Disintegration (13 page)

I'm standing in my kitchen, a cold beer in my hand. It started as simply being thirsty, stressed out from the walk home and the cops, my mind wandering to Isadora. I was happy. Honest. But I just can't stay that way. I open a beer, and one becomes three, and three become six as the sun starts to come up, and I'm laughing to myself, laughing about something that Isadora said to me, and the guilt washes over me, suddenly and with a brutal finality. How dare I? And her voice creeps in, like it always does when it's really quiet, when I'm surrounded by peace, she creeps in, my wife.

It's the last part of the message that haunts me.

The setup is bad enough, her voice, the kids in the background screaming, the laughter, it's what I heard every day, and it peels a layer off my heart every time I hear it. But it's the next part that breaks me down. I don't think I've heard it sober, including the first time. By the time I got out of the hospital, it was days later. There was a funeral to plan. Funerals. Her family was there, as was mine, but I couldn't see five feet beyond my face. I could hardly walk, my back was killing me, and reality didn't mean much to me. They gave me a back brace and shot me full of drugs and told me to get some bed rest. But I had to identify the bodies, there were papers to sign, I had to go to the funerals, I couldn't just disappear.

But I did. I did disappear. I listened to the message, and I started to drink, on top of my meds. It was a nasty cocktail, and I liked it. I was abusive to my family, I passed out and broke things, I screamed at my parents, said horrible things, and in the end they left me alone. I pushed them away.

I did identify the bodies. But I can't think about that now. I've gone numb again, and I'm tracking every drawer in my apartment, trying to remember if the razor blades are all gone. Did I throw them out after the last time—did Holly? Is there a box of them buried in the back of a drawer behind thumbtacks and Scotch tape or maybe they're buried under socks in the back of the armoire? I don't know. But I feel like hunting.

The tape is cued up now, to the second part. My right hand hovers over the button, my left hand holding a beer. I take another sip, and then I drain it. And then I push that fucking button once again. There is silence for a minute, a crackling over the tape that I've played so many times, wearing it down until it will stop working someday, just split in two, and then I hear her voice.

“…oh my God, what happened, where am I, Taylor? Robbie? Oh my God, say something, talk to me, I can't see…”

I seem to have found a razor blade, and it still does its job. I run it up my left forearm, a thin pink line erupting from the skin, the flesh parting, and the blood dots out. It forms a tiny river of velvet and I'm ready to go upstream again, to retrace my steps, but deeper this time, all it takes is a little push.

The envelope slides under the door and I stop. If I had my senses about me I'd leap to my feet and see who just delivered it. Is it Vlad himself, or is that beneath him now? Maybe it's something he has Guy do. Vlad picks up some weed, and drops off some info. Maybe it's Paulina upstairs, it's always the innocent ones, eyeglasses and buttoned-up blouses, those are the ones wearing the crotchless panties with a pierced clit.

I shake my head and place the razor on the nightstand. I walk to the kitchen and run cold water over my latest work, there's always time for this game that I play. I rip off a paper towel from the roll and dab it over the cut, and hold it in place. It wasn't deep, so it'll probably stop soon. But the envelope, yes, it's been too long.

I head back to the front door and pick it up, moving over to the long, wooden table and the leather chairs. I sit down and open the envelope. There's a photo and an address, that's it. Maybe Vlad feels like I can't handle the truth right now, he's demoted me to grunt, just the wet work, to see if I've still got the chops. The picture is blurry, but it looks like a young man, dark skin, probably black or Hispanic, with dreadlocks and…wait a minute. It's the kid from the bar the other night, the one at the altar. On the back it has an address, 3246 North Lincoln Avenue, Rear Garden. That's north, way too long to walk. But there's more.

Take Guy. Do it now.

There's a rapping at my door and as I turn my head, the knob twists and in walks Guy.

“Hey, dude, you ready to roll?”

“Come on in, Guy, why don't you?”

“Sorry, it was open….”

“Why are you here, Guy?”

