Getting Higher (13 page)

"Uh-huh," nodded Joe with a downcast expression. "I guess I should'a let you know, but I didn't have your phone number or nothin'. It was bad, man, real bad."

"Oh, God," fumbled Rocky. "I don't believe it. What happened? Who did it?"

"Nobody knows," explained Joe. "We were sleepin' in an alley, the night after you left town, an' when I woke up, there were cops everywhere and Crank was gone. I went out, an' there he was, gettin' hauled away with a sheet over his head. All the cops know is somebody beat him to death with a club." Joe paused, gazing grimly at his friend. "I think it was Benny."

"Holy fuck," whispered Rocky, absently combing a hand through his hair.

"After all this shit came down, it really started to get to me, y'know? I finally hadda' get away from Brownstown--I just couldn't take it no more. That's why I came out here, ta' see if you could maybe put me up for a few days or whatever."

"Hey, no problem," mumbled Rocky, still shaken by the news of Crank's demise. Somebody yelled at him then from across the garage, and Rocky glanced over with a hasty jerk of his skull. "Aw, shit," he flapped raggedly. "I better get back ta' work. Tell ya' what, Joey--you see that shed over there?"

"Yup," affirmed Joe, turning around to follow Rocky's gaze.

"That's like the lunchroom, okay? How 'bout if you go in and hang around for an hour or two, and I'll see if I can maybe get done here early. You can watch T.V. in there, and there's food machines and coffee if you want some. Just stick around till I get done, and then we'll hook up and you can drive home with me. Okay?"

"Sure," nodded Joe. "That's cool. I ain't got nothin' better to do, man."

"Great. I'm supposed to stay till five, but maybe I can get outta' here a little early." Rocky turned and started walking through the garage, back toward the guy who had shouted a moment ago. "Hang in there, all right?"

"Okay," said Joe with a touch of a smile. "I'll see ya' in a while, man." Now that he'd found his old friend, he felt better, a lot better than he had for many weeks.

*****

Chapter Twenty-One

 

"So, Joey," said Rocky, popping the tab on a fresh can of beer. "Crank's really gone, eh?"

Nodding, Joe took a long drink of his own beer. The stuff tasted great; he hadn't drunk a beer for nearly a week, and by now was truly thirsty for it. In his refrigerator, Rocky had two six-packs waiting, and Joe's mouth watered at the thought of emptying them.

"Huh," said Rocky with a distant look in his eyes. "I still don't believe it. It don't seem possible, y'know? Hell, I just seen him a few days ago."

"I know," mumbled Joe as he gazed around the apartment. Compared to the places that he was used to living in, Rocky's residence was a luxury suite. Though the place wasn't fancy or extravagantly decorated, it was big enough and nice enough to impress Joe Jones, the guy who'd been sleeping in alleys and parks lately.

There were two rooms and a bathroom all together. None of the rooms was huge, but they were by far big enough for one man to live comfortably in.

The living room was the center of the apartment; on one side of it was the bedroom, and on the other, the bathroom. A low wooden coffee table squatted in the middle of the living room, scattered with newspapers and beer cans and miscellaneous junk. An old black-and-white T.V. sat on a rickety metal stand alongside it, and two chairs were arranged on the opposite side of the table facing the set. A wide window dominated one wall of the room, shaded by cheesy green curtains; across the apartment from that window was Rocky's jumbled, makeshift kitchen.

The kitchen was really nothing but a bunch of appliances gathered into one corner of the living room. There was a refrigerator, an old gas stove, two white metal cabinets hung from the wall above it, and a sink.

Though the place certainly wasn't a high-rent penthouse, Joe was delighted that Rocky was letting him stay there for a while. He revelled in his luck, in this chance to remain safe and warm and indoors again; once, he had taken such a place for granted, but now, after spending so much time on the street, he was thrilled by the roof and walls of this shelter.

"Was it that bad, Joey?" asked Rocky after another sip from his beer.

"Oh, yeah," affirmed Joe. "It was terrible. Whoever did it must'a been real mad...or crazy. Crank was just smashed, man, totaled. Every bone in his body was broken, crushed up into little pieces. Man, he was like a baggie, y'know? There just wasn't anything left inside to hold him together."

"Shit," hissed Rocky. "I'd love ta' get my hands on that Firestone fucker. I'd fuckin' show him what it feels like, man...only worse."

