I wasn’t that hooked. “No way, Blackhead.”
For a moment his sarcasm returned. “Are you afraid I’ll trail in End Disease?”
Before I could say goodbye he downshifted his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been stressed out. We can meet at the Wagon Wheel. I’ll be there in an hour.”
I was almost willing to be mollified. “Well, I can’t. I’ll meet you around nine.” “You’re so busy I got to wait until nine? My money is green.”
“I’m busy enough not to take your mouth.”
“I’ll watch my mouth. Just meet me there, will you? I need the help.”
I looked at my face’s reflection in the mirror and counted the creases. “I’ll meet you for old times’ sake, Emil, but I’m not promising to take the job. I’ll listen, that’s all.”
After he’d hung up I continued to stare into the mirror until I caught a glimpse of Megan over my shoulder. Whatever lingering affection I had for The End evaporated. I jammed the dead receiver down on the table next to its base. One call a day was enough.
I pulled my stash from the drawer and sat staring at its contents. It was time to prepare for the Wagon Wheel, but I wasn’t certain how. Before making any final decision, I walked into the bedroom and dragged my gun case out from under the bed. I carried the .38 and holster back into the kitchen and plunked them down on the table next to the pharmacy. It was mid-month, which meant I could anticipate a visit from Julius. It had taken a little time, but he was finally convinced my new building owner rank didn’t threaten our unspoken drugs-for-rent arrangement. He’d even gone back to his practice of breaking in and leaving the package on my kitchen table. To maintain tradition, I instituted frequent lock changes. I didn’t really expect to stop him and hadn’t. Praise the Lord.
I rolled a city-slicker and poured a double bourbon. No use wasting money trying to get high on bar whiskey; I’d just use that to keep dehydration at bay. I slowed down enough to realize I was anxious, considered a Valium, and settled on a half. Something dragged on my gut but I didn’t know if it was The End or the gun. I hadn’t worn it since the time it had been fired.
In the old days, if I was forced to retrieve someone from the Wagon Wheel, I carried a length of lead pipe. Now I strapped on the holster, surprised by its familiarity and comfort; along with age had come evolution.
I debated another double, then settled on a small single. I felt excited to be going where I’d been twenty years before. It made me feel young.
I might have believed the feeling a little longer, but the bar had a full-width mirror stretched behind its fancy bottles of fake fancy liquor. Everything in the grim tavern seemed unchanged with the notable exceptions of my face and a caged, bare-breasted woman shaking mournfully to Hank Williams Jr. The new brass did nothing but add to the old sleaze. The Wagon Wheel remained a tough tavern, rife with the smell of sweat, piss, and unfinished fights. Between the cracks you could feel the hostile frustrations of broken lives.
I added to the gray cloud overhead as I lit a cigarette and ordered a double. At least the bartender didn’t ask if I wanted Jack Daniel’s. It was reassuring not to be mistaken for a tourist. Then I looked at the other regulars, and reconsidered.
When I faced the crowded tables in the back I saw Blackhead staring at the dancer. As the song ended she squatted like Johnny Bench, and swigged from a beer bottle on the cage floor. I watched Blackhead pull himself from his reverie and look around the room. He spotted me and waved, teeth cracking through the forest on his face. I threaded through the crowd, careful not to brush against anyone. I might be twenty years older and carrying a gun instead of a lead stick, but my apprehension hadn’t slackened. Too many drunken customers stumbled out of this bar surprised to discover knife wounds or empty wallet pockets.
I got to the booth and Blackhead bobbed his head. “I didn’t think you were going to show.” I sat and waved to the waitress. “Still without that trusting spirit, huh?”
He grimaced. “Look around. These people been trusting their government for two hundred years and what’s it got them? A broad with bouncing silicone. Takes their mind off the fact that none of ‘em gets laid.”
“You seemed smitten yourself, Emil.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “How long were you spying on me?”
