by Joe Clifford
“What are you doing?”
“Tell the truth. You don’t really have a girlfriend, do you?” She pulled on her cigarette, cocking her head to blow smoke out the other side without letting him escape.
“And you don’t have a boyfriend.”
“No,” Alex said, shaking her head slow, “I don’t.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, soft, sweet, warm. He started to kiss her back but stopped, halfheartedly trying to turn his head. She gently guided his face to the center, kissing him slower, biting his lip, scraping nails on his back, lightly tracing his stomach, slipping a hand down the front of his pajamas, under the elastic. She felt him get hard, and waited for him to make the next move, the one they always make, the one to the bedroom. But he didn’t. He lost interest. She tried stirring him back to life, pulling his hands down to her ass, pushing her hips in, but he eluded her grasp.
Alex kept her back to him. This was turning into quite the night. Rejected by Riley. A two-thousand-dollar payday gone. Now she couldn’t even score a pity fuck. And the worst part? She wasn’t sure who was supposed to be on the receiving end of the sympathy.
“Listen, Alex. I like you. And I want to. But not like this. Not with you like this.”
Alex finished her gin, smacking her lips. She brought her mug to the edge of the sink, tipping it over with one finger, ceramic echoing off stainless steel. She slid her jacket on.
“You seem so pissed off, angry. Fucked up. I don’t want it to be like that.”
“This isn’t prom, Nick.” She fanned her hair over the collar. “Every lay doesn’t have to be a special moment to cherish forever. I wanted to feel something other than what I’m feeling right now. It was a one-time offer.” Alex zipped her coat, holding up the square of paper before tucking it away. “Thanks for the names.”
“Where are you going? What do you plan to do?”
“Don’t worry about it. Go back to bed.”
Alex headed down the rickety old steps to her car. She could feel Nick standing on the stairs, watching her, but she didn’t turn around.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sometimes when prescriptions expire, the drug gets stronger, not weaker. That’s what was happening now. Or maybe the gin was making a fiercer impression than she’d anticipated. More than likely it was a combination of things. The pills, the liquor, the seething indignation for having been wronged. Alex had the windows rolled down, the night bitter, crisp, frigid. The harsh winds by the river made her eyes water the faster she went, so she went faster, harder.
Even at her worse, Denise seldom ventured down to these bars along the waterfront. Less because of their rowdy reputation and more because you couldn’t get blood from stones. The wharf was home to welfare cases and lowlifes living on the dole. Then again, her mother couldn’t offer what Alex could. Denise wasn’t smart, wasn’t savvy. Alex passed her mother’s limited intelligence by the time she reached middle school. Worn out and used up, Denise wasn’t as pretty.
Outside the Sweetwater Tavern, Alex had to park in the street, place so crowded, or rather the parking situation so screwy. Walking up to the bar, she saw there was a second, more secluded lot by the water, concealed from the road by a pair of weeping willows. This lot was less congested with only a few vehicles, a pickup truck, a couple bikes, the crotch-rocket kind, secondhand and mickey-moused, but by then she was almost through the door. No point moving her car now.
Unlike the Fireside, Sweetwater wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. There were no big-screen TVs or dartboards, no suburban sports bar vibe. Just billiards and booze, low lighting, the way a bar should be. There were still some college kids traveling in small packs, hoarding a pool table. Frat boys never slum it alone. She didn’t see many women. At least none Alex’s age. Sweetwater comprised serious drinkers, career alcoholics, seasoned locals with that etched-in, hardened look and whittled, uneven eyes, leathery crevices approximating laugh lines.
As soon as Alex stepped inside, she knew she’d be able to find whatever she wanted here. If Alex hadn’t spent the last five years in some of the toughest parts of New York City, she might’ve been intimidated, but the roughest parts of Reine were a block party compared to the mean streets of NYC.
Still, Alex didn’t like flying blind. New place meant she’d need to poke and pry to find out who was holding what, which involved a lot of small talk, flirting and playing the part. Some idiot asking if you’re a cop because he’s seen too many TV shows and believes that cops are obligated to tell the truth.
