by Sean Platt
“I’m not lying. Have you seen those bad things happening on the news? That’s because of these aliens.”
“Yeah, right, and maybe we all ought to pay you fuckers to get our ‘current fixed’ or whatever the fuck it is you all do. My dad bought into that shit for a while, but I’m not my dad. You’re not soaking me for cash, and I’m not some fucking idiot who needs to believe in your brand of make-believe — you feel me?”
Andrew was a typical entitled L.A. brat. A rich kid wanting to talk tough, eager for attention and whatever passed for power in these parts. The only way to deal with punks like him were to get in their faces and be direct. Show them you’re fearless, and that you can see through their facades.
“No, I don’t feel ya. And I’m not leaving here without those vials. If you plan to stop me, Alfonso will have to shoot.”
Andrew hopped out of his chair so fast that Marina was taken by surprise, unable to defend herself when his fist slammed into her gut, a second before another crashed against the top of her head.
Marina fell to the ground, doubled over in pain.
Andrew grabbed Alfonso’s pistol and started waving it around down at Marina, veins on his scrawny neck bulging, his face crimson with maniacal, entitled rich white boy rage.
“Get the fuck out my house, bitch, before I shoot you myself!”
“You ain’t shootin’ shit,” a voice said from behind Marina and the guard.
Everyone turned. Acevedo fired at Andrew.
Andrew cried out in pain. Marina heard the sound of his pistol dropping, followed by his panicked cries. She turned to see him clutching his left arm, where he’d been shot on his inside forearm.
Acevedo turned his gun on the guard. “He worth dying for?”
The guard shook his head.
“Then get on the ground, on your stomach, arms behind your back.”
The guard did as Acevedo instructed, while glaring at the priest.
“Here.” Acevedo threw a pair of cuffs at Marina.
She caught the cuffs, surprised that he had them.
“Cuff him.” Acevedo started toward Andrew, who’d fallen to the ground and was crying while holding his arm. Blood was spurting fast. Marina was reasonably certain he’d bleed out soon without help.
Marina cuffed the bodyguard as she told Acevedo what Andrew had said about giving the vial to a “chemist.”
“Where can I find him?” Acevedo shoved the gun against Andrew’s head.
“I need you to call an ambulance!”
“First you tell me where to find this guy.”
Andrew cried, “How do I know you’ll call an ambulance?”
“I’m a priest,” Acevedo said. “Now tell me, or I sit here and watch you bleed to death.”
“His name is Beef.”
“Beef?” Acevedo asked.
“I don’t know his real fucking name. Big, fat redheaded dude.”
“Where do I find Beef?”
“He lives at 4141 Franklin Avenue, in the hood. But he ain’t been there in at least a week.”
“Where else might we find this man? He got a job?”
“I dunno, c’mon, man, please call an ambulance.”
“First, tell me where we might find him.”
“I dunno. He’s got some homeys that hang out at Salty’s Pool Hall, though. They didn’t tell my man anything, but maybe you being a priest and all … ”
“OK.” Acevedo nodded, grabbed the vials from the table, closed the box, and handed them to Marina.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Wait, I thought you were gonna call me an ambulance!”
Acevedo turned back and fired a shot straight into the man’s head. He said, “Oh yeah, I lied,” then turned to the guard and shot him too.
Marina screamed, staring at Acevedo, hardly able to believe what he’d done.
“Come on,” Acevedo said, removing the cuffs, shockingly casual after two murders. “Let’s go find Beef.”
He led Marina back to the car. She followed, her stomach churning, horrified to have seen Acevedo shoot both men without needing to. She thought she might retch but somehow found a way to focus, using the master’s lessons to drive the panic from her mind.
As she followed the priest, Marina wondered again if she could trust him, or might he shoot her the moment they were holding all the vials?
Twenty-Six
Arthur Morgan
Art sat in the hotel room chair, waiting for the woman, Rose, to return.
She’d headed to the store for food and left him alone with a weird boy with dark hair and piercing-blue eyes sitting on one of the two hotel room beds cross-legged.
“What’s your name again, kid?”
“Luca.”
“So, is Rose your mom?”
“No, sir.”
“Who is she to you, then?”
“She’s my aunt,” Luca said. “She used to go out with my brother. But then he died. So now she’s looking after me.”
“You don’t have any parents?”
“Nope, they’re dead, too,” he said so matter-of-factly that Art wondered if the kid was autistic. Art hadn’t known many autistic kids during his life — hell, they didn’t even have autism, at least not that he’d ever heard of back in his day — but had seen a few on TV. This kid was like those kids, a bit off, maybe void of emotion.
“So, what do you do for fun?”
“Not much these days. I went swimming the other day.”
“Oh, how was that?”
“Not too good.” Luca looked down at the comforter. “What do you do for fun?”
“I’m old; it’s a good day when I’m regular.”
“Regular what?”
“Never mind, kid.” Art laughed. “So, what’s the deal with this blue stuff?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Did she tell you not to say anything?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m considerably older than Ms. Rose, and I say you can tell me. I outrank her, right?”
