Los Angeles Noir 2

by Denise Hamilton

  “You left again,” Uncle Jack says.

  “You can’t leave,” my mother says. Her eyes, red and desperate.

  “Where did you go?” my aunt asks.

  I don’t say anything. I smile.

  “Jesus! She’s high again.”

  Mother stands and runs to the other side of the room and starts crying. I start for the bedroom but my uncle is forcing me down into a bean bag. I make a big slosh as I land. He’s so mad he’s sputtering.

  “Do you know what you’re doing to your mother, us? We are trying to help you. And you go out in your robe and slippers wearing a rag on your head like you’re some kind of cheap hooker on Normandie.”

  I don’t look at him. Instead I look at my slippers. What’s wrong with my slippers? They’re clean.

  “We took you and your mother in because she needs help. We’re going to give her that help. If we can’t help you here we’re going to have to commit you. But you’re going to get help.”

  He keeps saying give, get and going. Maybe I should get going.

  “Don’t you have something to say?”

  I shake my head.

  “Where did you go, to the jungle to buy crack?”

  “I did not!” I say but a scream comes out. Everybody jumps. I try to struggle out of the bean bag but I tumble over. My mother rushes over, grabbing me, holding on like I’m going to run.

  “Baby, baby, were you with that boy? You weren’t with him, were you?”

  With him? Wow, I thought she knew.

  “I saw him but I wasn’t with him.”

  They’re looking at me, all in my face.

  “I thought you promised me you wouldn’t see him after all he’s done to you,” Mother says, tears rolling down her face. She cries even better than before.

  “I wasn’t with him. I saw him … from a distance.”

  “I bet he’s the one who gave it to her,” Jack says, positively irate.

  Auntie throws her hands up and goes for the phone. “I’m calling. There’s no way we can handle this. This girl needs professional help.”

  Mother pulls me out of the bean bag, with one hand, just yanks me up.

  “See, she’s making the phone call. We can’t handle this. We can’t watch you twenty-four hours a day.”

  Funny, they keep saying the same things.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Me?”

  Jack grabs me by the arm and drags me to the room I was trying to get to in the first place. He pushes me in, Mother watching.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Mother comes in and gives me a hug. She’s wearing Chanel. “We love you. You’ve got to try …”

  I wait for her to complete the sentence. Fill in the blank. To get ahold of myself. To control myself. Not hurt myself.

  “Jesus. She’s laughing again. She’s not listening to anything.”

  “I’m listening!” Another scream.

  Mother almost jumps off the bed. Uncle Jack shakes his head and leaves.

  “You really are sick,” Mother says, whispering like she doesn’t want me to hear.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You need so much help.”

  “You should get a cut like mine. It’s very summery.”

  Mother draws back. Pulls my hand from her hair. She should get it dyed too, I don’t care for all of that gray. Now she’s holding on to me crying again. Softly, so Uncle Jack can’t hear. He’s so full of himself.

  “Rika. You got to promise me not to see that Doug again.”

  “Mother, I thought you knew. Doug’s no longer with us.”

  “What?” she says, her blue eyes streaked with red.

  “He’s gone to his reward.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, Mother. They buried him today.”

  “And you went to the funeral in a bathrobe?”

  “I didn’t get out of the car. It was okay.”

  “Are you sure …?”

  Mother’s so happy. She doesn’t want to believe me.

  “Yes, I’m very sure.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us? It explains so much.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “Oh, baby. I really didn’t know.”

  Again, she wraps her arms around me and cries, tears drip onto my cheeks. It’s embarrassing.

  “Mother, you should go and get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

  She looks at me, what’s the word? Forlorn, forlornly. I’ve made her so sad.

  “I am tired.”

  She kisses me and heads for the door.

  “If you need me …”

  I nod. She tries so hard. I hear Uncle Jack at the door locking me in. I hope nobody’s smoking in bed! What’s on the tube? I turn it on and turn down the sound. Who needs the words and lie back. What time is it? Eight-thirty. Much too early to go to bed. But I am tired too.

