by Kevin Wright
Something bumped in the bedroom; he bolted upright.
“Hello? Winthrop?” he called out as Winthrop, the white Persian snob of a cat, glided out of the dark bedroom in his typical kingly manner. “Hey, cat, and how was your day?”
Winthrop slid under the coffee table then between Peter’s legs, rubbing up against both of them.
“Rough, apparently.” Peter leaned forward and scratched Winthrop’s back. The cat arched to maximize his pleasure. Then Winthrop looked up and jumped on Peter’s lap. He sat down.
“Your highness, I’m trying to eat,” Peter said, holding his slice over the cat. Winthrop did not seem to care and did not seem to move. He settled in. “Great.”
* * * *
Peter reached for his fourth slice and settled back into the soft couch when something bumped in the bedroom. Glancing over, Peter tried to both stand and dislodge the cat. Winthrop, however, was comfortable, and so Peter failed doubly. The bedroom door, ajar, suddenly opened, and three men stepped out of the dark.
“What the—?” Peter bolted up and back, pizza in hand, Winthrop glued to his chest.
The men advanced.
One was Carlo. The meat cleaver was gone, replaced by a butterfly knife which he adroitly flipped open. Two men flanked him, smaller men, but still big. They all wore green Celtics jackets. “Hey, boy. We still got some business,” Carlo said, pointing with the knife.
“Dude, I — I just moved in two days ago.” Peter tried to wrench the cat free, which had buried its four sets of claws into his chest. “I don’t know you or what’s-her-name?” There was no way out, except the window, which was locked, or the doorway into the kitchen, but he’d have to get by Carlo and his goons.
“So, you ain’t fucking Therese?”
“Yes! No! She just came to my door and—” Peter gasped. “I’m not fucking her!”
“You broke my hand.” Carlo pulled up his sleeve. A black cast covered his forearm and hand.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Peter said, stepping back, all the while pulling at Winthrop, stuck like Velcro to his chest.
“You’re dead, jefe.” Carlo kicked the coffee table aside.
“AAArrrgg!” Peter ripped Winthrop from his chest, along with a considerable amount of skin, and hurled him point blank at Carlo. Winthrop, poor Winthrop, scared shitless, splatted against Carlo’s face, claws digging in as though it were a new leather couch. A muffled cry erupted from beneath Winthrop’s furred belly.
Carlo’s two goons froze.
Grabbing anything at hand, Peter hurled things, though none so effective as Winthrop. The television clicker bounced off one guy’s head, a root beer bottle and red pepper shaker and pizza box, as well. A lamp, an expensive lamp, followed, shattering against one goon’s face, stunning him. When Peter could find nothing more effective to launch than a pillow, he charged. As the man blocked the hurtling pillow, Peter valiantly kicked him in the crotch, elbowed past him, and snaked into the kitchen.
He snatched his bat.
Carlo, roaring, dislodged Winthrop, hissing, and dove after.
Peter swung round, whack, and slammed Carlo off the shoulder, knocking him back.
At the door, Peter undid the chain and unclicked the deadbolt as one of the goons stormed after. Peter glanced back and, blam, the goon shot.
The bullet ricocheted.
Peter dropped the bat, fumbled open the door, and dove out.
Blam! A window shattered.
Peter missed a step and slid feet first down the flight and sprung down another. He sprinted out the screen door and into the misty night.
Pounding softly over wet grass, past the rusted swing set then over the chain link fence, he scrambled. He slid down the muddy embankment and into a cold stream. Chest heaving, crouching low in icy water, he looked back.
The dull thud of footsteps across grass and disjointed screams in the misty night warned of their approach. Peter turned and ran, splashing barefoot through the trash and the muck and the freezing water.
Chapter 6.
RINGO SHOVED HIS shaggy gray-maned head out the door, looked both ways, and then slammed it shut. “They are gone, my friend, they are gone,” he said. “Relax. They won’t find you here. It’s protected.”
Peter hugged himself warm or at least tried to. His sopping clothes clung to his shivering body. He glanced down at his bare feet. “T-T-Th-Thanks,” he said, glancing around at the shoddy clapboard walls. Protected?
