by Andrew Post
“Naw, that ain’t it. Starts with an M.” Slug snapped his fingers over and over, glassy eyes searching the water-stained ceiling. “Fuck, what’s her name. You know who I mean, right? The bitch with the dark hair and she kind of talks like this, you know, all lispy and shit?”
“The coke, Slug. Where is the fucking cocaine?”
“All right, all right.”
There was a soft knock on the door. “Dad?”
Slug scrambled to put the cooler behind the recliner then wad the tinfoil and mash it, with the pale OxyContin powder, down deep within the chair. “What you want? Daddy’s got friends over. We talked about this.”
The door opened a hair, just enough for a nose and mouth to press themselves into the room. “Mom said you need to go down to the DMV so you can get the stickers for the Malibu. She said she already got pulled over once last week and the officer that pulled her over said if he pulled her over again and she didn’t have the stickers updated on the Malibu she’d be in really big—”
“Tell her I’ll get down there in a minute. Close the motherfucking door.”
The door closed. Slug plunged a hand down into his chair to retrieve the crumpled knot of half-burned foil. He carefully unraveled it, the powder mashed into a little yellow pebble inside, a hillbilly heroin pearl inside a tinfoil oyster. “My bitch don’t know I still do Oxy. She thinks I just sling it. My ass would be grass and her the John fucking Deere if she found out, let me tell you. Her brother’s doing ten for possession, so poor ol’ Oxy kind of has a reputation in this house.”
“Sure. Coke.”
Slug reached under the recliner and drew out a shoebox. Under the lid were several small baggies, each wound tightly with a rubber band. Amber, for a moment, considered dealing with the repercussions of killing Slug and making off with what could be a several-month supply. He took one of the tiny baggies, of the several, and handed it to her.
“One gram, as the lady ordered.”
It went right into Amber’s purse. If there was no one at the bus stop in a minute, she might take a bump there or duck into a Starbucks bathroom. “It’s been a pleasure, Slug, see you around.”
The recliner made a metallic whine as Slug dropped the leg rest. “Hold up. Actually, I’m kind of glad you stopped by – I nearly forgot.” He moved around her to stand in front of the door, his tone lowering and that annoying affectation of his falling away. “So, I was at my buddy’s place last week and he says he wants to start getting out of smack and shit and move into a new bracket of sorts. I thought of you when he told me what he’s fixing to start up with.”
“I’m not going to mule shit up into Canada for you, Slug.”
“No, no, no, not that. My boy’s asking round for anybody who works in hospitals or morgues and shit if they can find him body parts – internal organs and eyeballs and shit.”
Amber screwed up her face. “I sincerely hope, for your sake, you didn’t give him my name.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t. It’s just I knew you’d probably be by this week and I thought I’d talk it over with you some, maybe see if I could get a taste of the action – be like y’all’s intermediary or something. Small percentage, small percentage. That is, if you were down with hollering at him about it.”
“I’m not gonna start trafficking in human body parts, Slug. We’re getting complaints about our makeup work so I don’t think clients will be real pleased looking in the casket and seeing Grandma missing her whole fucking head.”
“Won’t be any of that. Take shit out of their insides – get me? – and then sew them back up again with a cut piece of Styrofoam or a pillow or some shit in there to, you know, fill them out some. Throw they clothes back on their asses again and nobody would ever know jack. And I mean if you take they eyes, who will know, right? How many people are buried with they eyes open? None I’ve ever seent and I’ve got a lot of homies in the ground.”
“The answer’s still no. Would you move so I can go?”
Slug remained in front of the door. “This shit helps people though. I mean, I was thinking of getting out of the drug game myself. Because I mean it’s tight and all, but drugs are bad.”
Amber put a hand to her chest. “They are?”
“Ha ha. I’m serious. But these parts, they go down to Mexico, down to fucking South America, up to Canada sometimes. Sick-asses get theyselves a new leg bone or a new, you know, wrist part or whatever. It helps people, it ain’t poisoning them. Real shit, I kinda like the ring of that.”