“Looking for you. Looking for you.” I turned to the waitress, who’d finally made it through the sea of groping hands. She wore a miniskirt, cowboy boots, a wide, white-lipsticked smile, and blue paint over dead eyes. I ordered a single refill for the dregs in my hand, waited for Blackhead who shook his head, and watched the lady fight her way back to the bar.
Blackhead had no glass. “They let you sit here without drinking?” “I don’t like paying for colored water.”
“And they let you stay?”
“I have friends. Let’s leave it at that.” “I find it difficult to believe.”
He suddenly shook his head. “Why do you keep insulting me?”
I drained the rest of my own colored water. “I don’t know. You bring out my best.” I grew impatient. “Okay, so what’s this all about?”
“Don’t you want to wait for your drink?”
“Are you kidding? By the time it shows, the girl will be dancing and you won’t be able to talk.”
“You weren’t always this funny.” “Come on, Emil, I don’t like it here.”
“What’s the matter? You spend all your time in the Rich Man’s World? This ain’t no fancy mall, but at least there are real people here. Not the phonies who think a hard time is finding a tax shelter.”
I started to stand. “I quit college, Blackhead. If I want a political sociology course I’ll go to night school.”
“Okay, take it easy, will you? Sit down. I don’t want to keep fighting, man. Come on, sit. For Christ sake, you haven’t been in the neighborhood since dirt, now you want to run right out.”
I sat. “Well, make it quick.”
He nodded toward my right shoulder. “You got a license for that?”
I threw my hands up. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t need new drinking buddies.”
His eyes flicked around the room as he leaned across the table, his whisper barely audible over the jukebox and crowd. “Do you remember Peter Knight?”
It took a minute, but I finally nodded. “He had a sister, right?”
He leaned even closer. “Yeah, Melanie. Do you remember how he died?”
I knew he had died, but not how. It happened after Megan forced us to move from The End because she was tired of living thigh-to-thigh with “losers.” The same reason she eventually gave for taking lovers.
Blackhead used the silence to fill me in. “He accidentally drowned in a quarry. I don’t know whether you were still living here or not. Anyway, I was with him earlier that night, and the pigs hauled my ass over the coals. Stupid fucks wanted to hassle me, so they tried to make it seem like I had something to do with it.”
He scowled silently as if remembering the particular night. “Nothing came of it. Everybody knew that I wouldn’t hurt Peter. Hell, if I’d been there when he went in, I woulda died trying to save him.” He stopped talking and sat back in his seat. I saw his eyes glisten, but it was probably from the smoke in the room.
“What’s this got to do with me?”
“Just hear me out, will you? I got this letter threatening to reopen the whole fucking case. Said there was proof that would put my ass in Walpole. The fucking letter said there was nothing I could do about it, either. I want you to find out who sent the damn thing. I don’t want my ass in Walpole.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think you have much to worry about.”
“Well, I’m worrying anyway. What if someone’s trying to set me up?” “You think Peter was murdered?”
He looked frustrated. “No, man, I don’t think Peter was murdered.”
“Then what are you worried about? The cops have better things to do than run down every crank note th
at comes their way. Damn, Blackhead, it’s been twenty years. They wouldn’t give a shit even if you did kill him.”
“Stop calling me Blackhead. And don’t fuck around! I know how long it’s been, but I don’t care. I want to know who’s fucking with me.”
“What do you think I can do?”
“You’re a private cop, aren’t you? You can investigate.”
“The city is filthy with private cops.” I decided not to tell him how much they charged: he’d have a heart attack.
“Yeah, but I ran into you. Also, whether you like to admit it or not, you’re sorta from the neighborhood. People knew you and I figure they might talk better.”
My crap detector was firing. “Blackhead, answer me straight. How are you going to get the money to pay me?”
He looked at me scornfully. “I told you not to worry. You’ll get your stinking money.” “That’s not good enough. I want to know how you’ll get it.”
“Look, man, I sell a little grass. That’s why I don’t like to talk on the phone.”
