It was five minutes from the back of the building to my old Subaru, and a shade over three hours from the Subaru to my front room in Portland. I was almost through with the count the skinny kid in the Seahawks jacket had begun when the phone rang and I found out I didn’t need money anymore.
TWO
The puta knocked just as Fernando came out of the john. He padded over to the door, but he didn’t open it.
She’s a new one, he thought. Let her fuckin’ wait.
He peered through the peephole in the door, and even through the fish-eye lens the girl standing on the other side began to change his mood. She was not blonde like Rebecca, and not tall and not stacked. She’s totally not my type, he thought, but the longer he stared at her through the peephole, the less enamored of his type he became.
Fuck this waiting, he said silently. He opened the door, the girl slipped inside, and he locked and chained the door behind her. She looked him up and down for a moment, lingering around the halfway point long enough to make him glad that he was standing unclothed before her.
“You look ready to have some fun,” she said, glancing from his nakedness to his eyes and smiling all the way.
“I am now,” he said.
“I’m Lizzie,” she said, extending her right hand in his direction. “I take it you’re Fernando.”
“And if I’m not?” he said, taking her hand in both of his.
“Then fuck Fernando,” she said. “I know a good thing when I see it.”
He liked the way that sounded, and the way she looked when she said it. He even liked the blue Nike sweats she was wearing and the white sneakers on her feet—they made her look like an athlete on her way back from the gym or the rink, and the sports bag slung over her shoulder did nothing to dispel that image.
Her grip was strong in his hands, and he found that he liked that, too. “Welcome,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping deftly around him and perching on the only chair in the room. “Please,” she said, pointing toward the bed. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He stepped to the bed and sat down, leaning back a little on his hands to make the muscles of his torso taut.
“So you called for Rebecca,” she said, still smiling a little. He nodded silently.
“And they told you she’s out of town?”
He nodded again.
“Are you disappointed?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Why don’t we take care of the service, and then I’ll go get changed.”
Fuckin’ puta, he thought, his foul mood from before falling over him again. It always comes back to money.
“Take what you need,” he said, nodding toward the roll of fifties next to the switchblade on the nightstand less than an arm’s length from her chair.
She looked at the money and the knife, then back at him. “What’s the knife for?” she asked soberly, the trace of a smile gone from her voice.
“It’s a habit, mostly,” he said. “I feel more comfortable with it than without it.”
“I’m just the opposite,” she said. “I’m much more comfortable without it.”
“Take it with you when you change,” he said. “You can leave it in the bathroom.”
She thought that over for a minute. “Thanks,” she said finally. “It’s one-fifty for thirty minutes and two-fifty for an hour.”
“How much is it for all night?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m already booked for the rest of the night.”
Booked my ass, he thought.
“One-fifty, then,” he said.
She plucked three fifties from the roll and slipped them and the knife into the left pocket of her sweat jacket. “Just give me a minute to call the service,” she said. “Then we can get this party started.”
This party has already started, he said silently.
She rose from the chair, strode to the low bureau beneath the mirror, picked the receiver up, and began punching numbers. “This is Lizzie,” she said after a moment or two. “I’m at the Evergreen, Room One-thirty-two. I’ll call you back in thirty minutes. See ya.”
You won’t be done in thirty minutes, he said to himself.
She replaced the receiver and moved toward the bathroom. “Don’t start without me,” she said from the doorway. “I’ll be right out.”
Don’t worry, you fuckin’ puta, he thought. I’m savin’ it all for you.
He leaned back on top of the bed, rested his arms on the pillow which covered the second knife, and then propped his head on his arms.
The Nike sweats were spilling out of the sports bag when she returned to the room, and the view of the girl provided by their new location almost changed his mood again. She was wearing something thin and red and slinky that pretended to cover her from the top of her shoulders to the middle of her thighs, but it was a sham all the way. He could see the hard nipples on her small breasts and the dark flash of her pubic hair when she moved.
“You like?” she asked.
“Si,” he said, almost in spite of himself.
“That’s good,” she said, dropping the bag next to the bed and herself next to him. “You’re in for a real treat, Fernando.”
I know I am, he said to himself.
“I am?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I can’t do anything illegal here, so the rules are we can’t touch each other. But I’m going to give you a show like you’ve never seen in your life. You won’t be able to keep your hands off that beautiful cock of yours, I promise you. If you like it, you can tip me what you think it was worth when we’re done. Fair enough?”
Unbelievable, he thought.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he said.
“Good,” she said, almost humming it to him. “That’s very good.” Then she cupped her right breast in her left hand and began to caress the tip of it through the slinky red material.
“God, I feel hot,” she said. “Just looking at you turns me on, Fernando.”
Sure it does, he said to himself.
“Do you like what you do to my nipples?” she asked, moving one hand to each of them and touching them softly.
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself a little.
“So do I,” she said. Then she stood on the bed with her back to the wall and placed one foot on each side of his head. He looked up her legs and watched her bring one hand to her genitals.
“God, Fernando,” she said. “You’re making me so wet.”