"Nobody knows for sure if he did it, yet. The cops're still investigatin', y'know? I'll tell ya' one thing, though-- I bet that asshole really did it. The other night, I was walkin' around downtown, all depressed an' shit, an' I ran right into Benny. He didn't say nothin', but when he went past, he smiled, man...he looked real creepy and happy, like he knew somethin' I didn't. He was laughin' at me, at me an' Crank, and I'd bet anything he was the one that killed him."

"Yeah," agreed Rocky, staring down into his beer. "You're prob'ly right. That motherfucker sure hated Cranky, all right. Crank an' him used ta' be good buddies way back when, but somethin' happened a couple years ago. I don't really know what it was, but after that, those two were enemies. Benny always was pretty crazy, anyhow."

"Yeah," said Joe, "and he's pretty damn good with a baseball bat, too."

"Uh-huh." Rocky drained his can of beer and crushed the empty container in his hand. He belched loudly, then got up from the green vinyl recliner and headed for the refrigerator. "Ready for another beer, Joey?" he asked, tugging open the door of the icebox and watching the inner light flicker on.

"Sure," Joe encouraged. "I'm always ready for another beer."

Returning from the fridge, Rocky handed Joe a new can of beer. "So," he said, popping the tab on his own can. "What now, Joey? What're you plannin' on doin'?"

"Well," fumbled Joe, "I, uh...I guess I was hopin' I could stay with you for a little bit. Y'know, just till I can get it together again."

"'Course ya' can stay here," declared Rocky. "You can stay as long as ya' need to, man."

"Thanks," smiled Joe. "I really appreciate it."

"You gonna' look for a job or somethin', man? I bet you could find some work around Bartlett."

"I don't know," shrugged Joe, staring pensively at the wall. "I really haven't thought about it too much. I been kind'a hung up on this shit with Crank gettin' killed."

"You oughtta' check around," suggested Rocky. "I mean, I'm not tryin' to talk you into gettin' a job so you can pay me for staying here or nothin'. Believe me, I'm makin' plenty at Donaldson's, so I don't need ta' take none'a your money. I'm just figurin' that you might wanna' get some bucks comin' in again."

"I prob'ly should," Joe admitted. "I'm gettin' kind'a sick a' eatin' outta' damn garbage cans."

"Don't worry about food," ordered Rocky with a burp. "As long as you're livin' here, you're welcome to eat whatever I got."

"Well, I wanna' chip in," pondered Joe, sipping his beer. "I sure as hell don't wanna' be flat broke for the rest a' my life, either."

"I'll tell ya' what, Joey," Rocky said in a genial tone. "If you wanna' go lookin' for work, just lemme' know. I know Bartlett pretty good now, so I can prob'ly help ya' out. Maybe I could even get ya' in at Donaldson...who knows? If you don't wanna' try and find a job yet, no sweat. Like, if you just feel like takin' a break for a while, you can stay here as long as you want. Okay?"

"Okay," nodded Joe.

For a while, the two guys were silent, drinking beer while they sat in the living room. Outside, there was traffic cruising by on the street, and the moon was as full as a hot-air balloon.

*****

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

The next morning, Joe woke to find that Rocky had already gone. The big man started work at nine, and by the time Joe came around, he was nowhere to be seen. Now, Joe would have the apartment to himself until five-thirty, when Rocky would return home from his shift at Donaldson Trucking.

Joe yawned and stretched. He had a faint headache from the beer he'd drunk the night before, but he didn't feel dizzy or sick to his stomach. In fact, he felt pretty good; he'd been more tired than he'd realized and had really needed the sleep. With everything that had happened during the past few weeks, he'd been getting very little rest back in Brownstown.

Through the ragged green curtains, slats of sunlight streamed into the room. In the beams, Joe could see dust particles swimming around, catching the light like tiny, dancing stars. He got up from the blanket on the floor where he'd been sleeping and walked to the window for a look outside, stirring the dusty air as he swept a curtain aside.

When he moved the curtain, the sun hit his eyes with a bright burst like a flashbulb exploding. Quickly, he shaded his face with an arm, squinting and trying to adjust to the wild light. After a second or two, he got used to it and was able to scan the view outside.