I wondered what he meant by a little. “And your dealing has nothing to do with this letter?”
He looked perplexed. “Why should it?”
I motioned him closer. When he moved I circled his skinny neck with my hand, pinned his arms between his body and the table, and squeezed. I didn’t want to be obvious; free-for-alls used to happen here with even less provocation. Still, I let my hand stay where it was until I saw his eyes flash with fear and pain.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” I had trouble keeping my voice low. “Every night someone turns up dead because of drug jockeying. You deal, and I’m supposed to think drugs have nothing to do with this bullshit?”
I felt a deep-seated rage but knew enough to push him back into his seat.
“Why’d you do that, man?” he croaked. He massaged his neck and looked at me reproachfully. “I’m not lying. There ain’t no turf wars here. Everybody knows everybody. Nobody figures The End is worth the trouble. I’m telling you, I just need to know who’s fucking with me.” He kept rubbing his Adam’s apple. “I even brought money for you,” he added.
When he started to reach into his pocket I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take your money if I decide to work for you. Right now I haven’t decided a damn thing.”
“I’m telling you, Matt, this don’t have nothing to do with drugs. I just got to know who is messing with me.”
“You could be lying. Or you could be wrong.”
He began to protest but I waved it off. The ugly of both the bar and my behavior sickened me. I pulled a pen from my leather and handed it to him. “Don’t talk. Just give me your address and number and I’ll get back to you.”
He scratched on a thin cardboard Bud coaster and pushed it to me. I took it, shook my empty glass, and stood. “Give me back the pen. And use your money to pay the waitress if she shows.”
He flipped the pen and sat staring into the crowd, rubbing his neck. “I don’t understand why you did that, man.”
Blackhead had company; I didn’t either.
It took a long, hot shower to scrub the Wagon Wheel’s smell off my skin. It took even longer to wash away the stink of my own actions. I didn’t do too well in bars; maybe because I’d been brought up in one. At times it had been fun; mostly it involved long boring hours on a stool watching my parents pretend friendly.
Naked and dripping, I ransacked the apartment for sweats. I finally dug them out from the floor of the closet. I dressed, felt my stomach curdle at the thought of a nightcap, and wound up at the kitchen table rolling a joint.
It wasn’t the bar, wasn’t my childhood. But I still didn’t know if the evening’s rage had come from my repulsion and suspicion of Blackhead, or the possibility of doing something for a living other than walk on marbleized tile. Had I again, like so many times before, settled into a set of unrewarding habits, frozen by my reluctance to change?
I stood, opened the refrigerator, and looked at the bright white light. I slammed the door when I realized I was staring at the bulb because it was the only thing close to edible. I got a glass of water, wandered back to my seat, and lit the joint.
I hated to do business with Emil, but my past, with a goose from my present, beckoned unnervingly. Megan stood guard like an ugly gargoyle, but memories of better times flashed behind her. Times filled with hope and idealism. Times charged with the positive electricity of change. Blackhead’s case gave me the chance to see what had become of people I’d known twenty years previously. I knew what had happened to me: I wanted to believe there were other options.
I stood and anxiously gripped the back of my chair. Grass and television weren’t gonna do it: I grabbed a whole Valium, retreated to the living room couch, and forced myself to stare at black-and-white reruns. Hooray for cable. I finished the joint, felt the pill kick in, and rested my eyes.
Deep in the back of my pounding mind I heard the creaks of the front door. For a moment I thought I’d passed out in the Wagon Wheel and someone was coming to fetch me. But I knew I’d fallen asleep once I focused and saw Julius’ sagging black face and salt-and-pepper hair. He’d never set foot in that cracker gin mill.
I struggled to sit and finally succeeded. Julie watched quietly, his face a mixture of amusement and pity. Once he saw me stabilize, he said, “Stinks like a brewery in here. You lose your cookies?”
“I was at a lousy joint and brought the flavor home.” “Doesn’t sound like the best of times, Slumlord.”
