Hard Bite and Other Short Stories (3 page)

“
She never needs a doctor. She’s a good girl.”

I look for the kid’s reaction, but her face is set like cement. That kid knows how not to make trouble. She’s been trained, for sure.

I find a tube of ointment and hand it to the mom with her donut and soda. “Put this on her feet. It’ll help.” The mom says thank you and they leave. I feel the worry root grow another inch inside my gut.

A week later the white guy is replaced by a gang banger with tattoos on his neck and hands. Up close at the cash, his jacket flops open, and I see a holster under his arm. He lets Chloe skip out the door without taking her hand, and dammit it if she doesn’t scoot right into the parking lot. A van squeals its brakes and stops an inch away from her. The mom and him act soooo surprised and snotty—like cars aren’t supposed to be driving in the parking lot. I imagine Chloe lying under the wheels of the van, with dirty bandages on her feet.

The banger stays around for a while, but after a couple months he stops showing up and I stop keeping track. There’s a passing parade with the mom—the kind of people circling the drain who haven’t made the final flush yet. One time a bleach blonde comes in with them and buys an apple. I’m happy cause it’s probably the first time Chloe’s ever seen a person eat a piece of fruit. Bleach-Blo pulls out a stiletto blade and starts slicing bits of apple and eating them right off the blade. Four or five slices in, the stiletto slips and cuts her deep between the thumb and forefinger. Blood shoots clear across the aisle and sprays a shelf of spaghetti sauce. You should’ve heard the hooting and howling. Chloe doesn’t cry or say anything at all. But her little face is white, shock white.

I pray at night, even though I don’t really believe in it. Please help me come up with something. Please, please don’t let the kid get hurt. You have to understand; I never had a kid in my life before. I hear prayers get answered sometimes, and I figure it’s probably like playing the lottery. If you don’t buy a ticket you can’t win. So I pray anyway, for Chloe.

The mom wants an afternoon alone with one of the drain-riders.. It’s my day off, and I agree to come by. They live at the El Morada Motor Hotel, a squat row of units with parking strips painted outside. You can rent by the week. The minute I step inside, my sinuses fill up. The room hasn’t been cleaned since Saddam got pulled out of the rabbit hole. Heck, the place looks like Saddam’s rabbit hole. Junk, garbage and crumbs everywhere. It stinks. The room explains everything. It explains too much.

The mom hands Chloe over to me, babbling how good it is to go out on a date and have some time to herself blah, blah. We go to feed pigeons. A couple loaves of bread from the store are precious to Chloe. She can sit and feed birds forever. When her stash gets halfway down, she starts tearing pieces smaller, so they’ll last longer. I love watching her take care of birds.

“
Did I do good, Bebbie?”

“
Yes, honey, you did real good.”

I call Child Protection and here’s how it goes down. They respond right away, but because there’s no immediate danger, translation: no blood and bruises, they can’t act. Instead, they tell the mom they’ll be back in a week to “check out the environment.” That’s the law, right to privacy. Guess what happens...can you guess? The day the social worker comes, the mom rents a kitchenette with a bedroom nook, so it looks like Chloe has her own bed. The mini-frig has bologna and ranch dressing inside, so it looks like there’s food. The worker reports it as “a low income but satisfactory environment.” And that’s that. Next day, Chloe’s back in the hellhole.

I try to accept the verdict. I tell myself that I’ve done the most anyone can do. The law has intervened and the law says it’s okay. But that worry plant is so tall inside my guts it’s pushing up my throat. When whatever is bound to happen finally happens, I won’t be able to live with myself. Did you catch that? I won’t be able to live.

My next thought is about killing.

I go around and around on how to do it. I’m pretty sure I can get the job done and get away with it, but Chloe is the problem. How do I just show up with a kid? Even if we move away, I’ll get asked for a birth certificate, and questioned about medical records and all that. Without ID, they’ll peg me for one of those child molester-kidnappers. I have to let go of wanting Chloe, or anything for myself, and just concentrate on what’s best for her. Once I get my head wrapped around that, the rest is easy.