He stares at his feet. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and a ridiculous blue down coat that makes him look like the Michelin Man. I'm surprised he can fit through the door. He's holding a brown manila package in his right hand like it's a side of beef.

“I'm the driver.”

“What?”

“You know, the car?”

“How's your knee?”

“It's fine.”

“Hey, about last night…” I begin.

“No worries, dude, we were fucked up. I'm sure your hand on my thigh was just a slipup.”

“What?”

“Kidding. Man, you're uptight. We're just dropping off some weed, no need to get all freaky. I know it's a bit of quantity, so that's why you're coming along, the muscle.”

He doesn't know what I do. Good.

“Give me a second, and we'll go take care of this. What time is it?”

Hell, what day is it?

“It's eleven-thirty.”

“At night?”

“Yes, at night, Jesus.”

I turn to the blinds and drapes that frame my windows. Right, that blackness behind them, that would be the night. I guess it always looks that way to me.

I'm dressed in minutes. At the last second I lean over to the nightstand and grab my gun. For some reason I feel like I might need it tonight. I check to see that it's loaded, and drop it in my pocket.

I turn to Guy and he's watching me. He nods his head.

We find the great white whale I used to track Cammie just up the street. My old friend, so that's where she went.

“So what is this, the company car?”

“Something like that,” he says.

Guy unlocks the car and slides in, just barely, and I go around to the passenger side.

“Reach in the glove compartment, would you?” he says.

I open it up to find a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam.

“Good, I did make that delivery,” I say.

“Swap that with this,” Guy says, handing me the package.

He takes the bottle, twists the cap off, and takes a couple of slugs.

“Nerves.”

He passes it over and I do the same.

“Drunkard,” I say, and hand it back.

He up starts the car and we head north. Lights drift by and we cruise up Ashland past grocery stores and bungalows, Green Dolphin Street with neon glowing and a crowd of sweaty young women standing outside in short sparkling dresses, smoking cigarettes, their tanned legs giving off steam. Across a bridge, red metal arches over the river, and I wonder what would happen if I just opened the door and leaned out? Would it kill me? Or would it just break an arm or two, crack my head, and leave me crippled?

We don't talk much, passing the bottle back and forth, but we don't need to. Guy thinks one thing is going down, but I think it's something else entirely. I'm not here for muscle, I'm here to erase a problem. But Guy doesn't need to know that.

We pull up to the apartment, and it's Section 8 housing. Great. A low run of concrete blocks push back into the property. Most of them are dark and look abandoned, cardboard taped over broken glass, some of the remaining glass painted black, other gaps simply filled with plywood.

“Stay here,” I say.

“Okay. I never did like Damon anyway.”

I stare at Guy. He's twiddling his fingers, his face flushed, staring at the floor of the car. I pop open the glove box and take out the package.

“Be right back.”

Guy eyeballs me and nods his head. I open the door and step out of the car, and transfer my gun to the back of my jeans. I adjust my coat and shrug my shoulders, and close the door gently with a quiet thud.

I walk down the alley, garbage everywhere, stepping over a bag of diapers that reeks of waste, rotten milk, and vomit, a solitary lightbulb hanging over the doorway. I reach up to knock on the door and it opens, spilling out smoke and low bass, the little man standing in front of me. His dreads dance around his head like a basket of snakes, dark jeans, and the same ratty wool poncho from the other night.

“Right on time,” he says.

He pushes the door open wider and I go in. It's a tiny space, with couches on both sides and a long low table running down the middle. It's littered with empty beer cans, forty-ounce bottles, trays of pot and rolled joints, and a mirror with a small pile of coke.

Sitting on the couch are two of the fattest black men I've even seen. They are dressed in matching sweatsuits, one black, the other gray. They don't get up. I'm not sure if they can. In the tiny gap between them is a tall, skinny woman with dark skin and a shaved head, two gold hoops hanging from her ears, maroon lips sucking on a cigarette, her red dress hiked up high on her thighs, a peek of white panties underneath, her long legs crossed. She'd be attractive if it wasn't for the scabby track marks running up and down her arms and the hint of a mustache over her lip. A curl of incense drifts up into the air, sickly sweet, just masking a layer of body odor, the lamps draped in a red sheer fabric, the room darker than I'd like.