“Sorry.” Luca shook his head.
Art decided to wait. He figured if he allowed some silence to stretch between them, the boy might start talking to ease the discomfort. Unless he was autistic, then he might sit like a rock until Rose returned.
After a few minutes of the boy’s quiet, Art waved the white flag. “Is it some kind of drug?”
“No, sir.”
“Forget this sir, stuff. Call me Art. OK?”
“Yes, s… Art.”
“Good, good. So why are you all in a hotel room? Don’t you have a home?”
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
Luca looked down again, his lips pursed.
“Ah, can’t talk about that, either, eh?”
Luca nodded.
“Damn, your aunt is one tough broad. I had a wife like that. My first wife, Rina. Tough as nails. She was a great woman, don’t get me wrong. But when she set her mind to being a pain in the buttinsky, she was a pain like nobody’s business.”
Art smiled remembering Rina. Memories flashed before his eyes, things he hadn’t thought of in years — the first time they met, one time when they raced home in the rain on a bicycle built for two, then another of them dancing to Benny Goodman at a tiny club in Brooklyn.
He smiled.
“What happened to her?” Luca asked.
“Who? Rina?”
“Yeah.”
“Big C. Cancer.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry,” Luca said. “My brother lost his girlfriend, too.”
“You talking about Rose?”
Luca looked like he’d been caught in a fib. Too quickly, he shook his head. “No, another girlfriend. Before Rose.”
“Ah.” Art nodded, then winked at Luca to let him know he wasn’t getting one over on old Art.
Luca looked down again.
If Luca were older, Art would have been more direct, asked the kid why he was lying. But he seem
ed innocent, and nice enough. And probably was autistic. No sense in picking on the boy.
Obviously, there was some weird stuff afoot, why else would this Rose broad come to his nursing home and lure him out with some magical blue liquid? The only thing Art knew for certain is that he had to touch it again. He’d know the rest soon enough.
Not only had Art felt more alive in the last hour than he had in the past fifteen years, he was also remembering more than he thought possible. It felt like when you have eye surgery and they remove the gauze from your eyes. You could see more and more with each layer peeled. Art was seeing more of his past playing out in his mind, and the more he saw, the more he wanted to see — the more he wanted to go back in time, and the less he wanted to die.
Of course, with the good came some bad memories that Art had been plenty glad to have forgotten, followed by a fresh coat of memories on the ones he’d wanted to leave behind but never could, like the bodies in Auschwitz, Mauthausen-Gusen, and Warsaw.
But he’d take some of the horrible memories if it meant more Rina.
“Come on, kid, you can tell me what the blue stuff is. Rose is gonna come back soon enough and let me know anyway, right?”
“Yes, but she should be the one to tell you.”
“Ah, I get it, she thinks you’re too young, right?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it. She still sees you as her beau’s baby brother. She doesn’t see the real you, the young man ready to grow up and do his own things in the world. Am I right?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“You wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.”
“Kid, I’ve been around the block so many times I wore a path six feet deep. There ain’t nothin’ you can tell me that I haven’t heard, or probably been through myself, a million times or more.”
Luca met his eyes and looked like he was ready to spill the beans.
Then the door opened, and Rose entered with two canvas sacks.
“How are you all doing?”
“Great,” Art said, winking at Luca.
Luca smiled, “Good. What did you get?”
“I got Oreos and milk for you, buddy. And for Mr. Morgan, I picked up this.”
She pulled out a brown-sleeved bag of wine, then removed it and displayed a 2008 Clos Du Val merlot.
Art wasn’t a wine aficionado by any means, and hadn’t had a drop in at least a decade, but he was fairly certain this was a better-than-decent bottle.
“How’d you know I’ve been craving wine?”
“I can read your mind, Mr. Morgan.”
Art laughed, then stopped when she didn’t join him.
“You’re pullin’ my leg.”
“No, sir. And right now you’re thinking ‘bullshit,’ but you don’t want to say it because of the kid. You think he reminds you of an old friend back in the day, a boy named Jack Wilson. Am I wrong?”
Art looked back and forth between them. Saw that Luca wasn’t laughing either.
“H … how’d ya do that?”
“Rather than tell you, why don’t I show you? But first, your wine.”
She popped the bottle and poured some wine into a red plastic cup then passed it across the table. As he reached for the cup, Rose retrieved the vial from her jacket pocket and laid it on the table.
Art felt it calling to him, swore he could hear it, like a barely audible tune. He found himself lost in the blue glow reflected on the table between them.
So soft, so inviting.
I better take a drink.
Art lifted the plastic cup to his lips, took a sip, closing his eyes, remembering many great wines from his past. This one felt all the more delicious for the time that had passed since his last drink.
He kept his eyes closed, savoring the flavor. He loved the raspberry and plum, but his tongue wanted lamb more than it ever had before.
Following his sip, Rose looked down at the vial and picked it up.
Art set down his cup and stared at the vial.
“What is it?”