Getting high tonight started to feel like a chore, requiring more effort than she had to spare. She was about to say forget it, turn around, grab a six-pack and watch sneakers sway from telephone lines, when someone called her name.
“Alex? Alex Salerno! Oh my God! Is that really you?”
Alex forced a smile as the woman rushed over, leaning in for a hug, which Alex returned because she didn’t know what else to do. She had no idea who this woman was.
“I thought you were living in the city.”
“I was. I mean, I am. I’m up visiting.”
The woman pointed at a back table clustered with haggard drinkers. “Come have a drink with us. Cooper is supposed to be stopping by.”
“I can’t,” Alex said, turning over her shoulder, gesturing at the door as if that would explain everything. Alex didn’t know this woman, and she didn’t know anyone named Cooper either. If the woman hadn’t used her full name, Alex would’ve assumed she’d gotten her confused with somebody else.
“Next time, honey, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The woman squeezed her hand and began to walk away.
“Hey,” Alex called after her. “Is anyone holding?” It was worth a shot. Like getting a tattoo or eating sushi, a referral is always best.
The woman pointed past the bar, to an adjacent room.
Maybe she was slipping. Alex should’ve been able to sniff this out. She’d forgotten to let instincts kick in. Because the moment Alex stepped in the other room, she couldn’t believe she’d considered bailing. It was obvious whom she needed to talk to.
He sat in a booth by himself, Yankee baseball hat, older but not creepy old. He spotted her, too. A head bob granted permission to approach. Drawing nearer, she saw he wasn’t bad looking. Considering the slim pickings of this town, might as well have been Hugh Fucking Jackman.
Alex stopped at his table, hands in back pockets, rocking on her heels, surveying surroundings.
“What’s up?” he said, keeping it casual. “Rick.”
Alex had been expecting “Gluehead” or “Hitch,” something more exotic than “Rick.” Rick was the name of the guy who fixed your car, not your neighborhood drug dealer.
“Have a seat,” he said, sliding over, patting the cushion next to him. “I don’t bite.” She didn’t take him up on the offer. Exchanges like this were all about maintaining the power dynamic, the control. “I’m good.”
“I hear you. What are you up to tonight?”
“This and that.”
“This and that?”
“More this. Not enough that.”
Rick grinned. “I might be able to help you out with…that.”
Alex tried not to laugh, how cool he was playing it, King Shit in a shit-kicker town. He had a nice smile, though. Some college boys milled beyond the separation, playing pool, glancing back, checking out her ass.
“Fucking Uniondale, eh?” Rick said. “Hate that fucking college.”
She was starting to like this guy.
“You going to tell me your name?”
“Sorry. Alex.”
“Nice to meet you, Sorry Alex. You live around here?”
“The city.”
“Visiting?”
She nodded.
“Not much of a talker, eh, Sorry Alex visiting from the city?”
&
nbsp; The line made her laugh, even if it wasn’t funny or terribly original. “Been a weird day.”
“Yeah, most of them are weird, aren’t they? We just don’t take the time to notice how weird.” He slipped out of the booth. “What are you drinking?”
“Scotch and soda?”
He slapped the tabletop, pointing a finger. “Scotch and soda, it is.”
Rick headed off to the bar. Alex felt calmer. Relief was moments away, and it was nice to have a normal guy to talk to. Okay. Not normal. But her speed at least, one of her own, water seeking its own level and all that. Since she’d been back, Alex had been struck by persistent reminders of how much she didn’t belong here anymore, like returning to your old high school, walking down miniature hallways and seeing all those tiny lockers. Nothing fit right. What did it say about her life that the first person she felt comfortable around was a drug dealer at a sleazy dive? Then again, she didn’t know for sure he dealt. Except, yeah, she did. And as soon as he sat down with her drink, he dropped any pretense.
“What are you looking for? Up? Down? Sideways?”
For whatever reason, the first thing that came out of her mouth wasn’t “weed” or “Vicodin” but “Kira Shanks.”
Rick didn’t miss a beat. “Girl who went missing way back?”
“Yeah.”