I make a few calls and discover that in the state of California, orphans hit the jackpot. With no family standing in the way, the good life rolls up on wheels and takes the kid in, day or night. She gets new clothes, food, toys, and a temporary home—somewhere clean, safe, and the caretakers all checked out. The state starts an immediate search for a family to permanently adopt. The good-life-on-wheels has money for everything you can imagine—medical, dental, and special help with school. The way things are going, I don’t think Chloe is ever going to get to school, so this sounds like a dream come true.

There’s just one thing standing in the way of the jackpot and Chloe...and you know who that is by now, don’t you?

I decide to poison her.

Low-key, no trauma, no drama... no violence for Chloe to witness. Chloral hydrate. Spiked in a bottle of liquor. I’ve had it forever and remembered it when that blonde, billionaire widow, may she rest in peace beside her son, made it famous. I’ll tell Chloe that Mommy’s sleeping—I won’t say forever—and put her in front of the TV with a donut while I quietly call 911. When emergency crews arrive at a situation, the first thing they do is remove the children. As soon as Chloe goes outside with a rescue worker, there will be a minute while they check the mom for vital signs. In that little space, I’ll step into the bathroom and put a bullet in my head. Okay, let me bring you up to speed here 'cause you’re surprised. I have to go down the same time as the mom. The law will nail me sooner or later, and Chloe needs all the bad stuff in her life to be over in one day...so she can get on the bus to a new life with no loose ends pulling her any way but forward.

I’m not afraid to die. I’m not dying for nothing.

It’s evening, and I invited myself over to the El Morada. The mom’s latest lowlife took off and she’s alone, so now’s the time. I already put the Anna Ni-chloral hydrate in a bottle of tequila. I got Mr. Bubble for Chloe, and a big new bath towel. The towel is wrapped around a gun— a handgun from the store that the owner leaves behind the counter just in case. I’m going to ask the mom if I can give Chloe a bath before bed, and while I’m in there, hide the gun under the bathroom sink for when I need it in the morning...

“
Knock knock.”

Chloe knows I’m coming, and throws herself into my arms. The mom is right there, all smiley when she sees the tequila. I give it to her, and she starts rummaging for a couple plastic cups, while Chloe and I go into the bathroom and get the Mr. Bubble going in the rusty old tub.

Chloe gets in and lathers up, playing with the foam, and I know it’s the right moment to get that gun shoved way back under the sink. So far so good...and all of a sudden the outside door busts open like somebody put a boot through it, and a voice hollers, “You whore,” and stuff about acting like a taconera while I been away, and there’s a little zhzhzhoot sound like a shot. Somebody hits the wall right next to the bathroom door, and makes a soft, sliding sound all the way down.

I meet Chloe’s eyes—wide and shiny with fear. My fingers go to my lips, a silent shhhh, and I inch the shower curtain across to hide her. Steps come up to the bathroom door—the impact sprung it open a few inches. I’m glued to the sound of those feet and I’m too freaked to even think about reaching for the gun under the sink. A drip from the tap hits the bathwater. It sounds like a firecracker going off. My eyes focus beyond the crack in the door and I see the mom’s torso—and a man’s hand reach out to touch her. I recognize tattoos on that hand. And then his face draws near, until his eye appears in the door crack. “Come out,” he says. The barrel of a gun rises to point at me, underneath his eye.

My legs won’t move; knees rubbery, not responding. “Out,” he says, again.

If it wasn’t for all the blood, the mom could just be taking a nap, sitting all relaxed like that. Except for the bullet through her heart. She has an empty plastic cup in one hand and my tequila in the other. The banger recognizes me, smirks, and crosses to a cheap boom box. A gangsta starts growling about guns and hos—murder music. Banger takes the bottle out of corpse-mom’s hand and drinks from it long and hard. “Where’s the kid?” he says.

I stutter something about gone with a babysitter while he swigs away. “Tastes like shit,” he says, holding the bottle up. It explodes in a thousand sparkling shards. Behind the dazzling spray of tequila, a rose opens in his throat, scattering bloody petals. He staggers back, leaving a red swerve on the grimy shag, hits the screen door, and crashes through. Shouts and commotion outside as I look behind me and there is Chloe, little Chloe, naked and dripping, holding a smoking gun. Her small voice sounds innocent and clear, like bird song after a bomb blast, “Did I do good, Bebbie? Did I do good?” †

Claw Marks

First time she walked in, I was under my favorite barstool. The sway in her tail looked inviting but the rest of her looked suspicious.