I started to shake my head but felt the back of it slide, and stopped. “Business. What time is it? I can’t read the clock from here.”
“You couldn’t read the clock if it was right next to you. I find it troubling to think you could get wasted on bar whiskey.”
“Keep your faith. I ate a sleeping pill.”
A look of disgust crossed his face. “I like getting high, Slumlord, but I’ll never understand volunteering for a down.”
“What’s to understand?”
“Why you would ingest something that tramples what little life you have. One of these days I’m going to walk in here and find you laying on that bathroom floor, a syringe hanging out your arm.”
I forced my arm to wave. “No you won’t. You don’t give me anything I can use with a needle. Lighten up, I’ve already been lectured once tonight about my failings.”
“What’s it matter what anyone says? You never listen.”
I tried to shrug without moving my head, then realized he was empty-handed. “Where’s the medicine bag?”
“Already left it in the other room. You weren’t exactly quick to your feet.”
Julie was one of the original tenants. In the beginning we’d stalked each other, waiting to declare ourselves friend or foe. We turned the corner when he decided he liked the way I treated Mrs. Sullivan who was a touch too old to fend for herself. For my part, I enjoyed the air of mystery and knowledge that filled any room Julius entered. I also liked the rent arrangement.
I squinted the clock into focus. “Then why the fuck are you talking to me?”
He grimaced and chuckled. It sounded like a woofer in his throat. “Got a treat for you, Slumlord.”
“You’ve changed your mind about providing me with syringeables?”
He shook his head. “I do not enjoy your sense of humor as it pertains to drugs.” I shrugged. “Neither did Gloria when she was my shrink.”
“Perhaps you might consider a return visit or two?”
I grabbed my heart and grinned. “You sure know how to hurt a guy, Julie, but she wouldn’t take me back.”
He shrugged and settled on the battered Oriental next to the coffee table. He reached into his pocket but stared at me expectantly before taking out his hand. I slipped down from the couch and joined him on the floor. He nodded and pulled out a little round ball of tinfoil. A smile crossed my face and I stood to get a pipe. Julie motioned me back down.
“Don’t need nothing fancy. Got us a steamer.”
“I like the hit,” he said. “Do we need a knife?”
He looked at me. “Still as white as your skin, eh? You got a silver spoon for coke? Or maybe one of those machines that rolls joints?” He cackled as he bent over the table and unwrapped the hash.
“Got to be nasty, don’t you? Just can’t stand your own generosity?” Julie glanced up at me. “You said you don’t see your shrink no more.”
He lifted a ball of very black hash between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed. He fished a disposable lighter from his shirt pocket and, for a second or two, held a flame under the hash. He nodded to me and I took the lighter from his hand and gave him the steamer. He rubbed his finger on the heated section and we both watched as pieces crumpled into the makeshift bowl. He started to hand it to me, but I shook my head. Julius shrugged and lit the dope. I watched the tinfoil quiver with his inhale.
He passed me the steamer and I lit up. Suddenly my lungs were burning, my eyes watering. Billowing smoke exploded from my mouth along with a hacking cough. Julius grabbed the toilet paper tube and waited silently for my gasping to subside.
“I guess I overtoked.” I could barely squeeze the words past the tremors in my lungs. “Is there anything left?” I hissed.
He kept his face impassive as he handed me back the steamer. I relit and carefully inhaled, mindful of the pounding in my chest.
A look of amusement crossed Julie’s face. “You might have waited a moment.”
I handed back his pipe and struggled to keep the smoke down. He dumped the ashes and rubbed more hash in. I felt my fingertips grow airy and everything begin to slow. Julie finished his toke and I took another. I held my breath and felt the dope trail its way around my body, massaging as it burrowed into my nerves. I thought about protesting when he put the pipe on the table, but it didn’t look like he was going anywhere. I pushed the table out of the way, lay down on my side, and leaned on my elbow. The room seemed a tone brighter.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 32
