L.A. Rotten (4 page)

When he spills the last of his blood, I roll him onto his face and collect the dripping newspapers, tossing them into the can with the remnants of shirt. The boy's an empty husk now, and his pallor reveals it; he's gone from the sun-worn deep tan color of his people to a jaundiced yellow, as if the blood had been one of his pigments, now stripped away. I am making better time than I anticipated, and I know I shouldn't, but curiosity overwhelms me, and I decide to open him up—if nothing else, I can do it under the pretense of removing the bullets.

With fresh newspaper down, I roll the boy onto his back and stuff the Dremel beneath him to elevate his chest cavity, which will make for easier slicing. I feel oddly calm about everything, confident even. I start on the right side, just below his clavicle, dragging my scalpel in a diagonal line through the skin down to below the kid's sternum. The blade cuts easily enough, but I have to go shallower as I run across the bumpy mounds of his rib cage. I drive another incision from above his left pectoral down to meet the first incision, and then continue down past his belly button, forming a large “Y” on his chest. Had my med school studies not been interrupted by the trial and my subsequent incarceration, this was the sort of thing I'd have been gearing up to do.

It takes several quick cuts to shear open the streaked, wet layers of fat and pectoral muscle to reach the skeletal structure of his thorax. Ragged hunks of tissue cling to the bones, connected by strands of nerves resembling loose threads. Out come the bolt cutters, which crunch through the shaped cartilage bricks of his sternum, encountering brutally small resistance, as if snapping through a series of small tree branches. I have to make multiple breaks here, snapping through the seven true ribs on both sides of the chest to remove the breastplate. It, pockmarked by the two narrow bullet holes, goes into a trashcan. Now the whole of the boy's midsection is exposed and open for me and I can go fishing for the slugs. It is eerie to see the inside of a human; the anatomy books, with their bright colors of greens and blues and purples to highlight everything, don't do it justice. No, everything in here seems to be a different shade of red, some much darker, almost purple, and some yellow, which is fat. The meat and veins under the poor fluorescent glow are definitely rosy and well marbled, though. I recognize much from my studies: the dark red lungs, the internal thoracic arteries running like twin interstates down into the abdomen, and the pericardial sac containing the kid's heart. Right away, I can tell that the first bullet, almost certainly the kill shot, has punctured the sac and torn down into his left ventricle. Not especially delicately, I use my scalpel to hack at the wound, widening it, and then jam my index finger and thumb into the thick of the ventricle. Had I been asked yesterday what I was going to be doing with my Sunday evening, I could not have guessed this scenario.

My finger grazes something solid in the spongy tissue, and knowing, I jam my hand in further to extract the impacted bullet from its resting place. I pull out a small metal wad, looking about the diameter of the .22 caliber slugs we'd fired when I was in Boy Scouts, except this one is shorter, a hollow-point, and has mushroomed down severely upon impact. How something little bigger than a Tic Tac, when projected with enough force, can kill a man befuddles me. I set the warped plug of lead aside and go back in after the other one.

I find the second bullet buried in the muscular tissue behind his right lung. It had passed through a bifurcation, leaving the lung seemingly unharmed. Without the shot fired through his heart, there was a good chance the boy might have survived. Of course, that isn't accounting for the one in his skull.

Snipping at the lines of nerves and arteries dipping in and out of his remaining vital organs, I one by one remove the large viscera, taking the time to hold them, feel them, and then drop them in the trashcan with their buddies. His torso, a hollow cavity now, is much easier to flip over as I go for the boy's head, carving into his skull with my handsaw. I'm not trying to preserve his brain for an anatomy class or anything, so when the steel teeth of the saw chew into the soft cranial lobes, colored gray now from the absence of blood, I keep right on sawing, not stopping until the serrated tips of the handsaw punch out through his forehead, and his skullcap drops to the floor, mounds of parietal and frontal brain matter included. Mushing my fingers around in the soft matter within the cap of his separated skull tells me the bullet isn't in there, so it all goes into the trash bin as well. A sudden, unusual wave of nausea passes over and through me, and I have to steady myself. I don't think I will puke, but something in the smell of the room catches me and forces me to consider the reality of where I am and the nature of the task I am now performing. I stop, breathe, and the feeling subsides
. It's no different really than the worst aspects of your day job
, I remind myself as I suck in clean air from above my head. With that, I stick both hands into the remainder of the boy's head and tear apart his brain, as if searching for a wedding ring in a Jell-O mold.