Rocky's apartment was in a building at the center of Bartlett, along a busy street called Jefferson Avenue. Jefferson was the main drag of the city's business district and was lined with stores and restaurants and offices. It was easily the most active part of town, though Bartlett, like Brownstown, was not a big city, and the business district there was small and unremarkable. Actually, Bartlett was similar to Brownstown in another way, as well: it was an old steel-town, built up around the local mills in their long-ago heyday. Also like Brownstown, Bartlett was losing its industry; the main steel plant had already shut down, and another was on its way out.

From Rocky's window, Joe had a broad view of Jefferson Avenue and everything that was going on there. The apartment was an old set of rooms above an Italian restaurant, one of two apartments that the owner rented out. Below, Joe could see some people walking out of the restaurant and down the street. He saw cars rolling over the pavement and parked along the curbs, people getting in and out of them, slipping coins into the parking meters. Sunlight glinted off the chrome and glass of the cars, twinkled from the sunglasses and wristwatches of passersby.

After watching the scene below for a moment, Joe turned away and let the curtain sag back into place. He then scuffed to the refrigerator to seek something to eat.

It must have been close to payday for Rocky, because the shelves of the icebox were nearly empty. On the top shelf, there were three cans of beer, one of them open and half-empty. On the middle shelf, Joe found a tomato, a jar of mustard, and some cold hot dogs on a dish. The bottom shelf held a head of lettuce, another can of beer, and several objects of varying size and shape wrapped in aluminum foil. He grabbed one of the foil-covered items and unwrapped it; instantly, a pungent, fishy smell shot into his nose, making him recoil and grimace in disgust.

"Oh, shit!" he grunted, quickly replacing the odious package. "Sardines!"

Joe heaved the fishy leftovers back into the refrigerator, then slammed the door shut behind them. Abandoning breakfast, he headed for the bathroom instead.

While he took a hot shower, the first that he'd had in weeks, Joe decided that he would like to go for a walk and get some fresh air instead of just lounging around the apartment with the T.V. on all day. He felt like getting outside for a while, and anyway, he wanted to learn his way around town. The way that things were shaping up, he would be in Bartlett for at least a week, so he thought that he might as well get to know the place better. A hike around the block seemed like a good idea, and he decided to leave as soon as he was done in the bathroom.

After he'd finished his shower, Joe donned one of Rocky's T-shirts and left the apartment. The shirt was too big for him and flopped around when he walked, but he didn't care. He was sick of wearing his own shirt, the same filthy garb which he'd spent the past two weeks in; it didn't smell too good anymore.

Locking the apartment door behind him, he marched down the short hall to the stairs. Rocky had given him a key to the place, so he could easily get back in when he returned. Joe descended the stairway, turned a sharp corner at the bottom, and passed through a heavy wooden door; abruptly, he found himself on the street, surrounded by the glaring sunlight from which he'd flinched at the window.

For over an hour, he walked around town, taking in the sights and getting his bearings. He figured out how to get from Rocky's apartment to Central Park; he spotted some stores and restaurants that he might need to use in the days to come; he also found several local bars and a liquor store, places which he would definitely be frequenting.

When he finally started homeward, Joe stopped in front of a fast-food restaurant. The place was a typical greasy joint, a corporate franchise with a gaudy yellow plastic front and a neon sign that spelled "Burger World." Photos of hamburgers and French fries filled the windows, alongside pictures of freakish, smirking cartoon characters.

The sign in the window was what caught his attention, though, and he stopped for a moment to look at it. Printed on cardboard in neat black lettering, it said "Help Wanted."

Joe read it once, then read it again.

Suddenly, an impulse struck him; he considered going into the restaurant and asking about whatever job the sign was advertising. It was a weird idea, because he hadn't set out to find work that day, but he still felt an urge to investigate. He really needed some money, and a job would put cash in his pocket for the first time in ages.

Then, he remembered Brownstown. He planned on going back there in a week or two, and he could look for work then. Why look for a job in Bartlett when he would be leaving so soon?

"Help Wanted," said the sign.

For a moment, Joe couldn't make up his mind, couldn't decide if he should check into the job or not. Then, he finally turned away and began walking home.

"Help Wanted," cooed the sign.

Flip-flopping his attitude like a coin or a playing card, Joe turned back around and entered the restaurant. He filled out an application, left Rocky's phone number so that they could get in touch with him, and walked back out a half-hour later.