp, intense cramps that mellowed out to nausea. He couldn’t even think.
He could feel the saliva gathering in his mouth and a gagging sensation at the back of his throat, signaling he was about to throw up. He shut his eyes tight, willing it not to happen.
Why was he such an idiot? He should have just let the guy take him home. He knew now that the man had picked up some other kid. Why couldn’t he have just been good old reliable, selfish Avery?
He hadn’t counted on the guy’s knowing what Miranda looked like.
Was that who was in the front of the truck with him now?
The stopping motion of the truck sent Avery forward and caused his nausea to peak. Avery could hear the transmission being disengaged.
He fought down the bile, afraid that he would suffocate. But it came up anyway, burning as it spewed out of his nostrils, and all Avery could do was twist his mouth in terrified contortions as the bile made its way up and against the duct tape.
Avery could do nothing but swallow it back down, gagging and choking, sure he would suffocate.
But the moment passed and once it was o
ver, Avery felt better.
The smell was disgusting, but the act had made him feel better. Made his mind clearer.
And with renewed clarity, he looked around him, mainly at the tools lying in an open toolbox, grateful for the inspiration they presented him with.
*
Miranda appraised the trick. In the feeble light of dawn, he looked even worse: his clothes were too tight and too young for him; he was wearing rouge or something and his sweat had caused it to smear. His skin was pasty, like the guy didn’t get out in the sun much. His heavy-lidded eyes and pale pupils made Miranda think of a snake.
What could someone who looked like that want to do with her? She decided she didn’t want to find out.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” she began and he looked over at her with interest, taking the key out of the ignition and tucking it into a coat pocket. “But I had a lot to drink last night and I don’t think I can go through with this,” She gave him a weak smile. “I feel kinda sick.”
“You’ll go through with it, honey.”
Miranda’s anger shot up; no one told her what to do. She didn’t care how much they paid her.
“No. I don’t think so.” She reached for the door handle, fully prepared to walk back to uptown if that’s what she needed to do. She groped for the handle and finally looked down.
It had been removed.
Miranda’s mouth dropped open. She turned and looked at him, her eyes bigger and full of fear. “What’s going on?”
“These imports,” he said. “Can’t trust them to last any time at all.”
“I want you to let me out!” Miranda brought her face up close to his, and put all the conviction and courage she could into her voice. “I want you to let me out now, motherfucker! I don’t go for these games.” She hit him hard on the chest.
He picked up her hand like it was a dead rat or a worm and removed it. He laughed. “You want to hit me again?”
Miranda gritted her teeth. “I just wanna go home. Now, you let me go before I start screaming, wake up some of your neighbors.”
“I don’t think you want to do that.”
Miranda watched as he groped under his jacket, her fear rising. When she saw the gun, she slumped back in her seat, her breathing coming more quickly now.
“Still in such a tizzy to go?”
The voice made her cringe, made her feel soiled, as if its sound had a tactile touch all its own. He punched her arm, hard.
“I asked you a question, young lady.”
“No,” Miranda responded, “not at all.”
“That’s better. Now that you know the situation, perhaps you won’t be quite so difficult to deal with. We’re going to do a couple things when we get out of the truck. First, we’re going to attend to that thumping you heard in the back earlier. I think you’ll be pleased as punch when you find out the surprise I have for you there.”
Miranda shrank back as he looked over at her, grinning.
“And then we’re all going to go quietly into the house. Orderly. Just like in school. Remember school?”
Miranda just looked out the window, feeling dead inside. Why hadn’t she stayed at the priest’s house? Why hadn’t she sensed something before this happened? She clutched at the crystal she wore on a chain around her neck, pulled hard until the chain broke.
She threw the necklace to the floor.
“I don’t like it when young ladies don’t speak when they’re spoken to.”
“No,” Miranda said, “I don’t remember school.”
“Didn’t think so.”
The man opened his door and cold air rushed into the cab, crisp. There was a wind blowing up and Miranda was sure it would be snowing soon.
The man opened her door and bowed, extending his arm. “My lady.”
This would all be much easier if he would just talk normal. She stepped from the cab, looking through the garage windows at what she could see of the neighborhood.
The man rubbed his hands together, grinning. “Let’s see your little surprise.” He threw back his head and laughed. “I guess BIG surprise would be a more apt description.”
Miranda followed him to the back of the truck, not even sure what nervous mechanism in her body was making her feet move to walk.
He fit his key in the topper lock and the door sprung up. The guy reached inside and yanked out an old, dirty blanket. Miranda leaned forward to look, then turned away.
