CHAPTER EIGHT
BLOW BY BLOW
It was the six p.m. rush at the liquor store; bums, vendors and hookers. And there was Teresa, next in line, a fifth of vodka in her hands. In front of her was a fat bag lady with a Coke and a donut, the dinner of champions. She was arguing with the kid behind the counter about the price of cigarettes and how they should think about lowering the price because they'd lose valuable customers like her if they didn't.
The kid just smiled and nodded, amused by the freak show, in no hurry to move her along.
Teresa stared at the floor. I thought at first she might be stoned, looking at nothing with that vacant smile. Then I checked her eyes and saw that she was worse than stoned...she was straight. She was straight and realizing who she was and where she was and why. And how the night to come and day after that were the reality she hoped was the dream, said reality she would now attempt to turn into a dream via the vodka. At least it would shut out the near future, as nothing would change the too sober present. So she stared at tile and tried to avoid eye contact with the next step up in the chain of humanity.
The fat lady left and it was her turn. The kid leered, looking her over as she handed him the bottle and he rang it up.
"Nice to see you again," he said, with a greasy smile. He shook out a small bag. "Four fifty-five. Or free, if you know what I mean."
She tossed a five on the counter and the kid lost a fraction of his smile momentarily. But he recovered and made change, dropping coins on the counter that bounced to the floor. Teresa grabbed the bag and left, leaving it where it lay.
"Forgot your change," the kid sing-songed after her. He walked out from behind the counter. "Works every time," he said, and bent over to grab the money. I kicked him hard in the ass. He hopped and fell against a display of chips, then to the ground as the bags dropped around him. He jumped up, holding his jaw, turning every which way in mock fury. But he was alone.
Teresa walked around the building to the dark side, avoiding the sunset. It would be night within the hour but she wasn’t waiting for the alignment of heavenly bodies. Her general area, I had learned, consisted of the same few blocks which she covered in entirety three or four times a day, depending on the traffic. Early morning or late evening, the trolley station was usually good for a few bites. During the day, any liquor store. During the night, any liquor store. Rarely did she cruise the streets other than going from point A to B. Position in prostitution, I had learned, was everything.
Now the few moments of serenity she hoped to attain would be against the urine-stained back wall of Main Street Liquor, which was not on Main Street. She found a spot a few feet from the store’s dumpster and sat down, cross-legged, then fixed her skirt before taking a gulp of vodka. The dumpster would give cover, hiding her from cops or customers, and the smell would keep away anyone or anything except lovers of Greek food. She took another gulp, closing her eyes at the brief break.
A later model black BMW pulled around the corner to pull parallel to the building, taking two parking spaces at it did so, and it sat with light illuminating the dusk for a moment before the engine shut off. A man with a pony tail, blue jeans and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone, got out and took a long look at Teresa. She had hidden the bottle under her skirt and replaced it with an inviting smile, which he returned to a lesser extent before going into the store. He came out moments later tapping a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro’s, pulled it out with his teeth, lit it, then looked at Teresa again. He motioned with his head, then his eyes. Even I heard the message. 'Meet me around the corner.' She nodded and he glanced around the parking lot before getting in the car and making a slow u-turn around the building.
Teresa took another swig of the bottle, then another, then finished it with a long third before getting to her feet and dropping it in the dumpster. She walked down the sidewalk slowly, with all the time in the world, and found the car with lights off, idling in the alley. She walked up to the passenger window.
"Need something?"
"Get in." The man's voice was hurried.
"What for?"
"Get in."
"Tell me why."
He told her.
"Fifty."
"Get in."
She did, and I got in the back seconds before he spend off.
“What’s the hurry?” she asked.
"I don't have much time."
"It's still fifty."
"I don't have that much on me."
"I know where every ATM in the city is. Even the drive-thrus."
"Thirty."
"You can let me out here."
"Forty."
"Or here."
"Okay, okay. Fifty."
"First."
He snorted, pulled the bills out of his pocket and tossed them with a brief glance onto her lap.
She scooped them up and put them in her bra, but not before counting them at a glance. "You gonna pull over?"
The guy shook his head. "Too many cops. No, now, while I'm driving."
"Somebody'll see us."