The other couch is empty.

“Sit down, my man. Is Guy still nursing that bum leg?”

The big men laugh.

“Man, he's a tough motherfucker, I'll give you that. I beat on that damn leg for half an hour, and nothing. Must be those fat-ass bones of his,” the one in black says.

The chick cackles, leaning forward, and out of instinct I stare down the blouse. Her tiny tits have large, puffy nipples, two bolts pushed through them, crisscrossed with thin scars.

The kid stares at me.

“Don't worry about these guys,” he says, waving a hand at me. “They're just waiting for you.”

The mountains reach down into the cushions of the couch and pull out two handguns and place them on the table. The girl leans back and crosses her arms, a grin easing across her face.

“So, Damon…”

“What'd you say?”

“Isn't your name Damon?”

The men laugh again, deep chortles, the fat jiggling.

“It's D-Ron, motherfucker.”

His eyes go dark and spittle hits my face.

“Don't nobody but my moms call me Damon, got it?”

He reaches down into the couch cushion and pulls out a long hunting knife, black rubber grip, slick and sharp on one side, serrated on the other, and sets it on the table. He pulls out a wad of cash, wrapped with a rubber band, and drops that on the table too.

“You got a bathroom I can use?” I ask.

Something about this isn't right, and I need a moment to think. There's too many people in this room, and I'm not that good of a shot.

“Sure man, straight back. Take a left at the dance hall, a right at the swimming pool.”

The men give a guttural chuckle, and I head back. I take off my coat and drape it over the kitchen counter, sweat running down my armpits into my jeans.

The bathroom door is hollow, no knob, and the sink and toilet are covered in grime—stray pubic hair and piss all over the floor, the bowl brown and stained. The shower curtain is silver and shiny, tiny circles raised all over it, as if this space was a disco, part-time.

I'm not in the bathroom a minute when the door opens and in walks the girl.

“Hey, baby.”

“Jesus, can I take a piss?”

“Before you do that, how 'bout I suck you off?”

“What?”

“I'm good, baby, you know it. I need a little green, been quiet with all the snow out there. Lazy motherfuckers won't even come out for some good pussy.”

“You know, miss, I'm going to pass.”

She pushes up against me, her breath sour, teeth yellow and browning around the edges.

“Pass?”

I feel a blade up against my gut, and think this is not my week for sharp objects.

“I'm sorry, I meant, how much?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Like a fox, baby.”

“You better be good,” I say, reaching around my back. “Let me get my wallet.”

She smiles, not a good thing, and tucks the knife away. When she grabs for my pants I reach around with the gun in my hand and crack her across the skull. She lets out a tiny grunt and collapses in my arms. I place her on the toilet seat, and lean her up against the sink. There's a ticking clock now.

I exit and Damon is standing there.

“You flush?” he says.

“What?”

“Flush, motherfucker, what you think, I live in a pigsty?”

I stand in the doorway. Where do they think the whore went? Maybe she disappears all the time.

“Sure, D-Ron.”

I lean back into the bathroom, and push the girl aside, flushing the toilet. When I turn around he's gone. I head back to couch.

“Let me just sample the product, bro, and you can take off.”

The fat man closest to me in gray sweats starts to stand up.

“If you're done with Cherise, I'm gonna take a turn,” he says.

“If she can find it, fat man,” Damon says, cackling into the package that he's cutting open with the knife.

The big guy in gray pauses, a look of confusion running over his face. Then he smiles.

“Right, D-Ron. Find it, because I'm so fat. Funny.”

He reaches over to grab his gun, puts a hand out onto my shoulder as he starts to tip over, and squeezes. I wince as his thumb digs into my shoulder.

“Sorry, buddy,” he says, heading on back.