This bullet is lodged in the rigid mass of his spinal column, and though mushroomed as well, it is quite a bit larger than the .22 caliber short slugs that have punctured his chest. It had been fired from a different gun, from a different angle. I can piece together the scene in my mind: at least two shooters, more people there probably, surrounding, watching, and the first shots fired are the two to the chest. If I put my detective cap on, I would say that due to the small caliber of the chest bullets, it was a younger member of the gang that did the shooting, utilizing a lighter pistol with less recoil—possibly someone earning their stripes. When the victim went down on his stomach, gasping as the blood ejaculated from his now-malformed heart if he wasn't dead already, a second shooter, a more experienced member of the gang, stepped in with his own, larger-caliber pistol and finished the job. Urban recidivism is a bitch.

Quickly I grab up the clusters of loose brain and toss them into the trash as well. The three slugs, tinged with blood, go into a Ziploc baggie, which I put, for the time being, in my milk crate. Since the boy is already facedown, I decide to leave him that way as I begin my cuts, sawing first through his neck to decapitate what is left of his head, and then through the limbs at his major joints—separating humeri from scapulaes, femurs from os coxae. The femurs are the worst of my cuts, for to get at the meaty tendons and head bone of his leg joints, I have to remove the lad's pants and boxers, then pass the saw back and forth beside the soft limp skin of his testicles. It isn't that I feel bad for the little gangster-wannabe cocksucker, but I can just imagine somebody cutting into my ball sack with the jagged, dulling blade of a handsaw and that sucks. This is the kind of shit they should put on anti-gang posters.

My only real dilemma comes from the torso itself. It is considerably larger than all the extremities, and I don't know what size pieces my employers are expecting. Intact, it will necessitate its own trash bag, but cutting across the abdomen will take up some serious time, and judging by the color of night seeping in through the crack beneath the main garage door, it isn't the kind of time I have. Besides, there is still much to complete. I've dallied too much with my “forensic examinations,” and now morning and its problems are bearing down.
Fuck it, the torso stays
, I decide, and stuff it into a new trash bag.
If they don't like it, they'll probably kill me.

In all, I've got six full bags of biohazard, the one containing all the parts of the cranium weighing in as the lightest. Once I've finished, the concrete floor is spotlessly clean in a three-by-six-foot oval surrounding the body, which is only slightly alarming in regard to the dirt and debris polluting everything outside of the oval, and the sun has not yet risen over Inglewood.

This leaves me with one consideration only: do I take the money? I've done the work, so the obvious answer seems to be yes, but this also means I am buying into the system. I will be forever subjected to these random text messages, demanded to perform, day and night, for the unknown span of our working relationship. Eventually I will get caught or killed, or something…all of the jobs cannot go this smoothly. But in the end, the important thing to remember is, $4,600 buys a good chunk of heroin. Tossing the wad of bills into my milk crate, I swap the money for the bullets, and reseal the box. There are worse ways to pay for a habit.

I cannot sleep before the appointment with my parole officer. An itch comes for me to use, but I am not yet that stupid. In the end, I shower, shave at the light spread of bristles across my chin and cheeks, and decide against breakfast. I spend the rest of the morning in the Trauma-Gone warehouse, cleaning my personal tools as I would in the aftermath of any messy job. When they are surgical, I set them back in my trunk, where they can be scrutinized by any police officer that wants to have a good look at them. This is one of the hazards of being on parole—the police can search my car, apartment, or person at any time, with “parole” being all the probable cause they need. Officer Duane Caruzzi has done two of the three things numerous times. Only once has he come to my apartment, though, and that was in the very beginning. Since then, I have made it my business to appear a model parolee and give him little reason to suspect otherwise, with the lone exception of the one-time needle sore that stubbornly refused to heal in the crook of my left arm. That mistake has not since been repeated.

At 12:30 p.m., I drive down to the Burbank Hooters for a lunchtime sit-down, during which Duane will personally consume fifty of their “Three Mile Island” wings and guzzle close to a gallon of Diet Pepsi, sucking his fingers for spare sauce the whole time as he goes. I do not partake, instead sitting in polite silence awaiting his litany of inquiries as he tears into the meat-speckled bones. He is not a fat man, though his arteries must look like Slim Jims, and he is soggy around the middle. His cheeks are reliably pink, and jiggle with each voracious chew, which means that they are doing so almost nonstop during this marathon luncheon. His silver hair, growing out of a crew cut and into a flattop, reminds me of how my father's was, but, physically, that is the only resemblance between the two of them.

“Let me see your arms,” Duane snorts. I show them; they are tan from my time at the beach, but pale and smooth in the crooks, no pocks, nicks, or holes to be found.

“You clean?”

“Yes.”

“You staying out of trouble?”

“Yes.”

“You know I don't like you doing that blood cleanup.”

“I know.”

“Work's work, though, I reckon, and nowadays you got to think outside the box if you wanna survive Los Angeles. Anything you wanna talk to me about?”