"It's almost dark. I'll stay in the alley and go slow."
Teresa hesitated.
He held out his hand, flat, empty, and motioned the money back.
She held her chest where she'd stashed the money, then shrugged. "Watch the pot holes," she said, and leaned over.
I took in the beautiful sights of he alley.
Teresa sat up and we drove another block before the man pulled over. He was breathing hard, in a trance.
"Worth fifty?" Teresa asked, smiling.
The man nodded, smiled, then hit her in the face with the back of his right hand. Teresa was more stunned than hurt until he did it again. She half-raised her hands to her face, stopping as if numbed. He grabbed her hair and pushed her face into the seat.
"Jim said you'd be worth it, but fifty bucks ain't so easy to come by these days. But you know that." He pulled her hair back, stretching her neck, and whipped a long knife blade through the air with his left hand to stop and rest on her throat. "Besides, I need it more than you. Now let's have that fifty, unless you want that smile widened a few inches."
It had all taken less than ten seconds which could have been ten minutes to me. But something kept me from moving. An impression, a thought. Not yet, it said. Wait. So I did, even after the blade touched Teresa’s throat. Then it let me go.
I reached through the seat and hit the man's back. Grabbing his spine, I worked my way up to the base of his neck. I twisted my hand. He looked suddenly left. I twisted my hand again. He turned just as quickly right, then left, then right, like a confused marionette.
"What is that, what is it?" he asked no one.
Teresa could only moan, her hair still held tightly.
"Do you hear it? Co you feel it?"
He looked around as I moved my hand down and deep, searching...
"God, it's all around me!"
...and found something cold, his heart, and closed my fingers around it...and the ice became a burning, sticky emptiness that pulled me deeper until I touched his soul and the horror of it threw me back and we screamed as one...
The knife dropped and bounced onto the floor, and he took his hands from Teresa, then pushed her. "Get out, get out!"
She fumbled for the handle, found it locked, tried again, popped it open and dove for the street as the man jammed his foot on the gas and the car bounced down the alley.
I walked over and knelt beside Teresa as she vomited onto the oily ground.
She stumbled through the door, took a few steps, then fell, kneeling on the carpet. She hadn't cried since the alley but now, home, it came again. She held onto the coffee table with both hands and heaved out tears.
The sound of spinning made us both look up. Jim was standing in the hallway holding a pistol and spinning its chamber with a big, stupid grin on his face.
"How was your day?" His voice was hoarse. "Meet anyone interesting?" He knelt down, resting the gun on the
table in front of her. “That was just a reminder,” he said with a clownish grin. “Don’t ever mess with my stuff. And don’t ever forget how quickly I can take everything away. Just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Or like this.” He moved the gun and pointed it at her head as her big eyes followed. And he pulled the trigger.
It clicked emptily.
Teresa grabbed her head with both hands and rubbed them frantically, crying as she did, as if trying to get rid of unseen bugs.
He stood and raised his head and yelled like an ape, then smashed against the screen door as it flew open and he stomped out.
Rollins walked in before it shut.
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"Busy. You too, I see.”
“For whatever good it did.”
“It did good.”
Teresa pushed herself up and ran into the bathroom. There was the creak of the bed and more sobs, muffled but still heard.
“Rollins,” I started, “I still don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m groping in the dark.”
“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing, groping in faith. Don’t worry about anything else. And don’t think too much. Just watch her.”
“Watch her why? Nothing's different. She's the same this week as last and the same next week as now."
"Maybe. But today you helped."
I threw my hands in the air. "What's the point? As long as that guy--" I pointed at the door "--is around, nothing will change. Why can’t we just get rid of him?"
Rollins paused. "How would you do that?"
"Take him out. Move up his day of departure. Nobody'd miss him and the world would be a better place."
"It's not up to us."
"Can't we at least give an opinion? Drop a note in the suggestion box?"
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Maybe because nobody’s ever tried. Let’s try.”
"You're forgetting something," he said.
"What?"
"Him.”
“I don’t get you.”
“There’s a plan for him as well.”
I snorted. "I hope it involves a short walk to a hot chair."
"Forget Jim, for now. Stay with her.”