Oh, God, no, not Avery. She could still see the image of him in her mind, as if she were still looking at him, face covered with vomit, his eyes alive with terror. She could hardly catch her breath as she remembered the frantic thumping noise coming from the back of the truck as they drove. No, not Avery. She wondered if he was even breathing.
“Looks like the fat thing has made a bit of a mess,” the man said. “I hope to God I don’t have to try to carry that fat ass into the house.”
Miranda wanted to tell him to stop being so cruel, wanted to protect Avery, but knew the gun was within reach in the man’s coat pocket. She kept quiet, staring at the house across the street and chewing on her knuckle.
The man began undoing the cords that bound Avery’s wrists and ankles and finally, with a flourish, yanked the duct tape away from his mouth. Avery gasped.
“C’mon. Get up, you big slug.”
Miranda looked over her shoulder quickly to see the guy poking Avery.
“Hey, don’t do that!” Miranda shrieked, reaching out to pull the man’s arm away from her friend.
“And you don’t do that,” the guy said, backhanding her across the face. Miranda stumbled and frantically tried to retain her balance. She lifted a hand to her lip and found the blood flowing. She covered her mouth.
*
Avery listened to the scuffle, grateful for the diversion. He grabbed the wrench lying just within reach and gripped it in his right hand, trying to draw strength and courage from the cold steel. Pushing himself up with the other arm, he rose quickly and looked out to see the guy turned away from him. In just this instant, he also saw Miranda, shaking, her eyes wide, her delicate hand drawn up to her mouth. From between her fingers, a flow of blood ran out.
He managed to get to his knees before the man turned around.
The man’s face clouded over as he saw Avery upright, the big crescent wrench raised high. “What do you think you’re doing? I—” was all the man managed to get out before Avery brought the wrench down on his forehead.
The man grunted and stumbled backward, reaching up to where Avery had hit him. His eyelids fluttered and Avery could already see the blood running down his face.
Avery scrambled from the trunk and raised the wrench a second time.
“No, don’t do it,” the man gasped, backing away. Avery stepped closer, the cold air making him dizzy after the time spent in the back of the truck. But he willed himself to hold on.
He swung the wrench again in a wide arc, aiming for the man’s forehead, this time on the other side.
And this time the man was ready: he ducked.
Avery lost his footing and stumbled with the missed swing. It was enough time: when he regained his balance, the man had taken out his gun and had it trained on him.
“Put down the wrench.” The man’s voice was cold and toneless.
Avery let the wrench slide from his fingers. It clattered to the ground. The wound on the man’s head was deep; blood poured in rivulets down the side of his face.
Avery smiled.
“What are you grinning at, fat boy? Not only are you too incompetent and fat to do anything to ward me off, you’ve made me mad now, too. And you don’t want to tangle with me when I’m mad.”
Out of the corner of his eye Avery saw Miranda slide out the garage’s side door, quietly, with just the barest hint of a cold wind blowing in to give her away.
“Nothing,” Avery mumbled. “Nothing at all.” Avery shifted his gaze to the wound in the man’s f
orehead. “That hurt? I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
The man reached up and touched his forehead, muttering, “Fat slime! I oughtta lay his head open right now. Give him a little punishment to help him.”
Just then, a gust of cold wind blew the garage’s side door open and it banged against the wall. Avery saw that Miranda was nowhere in sight. The man turned to look, too. It seemed to Avery that the guy was about to form a swear word, but stopped himself and just let out a disgusted sigh.
“You…” The man couldn’t seem to find any words for a few seconds. “Get your fat ass back in the truck, back with the puke where you belong.” He pressed the barrel of the gun into Avery’s stomach and cocked the gun. “Now.”
Avery put his hands up in submission and turned to climb into the back of the truck once more. He tried to move slowly, so that Miranda would have more time to run away.
Avery grunted as the man hit him in the small of his back with the gun. “Move it; I’m smarter than you think.”
Avery climbed into the truck. The man grabbed the rope and tied Avery’s ankles together. He slapped a piece of duct tape across Avery’s mouth. “Don’t try anything,” the man whispered, “or you’re both dead.” Avery barely missed the topper door coming down on his head.
He lay back and tried to breathe as darkness surrounded him.
*
Alice Martin tried to mind her own business. She had lived in this west-side Chicago neighborhood for going on thirty years. She and her husband, Harry, had raised their four boys here and had watched them all go off to find different fortunes, build their own families.
Since Harry died last spring, Alice had been lonely.
And the loneliness had led to insomnia. On this particular morning, she had awakened before any light had come into her little brick bungalow. Awakened from a restless sleep on the living-room couch, where she had dozed with an old copy of Reader’s Digest. Her back hurt, but she’d managed to get out to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.