“Except, in my case, if I were to ever consider doing this, it would be parts taken from people who’ve paid me and Jolene to treat them with respect and dignity. And cutting pieces off of dead people, I dunno, Slug. That kind of has the ring of something that’s the complete and total opposite of respect and dignity. Not to mention illegal as fuck.”
“Okay, let me ask you this then. What do those dead-asses need them for? Huh? They dead, ain’t they? They ain’t using that shit. And do you know what one fucking eyeball goes for on the red market? Six stacks. Six thousand dollars, Amber. And that’s just one eyeball, one peeper – singular. Blood, they pay a grand a gallon on that shit depending on the type. Hearts: eight hundred per. One kidney: two hundred thousand bucks. Intestines: five Benjamins per fucking foot. And speaking of feets – a good-sized pair of dude shoe-fillers go for nine hundred if they have all they toes. They pull the bones out or some shit.”
“They probably take them for the tendons and veins for bypasses. A lot of capillaries in the feet and hands.” The sounds of a slot machine avalanching a jangling golden jackpot into her lap rang in her mind. All of that money they were just throwing down holes all these years, all that money they could start having from now on. What? No. Are you actually entertaining this idea?
“See? You already know half this shit,” Slug said. “You and Jo is made for this.”
“And these aren’t exaggerated numbers? Because you and math, if I recall, weren’t exactly bosom buddies back in high school.”
Slug raised empty hands. “Ask dude hisself. I can text you his digits right now. But I’m getting a finder’s fee in this,” he said as he thumbed around on his phone screen. “I made this connection between you and him. Remember that. I want you to mention me. I want you to say Slug introduced us, he’s the big dick gee who runs St. Paul, Minnesota.”
“I can comfortably say that I will never say that to anyone, Slug. Nor did I say I’m going to do this. Right now, I just want to hear the prices from the individual who’ll be making good on them. I don’t trust you with numbers.”
Slug pocketed his phone. “Says the girl whom I just let ten dollars slide. I ain’t gotta do nice guy shit like that. But since we go way back and we’re cool and all.…”
Amber’s shoulders drooped – he had a point. “Okay, fair. I’ll request you get a cut – if any deals get made. If. Big if. The biggest if. I still have to talk this over with Jolene.”
“Thank you.” He actually bowed. “I appreciate that. For real.”
Her phoned dinged. She had a text from Slug, just a phone number. “This him?”
“That’s him. Dude goes by Rhino.”
“Rhino.”
Slug nodded. “Yep. Rhino. Scary, right?”
“Scarier than Slug.”
He shrugged. “Suits me.”
* * *
The Lexus’s tires chirped when Frank turned onto his street at forty-two miles per hour. He barreled up to his house, passing the sky-blue Honda at the curb, tires barking again as he fanned the wheel, turning into his driveway.
In front of the garage he’d left open, as Bryce had said, was a Cadillac Escalade, midnight black. A younger guy in a white T-shirt and fitted jeans stood leaning into the rolled-down rear passenger window, talking to the shot-up cousin if Frank had to assume. The kid noticed Frank arriving, stepped away from his SUV an
d waved, big and smiley.
Frank didn’t return the gesture but sat behind his steering wheel a moment, looking at the side windows of his house – looking for shifting curtains. If her car was still here, he guessed Simone was still inside. Maybe she’d called her uncle, maybe not. At this moment, things seemed calm – besides the Russian kid bleeding in his driveway.
Frank got out of his car, approached, tore off his sunglasses, ignored the handshake offered by the guy he assumed was Bryce, and peeked into the open SUV window.
“You remember me, dude?” Bryce said.
“No. Move. Let me see him.”
The second kid lay across the back seat, maybe twenty-three. A red hand clutched the crotch of his skinny jeans and the black leather interior all around him was shiny with blood. The kid raised his free hand and gave a limp wave, half-mast eyes blinking slowly. “Hey, man.”