  What I don’t understand is how I feel. Suddenly everything changes. I don’t feel good at all. Comes in waves, my good humor washing away like sand castles. Isn’t that it. That nothing lasts, nothing keeps, specially a buzz. I’m not like you, though. You’re the kind of man that would make his woman sit in a car; yes, it was a Benz but so what, and for how long? Once, I sat in that leather-lined pimpmobile for four hot hours, getting out only once to use the bathroom. Knocked on the door of that run-down house and there you were, with your associates, four or five very dumb-looking future felons watching a basketball game in a smoky living room. Then it was only the smoke of the best Ses but soon we would all be smoking the roach powder. You actually looked pissed as though I had no reason at all for interrupting the festivities, even if I did have to go in the worst way. You looked at me like I was the stupidest, the ugliest bitch in the world but you failed to notice the way your associates were ogling me. You saw me like everyone first saw me, a fine, high-yella bitch, who looked like a model with good hair and green eyes. Wasn’t I a trophy? I had to be stuck up, I had the look of someone who had to be stuck up. And you had to have it. You had to train me because I needed to be turned into a obedient bitch, and because I have certain problems I went along with the program. But you didn’t know then, that because you made me sit and fetch and wait on hot leather seats for master to bring me a bone, that I wouldn’t forget, that the bitch would bite that bone.

  Let me turn out the light, turn off that TV, this room looks like an ugly motel, cottage cheese ceiling, hot green, oversized couch—where did they get this stuff? Better in the dark, cooler.

  It didn’t start that way. You came into the Speak Easy like you were going to yank some girl off the dance floor and take her to the car and do a Ted Bundy on her. I’m sure you thought you were the most dangerous player there, bigger, younger, better looking. But baby, baby, nobody was fooled. The girls there knew, knew you had the wrong zip code, even if you have a fat wallet. Too, too wet for a girl who wanted a legitimate money man, that’s why you didn’t get much play. You were in the wrong neighborhood. I saw you coming but you know, right then, you were just the thing for me, what I was looking for. I really hate to be bored. More than anything, more than getting slapped by a man who doesn’t know he’d prefer a boy or driven up the coast and left to find my way home. See, all of that wasn’t fun, but baby, I wasn’t bored and I got their numbers, paid them back in kind. So when I saw you, a young buck-wild businessman, I just knew you were the ticket to go places I’ve been and wanted to get back to.

  “Are you with somebody?” is the first thing you said to me leaning back in your chair to show your thousand-dollar suit to its best advantage.

  “No,” I said. And gave you a wet-lipped smile and, Douglas baby, you were sprung. I could have had it then, twisted you into the most vicious knots I could have imagined but I wanted to see, see how far we were going to go. Just how bad it was going to be.

  Somebody’s at the door. Probably Mother, wondering if I’m okay, or Uncle Jack wondering if I managed to slip out again. They think because it’s
deadlocked I’m securely tucked away. Too stupid. Soon enough and I’ll be making like a roach and bug on out of here.

  Oh, how nice. I slept. At least three hours of beauty rest. See, with you we never had time for sleeping; either we were chasing the rock or fucking or fighting. But now, since you’ve gone on to your reward, I actually find time to rest. That’s why I look better, that haggardness is gone. Sleep is truly a wonderful thing. What’s it like to be dead? Do you see me? Do you see me when I smoke your money and you’re not there to share the happiness, the bliss? Do you see me getting on my knees and giving a high school boy the best blowjob of his life for a couple rocks? Not that I have to do it, I still have quite a stash, but baby, I’m not being simply frugal, though frugality is to be admired, really, the kick is imagining you spinning in your ten-thousand-dollar coffin. How sweet!

  I should go. I’m not getting any happier. Sooner or later I’m going to have to get back to it. The job of feeling good about myself, going on a mission to shake my money maker. It’s distasteful. Compared to the creeps I have to deal with now that you’re gone, you were the perfect gentleman. Even though you were inclined to punch and slap and burn, you did it with conviction, that’s the kind of lover you were, resentful, mistrustful and destructive, but we shared those qualities. But Douglas, to these young men, a woman is less than a dog, less than a shrimp plate at Sizzler. They have no idea what relationship is all about. It’s like a woman doesn’t exist other than for a fuck or to cut. Too simple for my tastes. But I have a taste for the burning white smoke, rolling into my lungs to restore my good humor for five good minutes, smoke it all, my five-O limit. I can exert self-control, something you never managed to do. See, I smoke so I won’t be sour, I prefer anything to being sour. Remember when we smoked fifteen hundred worth, and you started choking, really, turning code blue? What was I supposed to do? Call 911? But that’s not me, no. You laid there on your back gasping, vomiting, looking like you had bought it. I knelt by your side, saying, “I told you nobody can smoke that much.” Sure, it was after the fact, but did you listen? I don’t know what happened because I had to leave, couldn’t sit there and watch you expire. Just like I can’t lie here and reminisce about the good old times. One has to live in the present.