You’re pretty good, he said to himself as he watched the ministrations of her hand. She continued what she was doing for several quiet moments, and he continued to watch her. Then she bent slowly at the waist and lowered her head until he could feel her breath on his penis.
“Stroke yourself, Fernando,” she said. “I want to watch you do it.”
Why the fuck not, he asked himself. He reached down with his right hand and began to do as she had requested, watching her stroke herself above him as he did it. Then she began to blow her warm breath up and down the length of his penis as he caressed it.
“Come for me, Fernando,” she said. “Let me see you come.”
Why the fuck not, he asked himself again. He watched the flicker of her fingers above him, savored her breath on his genitals, and stroked himself until he climaxed. She stepped down from the bed, reached into her bag, and handed him a towel.
“Nice, huh?” she said.
He nodded. “Very,” he said, swabbing at himself with the towel. “Now you can blow me until I’m ready to fuck you.”
She moved a step back from the bed and drew her bag up in front of her. “You know we can’t do that,” she said.
“Sure we can,” he said. “People do it all the time.”
“I explained that earlier, Fernando.”
He reached beneath the pillow and extracted the knife with his left hand, releasing the blade as he did it. “And now I’m explaining something to you, you fucki
n’ puta.”
She reached into the bag, then let it fall away. He saw the .22 before the bag hit the floor, and he watched in disbelief as she clasped both hands around the grip and raised her arms until the gun’s unblinking eye was trained on his naked chest.
“No, Fernando,” she said. “I do all the explaining here.”
“This is supposed to scare me?” he asked, measuring the distance between the gun and the knife as he spoke. “You don’t have the cajones to use that thing.”
“It doesn’t take cajones,” she said. “All it takes is a finger.”
“Really?” he said. “How many people have you shot so far?”
“Drop the knife, Fernando.”
Sure, he said to himself as he rolled under the gun and slashed at her right arm.
The gun sounded like it went off in his left ear, but he felt the searing impact of the bullet high in his shoulder. Then his blade drew blood, the girl screamed, the gun fell to the floor, and Fernando began to grin.
“You shot me,” he said slowly. “I can’t believe you just shot me.”
She made no reply, and neither of them moved until Morton started pounding on the door of the room. Then Fernando flipped the knife from his wounded side to the other and the girl darted to her right in an effort to get around the bed. She ran into a round kick that bounced her off the bureau, but when he closed in on her she came up with the phone in both hands and slammed it against the side of his head.
The blow staggered him enough for her to slip away and reach the door, but the chain did its job when she tried to pull the door open. He could see Morton through the gap allowed by the chain, and so could the girl.
“Help me!” the girl shouted.
“Fernando!” Morton said. “What the fuck’s goin’ on in there?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Fernando said as he came up behind the girl. “And get the fuck away from my door.”
The girl slammed the door in Morton’s face and made a try at releasing the chain, but Fernando wrapped his left arm around her neck and pulled her close. The fire in his left shoulder almost made him scream as he held her, but he liked having his strong arm free for the knife so he tightened his grasp and let the shoulder burn.
“You should have just fucked me,” he said into her ear. “Only one of us is gonna like this better than fucking.”
The puta made no response except to hang all of her weight on his wounded arm until he couldn’t bear it any longer. When he dropped her, she threw her right elbow into his crotch and twisted her way back to the door.
The blow doubled him over, but not for as long as the girl’s escape required. She still had both hands on the chain when he came up behind her again, and this time he touched her with nothing but the knife. He made one swift incision, true and deep, and blood spurted from the artery in her neck.
Go ahead, he said to himself, try to stop the bleeding with your hands. She clutched her throat as if she could read his mind, then she stumbled and dropped heavily to the floor. Fernando stood over her and grinned quietly while her fingers turned crimson and her life slowly leaked out of her grasp.
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Here's a preview from The Art of Redemption by Bob Truluck.
[1]
The Mexican pilot wasn’t bad. He dropped the big Boeing on the wet tarmac like it was something he did all the time.
Jimmy Cotton made some vague hand jive at the boss sky waitress. She nodded.
The seat belt light was still on, the plane still moving, but slowly. The attendant says, in Spanish, over the speaker, how everyone needs to stay seated until notified.
Some grumbles. Jimmy got up, grabbed his bag, grabbed a stuffed monkey. The plane jolted to a stop.
Anna was asleep on her seat. Jimmy collected her and she roused.
“Where’s Mama, Crazy Jimmy?”
Seven. Impressionable. Only pretty much everyone in Cuba she saw said Jimmy was crazy. Loco Norte Americano. Walked in, demanded the girl.
Got her. Got her quick. Got her home quick—looked like.
“End of the walkway, peanut. Hang on.”
Anna buried her head in Jimmy’s neck, maybe crying. Said: “Hurry, Crazy Jimmy.”
Jimmy hurried. Bum rushed the family. Hug mama. Hug some tías, shake some tíos’ hands.
He said bye. His father lay ill and dying. Had to run. So sorry.
It was a lie. His father was thirty-five years dead.
[2]
Hospitals seem to keep it waiting at the door to remind you where you are. Death and dying, the septic stench of sickness. Jimmy moved through the unencouraging atmosphere to a room with an open door.