Bryce was at Frank’s shoulder. “So, what’re we thinking here? Want me to bring him and you can get started?”
“No.” Frank pushed past Bryce to get to his house’s side door. He paused before entering. “I need to prep. Wait out here. Tell him to keep pressure on it.”
Frank stepped inside, locked the door behind him, and drew the blinds. He stepped into the kitchen and peeked into the living room. He flinched when Simone stepped out from the pantry door to his left, whisper-shouting, “Fucking liar. You said you never treated none of the Petroskys.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then what are they doing here?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how they knew to call me.”
“Do they know I’m here?”
“I don’t think so. Does your uncle know they’re here?”
“What? He’d sooner poke his own eyes out before he had dealings with those Eastern European shitheads.”
“No, I mean, did you call anyone when you saw who was in my driveway? And what the fuck are you still doing here?” He thrust a finger at the digital clock over the stove. “Your nail appointment was at noon, wasn’t it?”
“I fell asleep. I was getting ready to go when I saw them pull in. I couldn’t leave. I don’t have your number and my cousins weren’t answering my texts.”
“What were you texting them about?”
“For your number, stupid, to tell you what’s going on.”
Frank’s shirt was getting heavy with sweat. A dark ring around his neck was encroaching toward his belly. He stepped to the kitchen window and peeked out.
Bryce now had the back door of the SUV open and the second kid sitting with his legs hanging out – blood was dripping out of the kid’s pantlegs and onto his driveway, a dozen red dots steadily doubling themselves. When Bryce leaned in past the bleeding kid for something inside the vehicle, Frank couldn’t help but notice the grip of a handgun poking up out of the back of Bryce’s designer jeans.
Simone stepped up next to Frank to peek. He didn’t mean to use so much force, but pushed her back from sight.
“Hey!”
“You gotta hide. You can’t leave until I deal with them.”
“I ain’t sharing air with those pieces of shit.”
“Go in my bedroom, close the door, and don’t make a fucking sound.”
“I’m gonna tell Uncle Robbie you helped the Russians.”
“Fine. Go fucking hide.”
Once Simone had closed his bedroom door, Frank stepped back out into the blazing midday heat, smelling the kid’s blood immediately. He held the door for Bryce to help the kid in – he groaned and grunted, painting red smears from his dangling legs across Frank’s kitchen linoleum, his living room, and finally across the floor of his operating room. Together Frank and Bryce hoisted the kid onto the table and had him lie back.
“Pretty decent setup you got here,” Bryce said, taking in his surroundings. “Almost like the real deal.”
Frank washed his hands, barking over his shoulder, “Get his pants off.” He swiped a finger into the box of latex gloves and remembered it was empty. “Scratch that. Take my keys, go out to my car, and bring in a box of gloves I have in the trunk. I’ll take his pants off.”
While Bryce was doing as told, Frank stepped over to the kid on the table. “What’s your name?” he asked. As the kid blinked a few times, slow on the answer, Frank glanced out through the sheet of plastic to the hallway beyond. The bedroom door was still closed, but the sun coming in through that side of the house produced shifting shadows on the floor just outside – Simone was pacing in circles. But she wasn’t clicking like before. Because her high heels were still in his living room. He just hoped nobody would notice.
“Vasily,” the kid finally said. He had that youthful glimmer in his eyes, though right now it was dulled by blood loss, making him look faintly drunk.
“All right, Vasily, hold on. We’re going to fix you up, okay?”
Frank used a pair of scissors to cut up along the kid’s inseam. He pulled away the blood-sodden denim to reveal pale, skinny twig-legs. His entire crotch was a bloody mess, with the kid’s hand barely holding with any strength, red lines drawing themselves down the side of Frank’s table and forming dark red pools in valleys of the dropcloth.