  What’s a deadlock if you have the key? There I go being ironic, but you never understood irony so you don’t get the joke. Outside my dark room the hallway is brightly lit, and in the kitchen, near the living room, is my Uncle Jack, dead asleep. I guess he thought he could find out how I do it, make such quick exits. The front door opens without a creak and I slip out. Oh, the sweet fresh air, how I love it. Slip into the auto, take it out of gear and coast downhill. Yes. And the land quickly changes. From the upper-middle-class split-level ranches down to the jungle apartment complexes. Not stopping, no, not for a stop sign, I’m on a mission. I got a surprise for the fat man. How unusual, no one is lurking in front of the Kona apartments, but the yellow light is on. Where are they, the police? It would be stupid to just rush out and plunge headlong into trouble. But what the hey. Yes, the door is unlocked. Inside, I don’t see anyone waiting to do something nasty to me. Are things askew or am I getting more and more paranoid? Guess I’ll mosey up and see with my own God-given eyes the situation. The hard steel door hurts my knuckles but I knock sharply anyway. Someone walks to the door, must be looking through the spy hole at me. I put my eye to the cold metal of the door. “Fuck” is said and I hear the door unlock even through the noise of the TV. It swings open and there he is, Alton, Mister Tub O’Lard.

  “Hey, it’s Miss It. She’s back.”

  He grabs me by the arm and leads me into the little nut hole of a living room, nowhere to sit but a nasty couch.

  “You got money, or is it gonna be the usual?”

  I nod.

  “What’s that mean?”

  I shrug.

  He opens his ham-sized arms wide and gestures for me to see the almost empty room.

  “We closing up shop. Too hot round here. Police be sweating a brother twenty-four-seven.”

  He comes over, perspiring like he’s drunk, and opens my robe.

  “Ooh, that bra is cute but you don’t need to be wearing one flat as you is.”

  I smile sweetly, as he pulls my bra aside and takes hold of my nipple and rubs it clumsily. Thinking of what the next few minutes will bring, I smile even more sweetly.

  “Aw, baby, you should take better care of yourself. Bet you slipped out the house with them curlers in your hair, wearing them silly slippers, to get a blast. You know, ya still pretty, you oughta slow down.”

  Oh, how nice, fat boy is giving me the just-say-no line while he’s leading me into the bedroom. I guess we’re going to be doing it on the mattress. Doesn’t look very sanitary.

  “What’s it gonna be? Do it like I like, two rocks, like you like it, just one.”

  He pulls my robe up, forces me stomach down onto that piss-stained mattress. Down come my panties. I hope you’re watching. I hope you see what he’s going to do to me. He’s grabbing my hips, trying to put it inside my ass, but I wiggle making him slip, hoping he’ll just do it the normal way. He pushes me away, and I roll to the wall.

  “You know how I like it. You don’t give it to me I’m gonna take it.”

  It’s gonna get ugly. Is it time for the surprise? He turns me over and grabs my hips again, and yanks my curlers.

  “Don’t you have oil?”

  “Naw. I like the friction.”

  See, he’s forcing my hand down again, trying to push it in. It won’t go. I won’t let it. Pull the cute little .22 auto out the robe pocket and point it at his big stomach. He stops crawling across the nasty mattress to me. Actually, he’s backing up, smiling like a big fat Cheshire cat.

  “Baby, baby, what you need? I must be scaring you. I got it in the other room, everything you need. Rocked and ready to go.”

  I smile. How sweet, he’s begging just like a dog. I might be a crazy bitch but he’s a begging dog.