"Of course," I said, as he started out the door, forcing me to yell the rest: "What else could I possibly be doing?"
I waited a few minutes before walking down the hall. I found Teresa on the bed, breathing loudly, finding relief in sleep. She was safe.
I considered Rollins’ words long and hard, about thirty seconds worth, before leaving her alone in the bedroom.
He was easy enough to find, lumbering along the main drag toward the even worse part of town. A few minutes found him cutting over a half block west and down an alley and another block to end up behind a two-story apartment complex with cement courtyard, the outline of a filled-in pool sadly visible in the middle. Toys and pieces of junk were scattered around the grounds, some closer to specific doors as if someone were actually laying claim to the trash. Noises of all types and no distinction emanated from different apartments; the usual loud rock music, the crying baby, the mindless yells and curses directed at no one and everyone. The basic bubbling of anger at the frustrations of life, which would reveal itself further in verbal or physical attacks over important issues such as burnt toast or dirty dishes or parking in a neighbor’s space. The trivial became important as the meaningful could not be attained.
Jim knocked on apartment six, stood with as much life and worth as a sack of crap, then walked in when the door opened.
I went in behind him and was almost blown back. Choking fumes filled my head. Crack, pot, feces, urine. A smorgasbord of stimulation. I tripped over a body lying on the floor, losing my balance, falling through Jim and landing against a wall. I wasn't going to last long here.
"Hey." Jim was speaking to a dark dressed man with greasy hair. He put money into the man's hand. The guy counted bills and disappeared. He came back a moment later with a plastic bag full of the rock candy.
"That’s not enough," Jim said, holding the bag as if his hands were a scale.
"It's hard times for everybody," the man said. "That's less what I fronted you last week."
"You're ripping me."
"No problem," the man said, extending his hand. "I'll take that back and you get your money."
Jim held the bag tighter.
The guy smiled.
“I need a pipe.”
“How ‘bout some foil,” he said, ripping a rectangular piece from a roll and beginning to fold it. “Just put it in here, heat it up and...”
“I want a pipe.”
“A pipe, a pipe,” the guy grumbled. “Everybody wants a pipe. This ain’t, uh....this ain’t like a fancy, uh...” He bent down behind the counter and came back with a box of light bulbs. He took one out, and threw the box back over the counter and onto the floor.
“Don’t you got somethin’ better?”
“All I got's is forty watts.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” the guy said. “Take what you can get or take off.” He took a pair of pliers and squeezed the black part of the silver screw thread, moving it back and forth until it popped off. Inserting the pliers, he grabbed the guts of the bulb and pulled it out with the deftness of a blind dentist. He scraped out the inside with a metal spoon, then took a big Morton’s salt container and poured some in the bulb, swirled it around and then dumped the contents on the counter. “Hope nobody snorts that,” he said, handing the empty bulb to Jim. “Enjoy.”
Jim found a spot on the floor and pulled out a lighter. He placed a few rocks from the bag into the bulb, holding the thin metal thread as he held the lighter’s flame on the glass. Smoke began coming forming and he sucked at the opening. A moment later he put in a few more rocks, then more...
My mind clouded over and I felt woozy and weak-kneed, as if something was pulling at me. The room seemed to tilt, my head suddenly too heavy to hold up. I felt hands on my body and pushed them off. Faces appeared and disappeared. I stumbled over something solid which spun me as I lost my balance and hit the floor hard. More hands touched me, pulling, and I crawled with all strength to the door, was pulled back, then heaved forward until I found myself outside, coughing out smoke and breathing the fresh city air.
An hour and a half later found me waiting still, as Jim had come out. I took a reluctant breath and stepped through the wall.
He was standing, weaving, against the kitchen counter and the greasy guy was talking to him. "That's all for you. No more."
"Front me some...I'm good."
"No more. You had good cash for a while, but not now. Now it’s a problem. Get more. Come back. No problem."
"I need more."
"Get more, come back."
The guy led him to the door and I followed him out.
Jim stood wide-eyed, grinning, and looked up at the sky. He made a circle with both hands touching thumbs and fingers and chuckled at some incredible sight in the cosmos before heading back through the alley under the starless sky.
Trace the Dead Eye Page 8