The side door slammed shut and Bryce scrambled into the room with the box of gloves. Frank washed his hands again and when he was through told Bryce to do the same. Frank snapped on his gloves and slowly pried Vasily’s fingers open. The bullet had entered at a downward trajectory just left of his penis – which had gotten nicked – and, if he didn’t bleed to death, Vasily would have a small dick-notch the rest of his life. After taking a nibble out of his prick, the bullet had continued on its journey into his scrotum, detonated his left testicle, and burst out the sack’s underside, whereupon it embedded itself in Vasily’s left thigh. No exit wound.
“Holy shit,” Bryce said stepping over to the table, and swallowed. “That looks.…”
“Cousin. Is it bad?” Vasily said sleepily.
“Your balls are, like, exploded. That is so fucked.”
“What?”
“Great bedside manner,” Frank said. “Move.”
“Is he serious? Are you playing joke, cousin? Tell me it’s a joke.”
Frank turned to his cabinets and began clanging the tools he’d need onto his cart. “Keep pressure on it for him, he can’t do it himself anymore.”
“With what?”
“With your hands, Bryce.”
“But…that’s his dick.”
“Do you want him to die? Because those are your options.”
“You better watch how you talk to me, man. I’m having a seriously shitty day. Fucking Vasily here gets shot, the day he’s due to bury his father? Fucking sitting in the parking garage at the hotel and he’s crying about it and out of nowhere someone fucking shoots at us? Don’t those wops have any respect?”
Frank crashed the forceps onto the cart, stomped over to Bryce, took him by his narrow wrists, and guided his hands onto his cousin’s crotch. “Shut up,” he told him, slow and loud, “and keep pressure on the wound.”
Vasily’s head thumped back onto the table.
“Oh fuck!” Bryce shrieked. “Is he dead?”
Frank pressed two fingers under Vasily’s jaw. “No. He’s just unconscious. All your comforting words were a big help. Listen, we have to stop the bleeding. You are going to assist me. I need you to hold the hole open so I can get clamps in there.”
“You want me to…what?”
“Like this. Use your fingers to spread the hole in his scrotum open.”
“Just you saying that makes me feel fuzzy, dude.…”
“Bryce. Open your eyes. Hold it open. Just like this. Now, I’m going to put a clamp in. Okay, all right, that’s one. That was an artery. Take this flashlight, turn it on, and hold it right here and use this with your other hand and sop up the blood s
o I can see. Don’t push down. Just dab. Lightly. You’re giving a kitten a bath.”
“I’m giving a kitten a bath.”
“Exactly.”
Vasily’s left testicle was in pink chunks all around inside his nutsack. Frank had completed hundreds of surgeries in his time at the clinic and while he had seen a few grievous injuries to many a crotch, he could say with confidence he had never seen one quite like this.
“I’m feeling a little weird, dude,” Bryce said.
“Just breathe. It’s only meat. Same shit both of us have.”
“Yeah, but ours aren’t inside-out like his.”
“Bryce, look at me. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just meat. Okay, now you can use that rag to keep applying pressure.”
“But you said to stop pushing down.”
“I thought you could stop but it looks like I need to get a better pinch on that artery. You can put down the flashlight, we don’t need it right now. Do you know your blood type?”
“A-positive. We did this thing in high school biology where we took samples and—”
“Great story, Bryce, I’m sure, but do you know what Vasily’s is?”
“A-positive too, I think. We took the same class.”
“You think or you know? It could kill him if you’re wrong.”
“Ain’t blood just blood?”
“No. Blood isn’t just blood. Think. Are you both A-positive?”
“Yeah.” Bryce paused, nodded. “Yeah. We are.”
“You’re going to give your cousin some of your blood. See that machine over there? Wheel it over here. Have you ever shot up before?”
“Once or twice. Only socially though.”
“Go in that drawer there, take out some of that clear tubing – not that one, the roll next to it – okay, good, now connect it to the side of the machine. Now, screw the needle into the tube and get the needle in your arm. All right, now switch the machine on. It’ll start to fill up that container on the side while I get the other end in him.” Frank spiked Vasily’s arm. “All right, he’s ready. Come over here and keep putting pressure on him, otherwise it’s just gonna leak right back out of him. Bryce, can you handle this?”