“You’re welcome.” Ringo pulled off his long brown coat to reveal another one beneath. Huffing, he plunked down his trash bag on a long particle-board table. “Sit, sit down, my friend.”
“Thanks.” Peter glanced sidelong at the table in the center of the room then took in the rest of the shelter. An old television perched upon a dented metal trashcan in the corner, and lumpy bunk beds were set all along the walls. A men’s and a women’s locker room lay off to the side.
Icky, that was Peter’s general consensus. The table looked clean, though Peter still refused to touch it. In fact, he tried not to touch anything. If he could have hovered an inch above the floor to avoid touching it with his bare feet, he would have. Alas, levitation was currently beyond his means. Heck, socks were currently beyond his means.
“Told you we don’t bite.” Ringo plunked down next to his trash bag. He dug into his wiry gray beard and pulled out a metal spork. Smiling, he polished it on his jacket. Then he performed the same maneuver with his dentures. When his teeth were spotless and back in place, he buried his arm to the shoulder into his trash bag and rifled around. After numerous clanks and squishes, he pulled out a sardine can, twirled the metal top off, and dug in. “Oh, sorry, you want some?”
“Ah, no, I just ate … food. Thanks,” Peter said, shivering, looking around. Homeless wraiths meandered about. “You said you guys have a phone?”
Ringo slurped and chewed, nodded, and then pointed.
A man stood in the corner talking on the phone, twirling the green cord around his finger. He was naked except for red underwear and black socks.
About twenty other people milled about, some talking to each other, some doing laundry, some watching television. Many just talked amongst themselves or simply to themselves. A shriveled, crusty old hag broke off from the crowd and sat down at the table next to Peter. Seductively, she smiled up at him. “Hi there, handsome.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“Uh, hi.” Peter itched at his shoulder. It was throbbing now that it wasn’t numb from the cold.
“Come here often?” she asked, eyeing him up and down in a way that made Peter, who had just waded through a stream of sewage, feel dirty.
“No.”
“Like older women?” She batted her eyelashes.
“No.”
“What do you like, honey?”
“Full sets of teeth.”
“Oh, you’re so bad.” She smacked him on the arm, and then rubbed it, and then groped it.
“Back off,” Ringo warned, finishing his sardines, except the ones lodged in his beard. “That’s my girl. Ain’t ya, Wanda?” Ringo stroked her snaggily hair. Her tooth gleamed like a brown diamond.
“Oh, you sweet thing,” Wanda blushed.
“Sorry. Look, I’ve got to make a call,” Peter said, rising along with his bile. He made his way to the phone, heard about five words the naked guy on the phone said, and marched straight back and sat down. “Private conversation. Guy likes porn. A lot.” Peter sneezed.
“Got the sniffles, Pete?” Ringo asked, rummaging once more in his trash bag. “Shouldn’t go traipsing round this town after dark, without shoes, in the rain. Ain’t safe.”
“I’m a health nut,” Peter said.
“Ah…” Ringo took a swig from a very expensive bottle of wine as was evident by its classic brown-paper-bag wrapping. “Good for what ails you.” He held the bottle out.
“Thanks.” Peter sneezed again. Water drizzled down his spine. “I don’t drink.”
�
�We need to get you out of those wet clothes, honey.” Wanda’s eyes were aglow. “Get you warm, get you, hot.”
Ringo frowned. “You can toss on some of my things, Pete. I got extras.”
“No thanks,” Peter said, aghast as Ringo rummaged through the trash bag again. He pulled out a yellow tee-shirt and the oldest pair of purple sweatpants left on the planet.
“They’re warm,” Ringo said.
“That’s cause they’re decomposing,” Peter said. He took them and mumbled, “Thanks,” though, and sloshed over to the men’s locker room.
A few men milled about in the locker room. Peter stripped and dried himself off with four-inch squares of toilet paper, which was about as effective as drying himself off with four-inch squares of toilet paper. Then on went Ringo’s extras, and they looked about as sexy as Peter thought they would. “They’re dry,” Peter muttered.
“So I heard Cracker J. got the rot,” Wanda said to Ringo as Peter sat down. “Poor bastard. Funny guy, did that thing with, you know, his ears.”