The package tears open and inside is nothing but a big bag of oregano. I can smell it from here. Damon's head turns to me, eyes squinting, and the fat man in black sweats goes for his gun.

I pull my gun out and aim for the big guy first, pulling the trigger twice. His chest explodes and two darts of blood spurt out, his hands flying into the air. There's a crack behind me as the man in gray fires, the globe hanging over the tiny kitchen table shattering. I turn and fire, catching him square in the face and his details disappear, the wall behind him covered with blood, and he stumbles back into the bathroom with a loud crash, dislodging the sink, water spraying out.

I turn to Damon but he's already up and headed out the door. I have no time to wonder what he did to Vlad, but I know he fucked up Guy. I can shoot him in the back or chase him down and ask him some questions. He pulls the door open, and the room fills with cold, the alley stretching out in front of him, the white car sitting there, miles away.

I pull the trigger and shoot him in the back. He flies out the door face-first, skidding to a halt. I hurry over and grab him by the collar, flipping him over. Blood runs over his teeth as he grins up at me.

“I'd do it again, motherfucker.”

“Do what?” I pant.

“All of it.”

In his eyes I see drug deals in back alleys, young women strung out on crack, the slap of his hand, his laughter and smoke filling a club somewhere, music pounding, a syringe offered up, fake breasts and empty eyes slumped over a toilet, skin gone slack. I see a wife pregnant with her third child, two boys running around her feet as he steps out the door with a sandwich in his hand, a wad of cash left on the counter. I see an empty room in the back of a warehouse, a Hispanic girl tied spread-eagle to four poles, lying on top of a mattress that is soaked in urine and blood, a line of men out the door, Damon up first, unbuckling his jeans.

I drag him back into the apartment, his head banging against the concrete steps. I place the muzzle in the center of his forehead and pull the trigger.

Standing up, I feel a
whoosh
of air behind me and then I'm down. My head. I hear screaming behind me, and my back, I'm being beaten with something over and over. Blood runs into my eyes and the world swims away from me. The girl, Cherise. She's standing over me, covered in blood, a baseball bat raised high over her head. She pauses for a second, her eyes filled with hatred, so I pull back my boot and kick her in the left knee, snapping it, her leg collapsing, her shriek filling the air.

I struggle to my feet, looking for my gun in the darkness, running my hand over the carpet, searching, searching, praying that she doesn't get back up. I find it, and lurch to my feet. Out of breath, my skull throbbing, scattered pain across my back, I walk over to her and stop. She's rolling around, holding her knee, crying. I bend over and finish her off, a quick shot to the head and she's still.

I check the fat men, no pulse. I check Damon, no pulse. I put the gun back in my jeans and step out the door. Snow is drifting down, and the white car sits there, waiting for me, vibrating. I look around for a grill, and find one. I find a half-empty bottle of lighter fluid and go back inside. I step gingerly to the back of the apartment and grab my coat, flipping it over my arm. Backing out I spray the carpet, the drapes, both of the fat men, soaking their sweats, the table, the couches, the girl's dress, and finally Damon. I drop the bottle. No match. I laugh for a second, not sure who I am, what I've become. On the table are several lighters. I grab one and light it, and hold it to the drapes. They burst into flames, fire running up the wall. This cinder block home won't burn to the ground, but it might just turn into an oven, cooking everything inside to a crisp. The carpet will go, so will the furniture. It'll all go up.

I bend over and grab the cash. It's a couple grand maybe, no sense leaving it behind.

I'm out the door, with one look back. Damn. Four dead.

I pull the door shut, and wipe it down. I stroll down the alley as smoke leaks out from under the door. If there were windows, they'd be full of fire. I pull open the car door and Guy looks up, pulling the iPod plugs out of his ears.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“Had to take a piss.”

I toss him the wad of cash and climb in. I grab the Jim Beam and take a deep pull at it, gulping it down.

“Home, James,” I say.

Guy pulls forward and it's back to the apartment. Was Vlad setting me up, or Guy? Was this some sort of test? Whatever it was, I don't like it. Vlad isn't so cute anymore.