“I was talking about something else.”
“I know.”
Rick looked her over, trying to peg her angle. “Friend of yours?”
“No.”
That made Rick suspicious. She didn’t need that. Should’ve kept her mouth shut. Maybe she’d mistaken his expression, or else dude really was as chill as he projected. Because all he said was, “Cool.” Rick took a sip of his whiskey. “They caught the guy who did her, right? Fat fucking lunatic. What’s his name?”
“Benny. Benny Brudzienski.”
“That’s right. I remember seeing that mongoloid freak walking all over town, picking up plastic bottles from the weeds, eye-fucking crows. People like that—I know it’s not politically correct—but they’re like a mad cow in the slaughterhouse.” Rick mimed firing a shotgun, blowing out make-believe bovine brains.
Alex pulled the paper Nick had given her. “Do you know any of these people?”
Rick read the names, wrinkling his brow, finger to lips, giving it real consideration. “I do. Cole Denning comes in here a lot. If he’s not in this bar, he’s in another one. Don’t see much of Meaghan and Jody these days. Used to. I know they live in Reine. Trista and Patty? Maybe.” He pushed the sheet back, squinting. “Why you so interested?”
Alex shook her head, trying not to crack up. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” he said, sliding out of the booth.
“Where we going?”
“I think I can help you out with those names. Get you some numbers. I have to make a few calls.” He winked. “I know everyone in this town. And in the meantime…” He let the words hang there.
When she didn’t move, Rick pulled a crystalline baggie from his breast pocket, dangling the prize between forefinger and thumb. “You look wound tighter’n a drum. Trust me. This will take the edge off.”
Alex usually stayed away from powders. It was a line she’d drawn. Pot, alcohol, pills. That’s it. Right now, though, her head was rumbling like a late-night freighter. She’d only snorted heroin—she assumed that’s what Rick was holding—once. She didn’t get all the fuss. Didn’t do much but make her sleepy. But if that’s what it took tonight, a small line to smooth the rough and jagged parts, she’d go with it.
As she walked out, the college kids eyed her, no doubt wondering how a guy like Rick got to leave with a woman like Alex. Let them wonder all they wanted. They’d never understand.
Passing through the cluttered parking lot, Alex spotted what she’d missed coming in, the telltale signs that Uniondale University had, indeed, infiltrated the lowdown. On the surface, these beat-up junkers resembled Alex’s car, except these shitboxes had brand-new ski racks on top, high-end stereos inside, blue security lights blinking to ward off any B&E. That’s what Alex hated most about the Noah Lees of this world: they wanted the credit for trenching it without actually getting their hands dirty.
Her cell buzzed with a text. Nick.
You okay?
She’d been expecting this. She fired back a rapid reply, fingers flying in a flurry. Her first response was clear-cut and snarky, but she erased that one, opting for casual, cryptic, cool, and detached. Then she decided he didn’t deserve a response. Let him twist in the wind. Who was he to turn her down?
She’d been so busy raging in her texts she hadn’t realized they were almost to the river, standing in the second, more secluded lot, far from the bar. Weeping willow trees canopied ink-black waters.
“Where are you taking me?”
“That’s my truck.” Rick nodded at the four-wheeler parked river’s edge, mud-splattered undercarriage, jacked-up suspension. “Reine ain’t the wild west anymore. Can’t rip lines on the table.” He wound a reassuring arm to follow.
“That’s okay. I think I changed my mind.”
Alex turned to go and bumped into the other man who’d been hiding behind the tree. Older, more ravaged, reeking of low-tide silt like he’d just crawled out of a tent in the ironweeds.
“I hear there’s a party.” His crooked grin revealed rows of eroded teeth, tiny brown nubs like a kid with a mouthful of Halloween chocolate. He closed in, backing her up to the truck. The door kicked open.
“Come on,” Rick said, patting the seat. “Get her in here, Jackie. Don’t need the fucking cops drivin’ by.”
Jackie hurried Alex along. She had nowhere else to move, backing up the runner. Rick yanked her in by the underarms as she kicked her feet. Jackie hoisted in after, and slammed the door shut.