Ringo nodded in agreement, “Yeah, good bunkmate,” he said. “How about Fred Glinn? On the west side last Thursday, ghouls got him, cops showed up. Too late.”
“Dead?” asked Wanda.
“Yeah.” Ringo pulled a sardine from his beard.
“Rot?”
“No, the cops.”
“Did he get rites?”
“From what I hear, the Padre—”
“What’s a ghoul?” Peter cut in, staring at the guy on the phone. He didn’t appear to be getting off anytime soon. A rat-faced man scurried from the locker room and darted Peter a dirty glare.
Ringo sat back. “How long you been on the street?”
Peter glanced at the man on the phone, who was looking back at him, now. “This is my first night”.
“Whoa! Lucky I found you,” Ringo said. “So, you’re a new one, eh? Or are you one o’ those fallen angels from Bradford Hill, one of them richies? Or a junky?” He leaned forward, whispering, “You a junky, Pete?”
“No, I’m definitely not a junky, or rich.”
Ringo settled back. “Bad news, Pete.”
“Bad news what?” Peter glanced back at the phone. The man on it was still glaring at him.
“Ghouls, Pete,” Ringo said. “You see them pale bastards you run.”
“O-okay.”
“That’s lesson one and there ain’t no lesson two.” Ringo used his spork for emphasis. “Real nasty. Do you fast and hard. Worse than the junkies and the gangsters. Maybe as bad as the Railwalker. Don’t know. Never seen him, thank God.”
“I seen one real close, once,” Wanda’s eyes went wide, “nasty yellow teeth, black eyes. Tried to get me. Claws. He did,” nodding to Ringo for confirmation. “Didn’t though. I’m pretty sly. I seduced him, see? Got him in real close, then wham, I high-tailed it. Made it to Brudnoy’s, thank his great hairy bones.” Wanda made something resembling the sign of the cross and kissed a tinfoil crucifix on rosary beads she had drawn from within her blouse.
“Yeah, Pete, you see one, you run, run fast.” Ringo put his spork and sardine can back in his bag. “So, first night on the streets? Didn’t figure you for no road warrior when I first seen you. Get evicted or something?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, you get caught outside after dusk, you get inside quick,” Ringo said. “Unless you’re on the Path, you get in here, or the Morning Star shelter, or Brudnoy’s. He’ll take you in, even if he don’t want to.” He looked at Wanda, they were both serious. “Gangsters and ghouls out tonight, out every night.”
“So, uh, ghouls, huh?” Peter scratched his shoulder. “They a gang, or something? Call themselves ‘The Ghouls’ or—”
“Uh, phone’s open, Pete,” Ringo said, pointing. He frowned.
Peter stood and turned toward the phone and froze. A half-circle of ragged men stood around him. Most had weapons: knives, clubs, table legs. The little rat-faced man toadied next to the naked-porn guy. The naked-porn guy stood with arms folded, phone receiver in hand held like a club. “We need to talk.”
“About what, McGloin?” Ringo materialized, spork in hand, by Peter’s side.
“Scab, here,” McGloin pointed to the rat-faced man, “says your friend has a mark on his shoulder. Saw it in the locker room when he was changing.”
“I seen it, I did, I seen it.” Scab jumped up and down and pointed like a cracked-out spider monkey.
Peter put a hand to his shoulder. He looked to the door, miles away.
Ringo stepped up between the mob and Peter, the gleam of steel in his hands. “Leave him alone. He’s a friend.”
“Lemme have a look-see at his shoulder and decide if he’s a friend,” McGloin said. He pressed closer; the others behind followed suit. “Take off your shirt, boy.”
“Take a hike,” Ringo growled.
“Scab says it was a bite mark.”
Ringo froze, silent, back still to Peter. “You get bit, kid?”
“Uh, yeah, last night.”
“Orange teeth?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Ringo turned, slowly. “You gotta go, Pete, I’m sorry,” Ringo said. “Against the code, the rules.”
“Even just one night?” Peter glanced out the window. It was down-pouring. He glanced back at the mob. The rain seemed suddenly more inviting.
“Sorry, you seem like a good kid, a bit smart-mouthed, but you gotta,” Ringo said, leaning in and whispering. “These guys’ll kill you.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, Ringo.” Peter raised his hands and slid toward the door. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
The mob closed in, following Peter’s every step. He backed into the door, pushed it open, and stepped out into the cold rain. He was sopping instantly.