  “Pull up your pants.”

  “Baby,” he says whining pitifully, he really thinks I’m going to shoot him.

  “Kneel,” I say, he does. We’re both the same height now.

  “Were you going to hit me?”

  “Hit you? Baby, it ain’t like that. You didn’t hear me right.”

  “Didn’t hear you about what?”

  With my left hand, I pull up my panties, the gun feels light in my right. Wonder if it’s loaded. I think I loaded it but now … oh well. We both kneel there awhile, him looking at the gun then my eyes. I know he’s going to go for it. He stands up, big belly aquivering.

  “Fuck you. You ain’t gonna shoot me.”

  He comes toward me, then launches himself like a big, fat blanket into the air. His big hams stretched out for me. I squeeze the trigger three times. Three sharp cracks and he’s flying in reverse, rolling to the wall, all bug-eyed, trying to scramble to his feet. He can’t, must have broken a bone in his leg. But he’s not bleeding badly. Look, he’s covering his big bald head, must be afraid I’m going to crack it like a big brown egg.

  “It’s in the kitchen. Take it. You don’t gotta shoot me.”

  “Baby, isn’t that for me to decide?”

  “Sure, whatever.” His big eyes are tugging at me. Pleading for me to let him live. I bet he has a wife and a child at home or a old mother he has to support.

  I leave the fat boy and go into the kitchen. Talk about dirty dishes, all kinds of filth. There’s what I need on the table, still in the pan. Empty the cake into a plastic bag, and take my leave. In the living room I see Mr. Tub O’Lard’s gun, it’s a big one, something to have, so I put it in my other pocket and go to the door. Shit, it’s deadlocked. He’s got the key. Back in the bedroom, he’s out, slumped against the wall.

  “I need the key.”

  Oh shit. He’s out. He can’t be dead. I don’t touch the deceased. And he’s bleeding. I hate the sight of blood. Ugh, must I push him over?r />
  “I got it. Kaiser card’s in the wallet.”

  Oh, he’s not dead. Just delirious. Pants are too tight though. How I’m supposed to get the keys?

  “I need the keys,” I say sweetly.

  “Key? Oh yeah, the keys.” He reaches around into his back pocket, must be painful the way he’s flinching, but like the good boy he is, he comes up with them and tries a toss but they roll out of his hand onto the brown carpet that’s quickly turning red.

  “Thanks,” I say and cut for the door. Must be nervous because I fumble with the keys, takes what seems like hours to get the door unlocked. Can’t be too hasty. Peek before you leap. The hallway is empty, but they’re watching, waiting to see who comes running out. Police are probably on their way. I crack the door open. One light for the whole hallway. Point Tub’s big gun. Have to use two hands to point this big thing. Smooth, that’s what you said. How to pull the trigger. Boom! Boom! Plaster flies everywhere. The light still shines. Damn gun just about broke my wrist. Boom! Boom! Boom! There she blows and I’m in the dark. Drop the gun outside and run. The two lowlifes watching from across the street scatter when they see me coming but I bet they’ll sneak over and find Fat Boy’s gun before the police get here. It’s worth a dozen rocks.

  “They’re shooting in there!” I yell. Sometimes it’s good to state the obvious. I get to my car, throw myself in and burn rubber up the hill. In the rearview mirror I see the red and blue strobes snaking onto Hillcrest. Good, Don Diablo. Who named these streets? I hit the garage opener and pull the car in. See, Douglas, it’s not hard to get what you want if you know what you want and you’re willing to work for it. Now if I wanted to die, all I would have to do is leave this car running and close the garage door and inhale. Sure, this Lincoln would have shit-stained seats but that wouldn’t be my problem. But I don’t have a problem, at least not right now. I’ve got cake in my pocket. Crack off a piece, a nice-sized chunk, and fit it into the pipe and fire it up. The red flame turns blue and I can see myself in the rearview mirror. My eyes, pupils are wide as plates, couple of full-lunged hits, though, shrinks them to the size of pinpoints. The buzz-expand-run-run-run till the soft spot hums. Is that it? I try another and another and another till every part of me hums. How much do I have to smoke till I get enough? I don’t know but we’ll find out.