Joe Ready lay on his back on a bed. Sheet to chest, arms folded, tubes lying around. He looked a little like some forgotten marionette.
Jimmy found a metal chair no one had wasted many non-utilitarian issues on, slid it over, and sat.
The silence megaphoned Joe’s steady breath. Jimmy could hear his own.
He sat back, put an ankle on a knee, watched the old man.
Eyelids fluttered, and cool ageless blue eyes took in some ceiling.
“What’s up, Joe?”
A deep breath like dry corn husks rustling. “How you doing, kid?”
“Better’n you, viejo.”
“Yeah. You and everybody else still breathing.” Pause to breathe. “Looks like I lied about making that century.”
Jimmy nodded. “Yeah. I was just thinking about that.”
The fatalism in the words jumped up and shouted.
“Who knows, Joe?”
The silence was dainty like dancing elephants are dainty.
“Nah, kid, this is it. I feel it inside. I still got the juice to do it; my body don’t, though.”
More elephant silence.
“You find the kid?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy watched the side of Joe’s face. He was old.
“She okay?”
“Yeah. She was in Cuba with her pop.”
“The one everyone kept insisting was dead?”
“You called it.”
“Yeah, well that don’t exactly make me Jean Dixon, baby.” A small silence. “It was good, wasn’t it, kid?
“What’s that, Joe?”
“The run. Me and you.”
“Great. I’m glad I threw in with you.” Joe’s term. One from the old days.
He’d mentioned something about how they’d thrown in together back in the seventies. Truth was Jimmy’d thrown in with Joe Ready.
The dry chuckle. “I got you, didn’t I? The first time? Got you good, huh?”
“Yeah you did, Joe. Took me to school.” Jimmy grinned at the memory. He could grin now. When it happened, it wasn’t funny a little.
“You been set up since?”
“No.” Not even close to that.
Joe turned his head a bit. He still couldn’t see Jimmy.
“Tell me about it, kid. And, for God’s sake, put this fucking bed up; bring your chair around so’s I can see you. Goddam, lemme die with a little dignity.”
Jimmy moved his chair, pushed some buttons on a plastic box to bring Joe more upright, and sat.
Joe Ready’s eyes looked at him and smiled. They were the same eyes that smiled at him thirty-odd back when Jimmy met him.
“Where you want me to start? Woodstock?” Jimmy was being funny.
Joe moved a parchment hand. “Fuck Woodstock. Start some-where just before I came in. Set me up here. Okay—start with your lucky number, Kent State, that shit.”
Jimmy nodded. Joe closed his eyes, a hand palsied, and he could have been asleep.
Jimmy spoke slowly and directly at Joe. He watched Joe, watched Joe’s temple pulse under the parchment skin.
[3]
Lucky break—a three hundred fifty-three outta three sixty-six; Jimmy’s roomie pulls a three. The guy was good as gone.
Could even get drafted into the freaking Marines. The roomie started talking options: Air Force, Navy, rese
rves—the six-year dodge. Only psychos joined the Marines, right? Canada? Europe? Mexico? The guy skied out for Amsterdam and Jimmy never saw him again.
Winter session, 1969. A cold fucking December in Ohio, the wind whipping off that godforsaken lake. The draft lottery was all there was right then. Luck up, luck down, too close to call. Depended on your number. The number was everything.
Then March and some gunfire, Jimmy right there in it. People going down. Screams, panic. Jimmy ran. Kept running. Up the stairs to his apartment, packed his shit, put it in his car. On the road.
Twenty-one, unencumbered and just about clueless.
Went to his sister’s in Atlanta. Her husband was an officer in the Guard there. He and Jimmy didn’t share many warm moments, Jimmy sure the guy’d change his tune his guard unit got called active.
The second Atlanta Pop Festival was going on down the road, a place an exit sign called Byron. Jimmy drifted down, did some real good acid and some real bad acid, lost his car for three days.
Got to see Hendrix do Star Spangled Banner ten months before he croaked in London. Man played the song with his dick. Turned the fucking guitar around and strummed it with his dick.
Jimmy found his car, flushed out the road trash that had commandeered it—two guys and a girl.
They asked for a ride. Jimmy asked which way they were going. They must have seen his Kent State sticker—one of them said Cincinnati.
South it was. He put the fried, untidy trio in his rearview. Did some more I-75 south.
A bit of Daytona, a bit of Lauderdale, and his last two bucks worth of gas put Jimmy at his mom’s condo in West Palm Beach. Oceanside, ground floor. Old fucks. Boredom. Masturbation. No drugs.
Then he met some kids at the park, got laid, stoned, and connected in an afternoon. Life was at least tolerable again. But for the boredom. Big, unhandy pieces of the stuff.
Jimmy tried a couple of times to explain it to his mom, why he was done with school for awhile. She’d look bewildered, reminding Jimmy how his father had expressly stated that Jimmy should finish school. Jimmy’d remind his mom how his dad had died and really wasn’t around to discuss it, was he?
The Innocents Page 28