“The cure.”
“For what?”
“For everything.” Rose passed the vial.
Art looked down at the vial, warm in his hands. The blue sloshed around even though he was holding it as straight as permitted by his trembling hands. It seemed to respond to Art with movement.
Tiny lights swirled around inside the liquid, moving fast like lightning bugs he once caught in jars as a child.
Art felt the stares from both Luca and Rose.
“What do I do with it?”
“Open the vial,” Rose said. “That’s all you have to do.”
Art put his fingers around the tip of the black stopper and pulled it ever so slightly. The fit was snug enough to keep it from budging.
The liquid began to swirl faster around in the tube, the tiny lights racing as if anticipating his opening the vial. He could swear the vial was vibrating in his hand.
Open us. Open us, Art.
He looked around the room, unsure where the voices had come from, or if they were real. Luca and Rose were quiet, four eyes on him.
He pulled at the stopper again. This time the cap came off with a slight popping sound, not unlike the wine.
The liquid raced faster and began to expand.
Art realized in horror that it was about to boil over the top and possibly onto his hands.
He tried to put the vial down on the table, but didn’t want it to spill.
Art cried out, trying to ask for help, but the liquid raced from the vial, up his arm, and into his mouth.
He gagged as the warm liquid shot down his throat, then jumped up from the table and shoved his fingers into his own mouth.
He was overwhelmed, unable to spit or pull the blue stuff out as it seemed to force its way deeper into his mouth.
He fell back in the chair, arms limp, eyes blurring as he saw Luca and Rose stare at him without lifting a finger to help.
They’re trying to kill me.
The liquid burned as it rolled down his esophagus and then expanded across his chest.
Art coughed more, but nothing came up. He gasped for air, trying desperately to draw anything other than the blue into his lungs.
He gasped, and then the world went dark.
Art woke gasping, this time sucking deep mouthfuls of air into his lungs.
He was no longer in the chair but lying in one of the two beds.
“He’s awake.” Luca rushed to his side and looked down at him.
Art sat up feeling the oddest sensation. While his lungs still burned, he felt otherwise fine. Better than fine. Energy pulsed through his body. For the first time in decades Art was able to sit up in bed without worrying about pulling something.
He looked around and noticed something else, too.
The world was clearer than it had been in ages.
He reached up for his glasses, but they weren’t on his face. He saw them on the table where his wine cup still sat, along with the empty vial.
Art noticed the mirror on the dresser directly across from him. But it wasn’t him staring back — well it was him, but younger by at least four decades.
He got up and crossed to the mirror, needing to see closer. He touched his smooth face, no longer cracked with crevices and wrinkles. He couldn’t help but smile, breaking into laughter at the wonderfully impossible sight.
“Dear God,” he said, “what did you do to me?”
“Welcome to your new life,” a voice said.
The voice didn’t belong to Rose or Luca. It was like two or three voices, speaking simultaneously, men and women.
But there was no one else in the room.
Are they in my head?
“Yes,” the voices said. “We’re here, inside you.”
Twenty-Seven
Boricio Wolfe
Boricio wasn’t sure how long he’d been left alone in the dark like a
n animal — he’d fallen asleep and had woken a few times since seeing Guard Tard — but it felt like a dozen dick-stained hours without a morsel of food or droplet of water.
Boricio wondered if the people in charge knew where he was, then figured the crooked hogs were running the asylum. He was hungrier than Honey Boo Boo after a half day with nothing from Hostess, and his mouth was dryer than a dead camel’s cunt, but it was hard for Boricio to focus on his body’s pressing needs when the dull truth kept hitting him like an anvil on the head: he’d finally been caught.
Boricio was now tied to the hillbilly murders, the shit that went sideways in the dumpy motel before The Darkness stole his Morning Rose from her body, and the pedophile fuck who had been creeping on Paola.
After more than a decade of killing random innocents who didn’t deserve it, Boricio was now getting nicked for murdering the most deserving of fuckers: an irony of bullshit proportions.
You’d think the cops would give me a blue fucking ribbon for doing the shit they don’t wanna get caught doing.
Boricio had passed out a few times since Luca had “fixed” him, but hoped his attention to details and steering clear of the law were so ingrained into his rituals that he’d cleaned up after himself before taking an impromptu nap at the most inconvenient of times.
He now sat in BumFuck County Lockup on the hook for who knew how many murders?
How many more will they find?
Boricio had pressed pause on his pursuit of freedom from the straitjacket. His head felt like the Fourth of July from repeatedly bashing it back into the wall behind him, his way of overriding the deep cut of confinement.
He’d never felt further from control.
But fuck if Boricio was about to let anyone see him cry like a bitch.
He stared at the sliver of light bleeding from beneath the door, waiting for a sign that someone might come to smother the darkness and trying to think a way out of his clusterfuck.
A funny thought crossed Boricio’s mind: those little bracelets WWJD — What Would Jesus Do?
Boricio cackled, thinking of so many people wearing the bracelets, few acting anything like their Santa in the sky.