“
Shot a Jack,” she whispered to Mack.

Ignoring me on the floor, she shivered onto a stool, and I could smell sex on her skirt, like she just had a roll in the alley. I like it out there myself, sometimes.

She was overdressed for Mack’s place. Some kinda shiny shoes and purse to match, gold on her hands and ears. I heard Mack strike up a line in his polite voice—I never hear that tone out of him myself—but then, I’m not female. Mack lets me keep my balls.

She answered him in a voice that stood the hair up on the back of my neck. I felt like swiping her ankle to draw blood and drive her out—but then a mouse creeping along the far wall caught my attention, and I forgot all about Mack and his smelly blonde.

This is my bar, my territory, and anything non-human gets clawed by me sooner or later. Mack puts food down only once a day, so I catch lunch and dinner, snacks too. Sometimes I catch a bounty and open their bellies, hook a string of guts with my lower fangs, and pull hard to create a flowery effect. It makes Mack a nice present, but the idiot never eats anything, and throws my trophies out. Hey, I don’t let on how embarrassing he is. I know who pours my milk in the morning.

The blonde returned next day and days after that. Mack took to escorting her into the back room where the giant steel box is—I jumped in once and got swatted out. Back room has a bed where Mack sleeps, and in they’d go. I could hear them rolling around. When they started leaving the door ajar, I walked right in and watched. Funny, these people.

This’d been going on for about a month when she shows up with a black eye. Thunderclouds gather on Mack’s face, and he locks up, middle of the day. She heads for the back room, starts sobbing, and turns her purse upside-down so a flurry of bills spill over the bed. They talk back and forth a long time, and then Mack gathers up the money in a neat stack, opens the giant box and locks it in. They commence rolling around on the bed, but quieter and gentler than usual.

A day or two later, Mack starts putting things in his army duffel. I know what that means: Mack’s fixing to leave for a while. Whitey usually takes over till Mack comes back. I hate Whitey; he forgets to feed me.

Sure enough, after closing, here she comes, carrying a suitcase. I don’t like the look of this at all. They break out a bottle in the back room, strip off naked, and clink glasses.

What they don’t know is, there’s a guy hiding under the bed. He must’ve been there a long time, because nobody saw him go in, but I can smell him breathing. I sit back and twitch my tail. Attracting Mack’s attention is an option, but why bother? Bastard’s going to leave me with Whitey.

They’re bouncing that bed pretty good, making it squeak like a hundred chittering rats, and the guy slithers out from under with steel in his hand. I dive under the bed, and stay there through the blows and bludgeoning, the shouts and screaming, until it stops.

The stranger’s stick drops with a clang, and his feet stagger out the door. It closes, the bolt scrapes. Mack’s sightless eyes stare at me. As he drains onto the floor, I wonder who’s going to feed me in the morning—what about my milk? I lap at one of the hundred rivulets of blood crawling toward me across the old hardwood—lick my chops, swallow the warm red, thicker than the blood of vermin. Maybe this won’t be too bad for a few days, after all. †

Backseat Driver

“
What’s your name, foxy lady?”

“
Jasmine.”

“
Well Jasmine, would you like a drink?”

She takes it, and another one, too.

Around them, chatter and music. Question marks of smoke waft toward hanging lamps. Trippy macramé on the folksy wood walls. In Malibu, hip never tries too hard.

The jukebox thrums Feel Like Makin’ Love. Jasmine smiles bedroom-eyed and turns her face to his. A golden hoop earring dangles all the way to her slender shoulder, underscoring a rose-petal face.

Banter, charged with attraction, that old X meets Y magic, and another drink. She takes out a long, slim cigarette. using the moment to toss her hair—a magnificent, Charlie’s Angels’ mane— and hovers it in front of her glossed lips. He’s on top of the lighter, holding out a flame, notices that the brand is the same as his Laura’s. She’s away in San Jose. The thought snaps off with the lighter. He’s recaptured by Jasmine’s sparkling eyes, long-stem legs stretched out in the black vinyl cocktail chair.