Out the dirty windshield, discarded train parts—rusted wheels, railroad ties, gears—lazed along the shore, floating on the field’s currents. Moonlight reflected off old storage units, decrepit boat sheds, decimated walkways and pillars, the wreckage of the pier.
No one bothered with introductions. This wasn’t that kind of party. Rick had already taken the liberty of cutting up a couple fat lines. He held out a dollar-bill straw. Sandwiched between the two men, Alex had a line shoved in front of her face.
“I’m good.”
“I’d say you’re a little better than good—”
When Alex didn’t move fast enough, Rick checked her in the ribs to get her attention. “Not a question.”
She took the straw, snorted it all. Threw her head back, eyes burning, ears ringing. “Damn,” was all she said, eyes clearing but tinnitus lingering. She tasted the nasal drip and her heart started to pump double-time. The tingle made her think Molly.
Rick howled. “Shit’s no joke.” He hit his line, snorting harder than a horse. “Goddamn! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” He took off his ball cap, thwapping it against the dash. Up top, he was bald as a cue.
“What about me?” Jackie whined, and Rick dabbed a tiny pile, passing it along, leaning in to nuzzle Alex’s neck as he did so. Alex tried pushing him away, but Rick kept burrowing, like a blind, hairless mole. She heard a loud snort, and felt another set of hands start groping, probing her body. She tried to flare out, wriggle free, but crammed so tight together, she had no room to move, left or right.
Rick nodded out the window, addressing his buddy like Alex wasn’t there. “I’ll go first. You keep watch. Then we switch up.”
“Why I get your sloppy seconds?”
Rick passed along the bag, and Jackie snatched the deal. He kicked open the door and Alex tried to jump out with him but Rick grabbed her hair and yanked the handle shut. He slithered to her neck, licking her skin, his breath rank with halitosis. His hand kneaded her stomach, pawing skin under shirt. She swatted, pushed, shoved, but in the restricted space, Alex was pinned, unable to lift an arm without smacking against the dashboard
or glass. She started to scream and Rick punched her in the mouth. Out the dirty window, she couldn’t make out the moonlight anymore, everything growing dark. Hand between her legs. Alex flailed frantic, fighting back. They wrestled. He won. Hand over mouth, she was flipped over, face down, head pressed into the cracked vinyl, the whole of his weight on her backbone. He tugged at her jeans, pulled them down below her hips. He unbuckled his belt, and when she tried to jerk away this time she took a hard hook to her ribs, to the soft spot underneath, which sapped all air from her.
She drifted far away on pillows of wind in darkening skies…
“Hey! What are you doing in there?” The voice—young, male, aggressive—came from the direction of the bar.
Now several footsteps ran toward them, swarming the truck.
“Get out of there!”
At first Rick didn’t stop, kept her head pressed down, hand over mouth. Then more voices surrounded, shadows rising, looming outside the window. Someone reached for the latch. Rick eased his grip and Alex broke free, cracking an elbow against his teeth.
“You fucking bitch!” Rick covered his face as blood gushed from his nose.
Alex scrambled out the truck, bumping into Jackie, who stood silent, horrified eyes wide with stimulants, hands held high in the sky like he was used to being collared. She bounced off him, trying to pull up her pants, stumbling and spilling in the mucky reeds.
A pair of hands reached for her, but she flung them off.
A college kid stood over her as more of his broad-shouldered brothers arrived, flanking both sides of the truck, making sure doors stayed open and nobody moved. They were clad in Uniondale colors, gold and burgundy, lettered jackets with the word Crew emblazoned in the center.
Rick now sat on the edge of his seat, spitting blood.
“We was just having fun,” Jackie said.
“Doesn’t look like she was having fun.” One of the boys bent down to help Alex to her feet. She couldn’t see straight, blood rushing between her ears, vision blurry, a tidal wave of panic and self-loathing gripping her. She’d walked out with him, gotten in that truck. Why hadn’t she clawed his eyes, fought harder, made a run for it? Screamed bloody murder on the spot? Everything moved too fast. How had she let this happen again?