Ringo stood in the doorway between Peter and the mob. “Sorry, Pete.”
The door slammed shut, and Peter was left staring at a huge crucifix tacked to the door. ‘Pleasant Valley Shelter’ was painted above it. He stared at it a moment then turned, stepping barefoot into an ankle-deep puddle.
The rain poured down.
Down the path, he slogged, dodging what broken glass and deeper puddles he could see. The door slammed behind him, and footsteps sloshed toward him as he turned, ready to fight, ready to run. It was Wanda, carrying Ringo’s trash-bag.
“Here, these’re Ringo’s.” She handed him the bag. “Said you could have it.”
Peter took it. A coat, a pair of musty socks and a pair of old sneakers were inside. They were dry. Peter pulled them on under Wanda’s close eye. The coat was long, crusty, and musty, but warm.
“Thanks, Wanda. Tell Ringo thanks, too,” Peter said. “I owe him.”
“He knows,” Wanda said. “Says he’s sorry, too.” She leaned forward, slung her rosary beads around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t seem quite so repulsive now. She pulled his hood up over his head. “You know the Joyce bridge, right? Good. Down two streets, and take a left. It’s the closest.”
“Closest what?”
“Shelter. Lord Brudnoy’s.”
“Brudnoy’s, okay.”
“Yeah, just make sure you tell him about your shoulder. Saxonian to Baker street. And, oh, there’s something in the pocket, just in case. Be careful. Bye,” Wanda said, waving as she scrambled up the path.
He watched her go. “Something in the…” he rifled through his pockets and pulled out a long full-tang kitchen knife. As he turned to leave, glancing up at a street sign, he heard Wanda’s voice muffled in the night.
“Peter! Peter! Call him…” she yelled, waving, but it was hard to hear what she was saying, and Peter was not heading back.
Chapter 7.
“RONNIE! HEY RONNIE!” the Chief of police yelled from behind his vast mahogany desk. “Get in here!”
“Yes, sir?” Ronnie poked his red head in the door.
“Is Winters here yet?”
“Haven’t seen him, sir.”
&nb
sp; “Well, why isn’t he?”
“Don’t know, sir, haven’t seen or heard from him.”
“Well, he’s supposed to be here.”
“Yes, sir. You two have a seven o’clock meeting.”
“Does he know that?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Jesus Christ!” The Chief pounded down a fist. “Man has absolutely no respect for my problems. Ghouls, viruses, drugs, and some nut running around ripping people’s faces off. This is a conspiracy! And during an election year! Doesn’t he know that? Doesn’t he know the mayor will have my ass? His ass?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, he’d better,” the Chief said. “God-damned feds. The mayor’s not happy. And you know what that means?” He glared at Ronnie. Without waiting for Ronnie to answer, “It means I’m not happy. I can deal with the drugs and the prostitutes, the gangbangers and ghouls, the Gallows cults and the trolls and the pixies and the Eskimos and whatever-the-hell-else this damn city’s likely to spawn next! Three hundred thousand people in seven square miles! Hell, I don’t even care about the damn disease everyone’s so up in arms about. But something has to be done. Serial killers really creep people out. Oh, hello, Detective Winters. So nice of you to grace me with your presence. Ronnie, that will be all.” He turned to Detective Winters. “Have a seat, detective.”
Detective Winters remained standing, coat dripping wet. He removed his hat, shook the rain off it.
“Tell me you got something, detective.” The Chief drummed a pencil on his desk. “First, though, why is it that you have so much trouble telling time? Seven o’clock, I said.”
“I was working.”
“It’s eight-thirty.”
“My watch says seven.”
“It’s broken.”
“Yes,” Detective Winters said, glancing at the donut box on the Chief’s desk; it was a barren wasteland long devoid of naught but crumbs.
The Chief frowned, his face red, but to his credit, he moved on. “Did you find anything at the scene or at the autopsy?” he asked. “Tell me you found something, a lead, the murder weapon, dental records, a note. Tell me you found a note. Anything. The mayor’s pissed, and it’s my ass on the block.”