“No.”

“You lonely? You wanna go catch a movie sometime or something?”

“I don't really have the patience for movies.”

“Okay, I get that. Reality is more interesting to me too. Documentaries and stuff. History Channel. Hey—have you given any thought to what I asked you about before? About the club?”

“Not really.”

“Well, just keep it in mind. We could really benefit from a smart guy like you. And you from us.” The soft sell again. He stares into my flat, near-dead gaze and finds a stony wall. “Okay, well, short meeting then.” He seems wounded. Duane sets a plastic-wrapped piss cup on the table between his stack of chicken bones and me. “Gimme a sample and we're done.” Not protesting, I take the specimen container and head to the restroom. It has been somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty hours since I last dosed myself, so I'm not worried about anything popping up on his radar.

Duane has manipulated his position as a probation officer into a dual role as an active recruiter for a Southern California arm of the white supremacist movement. Of course, he never quite calls it that when he's pitching it to me. To him, it's more of an organization for “wayward white men to find their place in a self-destructing society” or a “men's club for like-minded Caucasians to carve their place back into an America they built.” My pre-prison medical studies have made me an exceptional “get” for Duane's racist faction, and though he never pushes me too hard, I feel there is a constant stream of pressure over it. I worry slightly that he will one day increase his push by utilizing the considerable leverage he has over me, but for the time being, he is just content to let the idea marinate. He's smart enough to not push too hard. Of course, he might just be exercising caution because the word from another parolee I ran across is that it was the racial shit that got him busted down from being a real cop. The way Caruzzi spins it is “bullshit bureaucracy.” I pee just enough to fill the cup up to its prescribed line, and finish in the toilet. My urine is cloudy and dark, and I remind myself to drink more water in the future. Careful to ensure nothing has connected with the outside of the cup, I even take the time to wipe it clean before capping it. I return to Caruzzi and set the cup on a napkin to his right. “Make good choices,” he says by way of dismissing me before he inhales more Diet Pepsi. “Oh”—his voice freezes me as I'm almost to the door—“and try to get more sleep. You look like you belong in a concentration camp.” I do feel the need for slumber, but as soon as I get home, I dig into my cigar box for another pill capsule to cook up; sleep will come in time.

I wake to blackness, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I am not still under the effects of the heroin. I've only slept for a couple of hours, but I am, at once, now restlessly alert. My apartment feels closed off, narrow and stuffy, and I realize it is the last place I want to be at the moment. With no missed calls, though, and nothing else to do, I take a walk.

Night has only just settled over Los Angeles, and children are still playing in the streets, stripped down to their bare minimum. An air conditioner humming out a second-story window drips a steady trickle of condensation down; I stand beneath it, wetting my face and shoulders. An elderly Hispanic man passing by seems to appreciate my situation, though he does not give me eye contact and hurries on his way. I resume my walk, now consciously trying to elicit hellos from my fellow pedestrians. It is almost a basic need for simple communication with a fellow human being, but none are forthcoming. I can't blame them; a Caucasian man stalking the dirty boulevards with slicked-back hair and wide eyes is, even under normal circumstances, not the sort they want to engage in a casual conversation. Unwilling to be stymied, my need persists; my stroll takes on direction, and I can feel my step quicken beneath me. I see the neon shine of the Electric Candy Factory over the square rooftops of surrounding businesses, and it plants a grin across my jaw. Sometimes you gotta go where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. Besides, I would be selfish if I spent all my new-gotten $4,600 just on me.

I cross the parking lot, threading between low-end Chryslers, and see Royal standing massively beside the cushioned red door.

“Hey, big shot!” The shout is feminine, angry, and to my right. The waitress with the tattoo sleeve, Ivy, is advancing toward me, heels clicking on asphalt, and one hand is curled into itself. A quick glance tells me that she's gotten Royal's attention as well.

“Get lost, bitch,” he warns her, but I wave off his involvement. When I stop, Ivy is upon me, aiming that knotted fist at my head. She's clearly not a fighter, though, and her punch, telegraphed for a country mile, swings past me as I move around it and in, suddenly, reflexively, grappling with her and pinning her where she stands. She attempts a sort of mule kick, ideally targeting my balls, but I expect this, and her kick too sails wide. As she struggles against me, I tighten my grip, demonstrating that I can hurt her if I choose. She redoubles her efforts, though, and I scream “Hey!” into the side of her head as she thrashes. Finally, she goes slack and I release her, taking a step backward in anticipation of a further assault. I can see in her eyes that she wants one, but maybe she can see in my eyes that I want one too, and it doesn't come.

“What the fuck was that about?” The energy courses in my veins, adrenaline circulates in my blood naturally, and it feels good.

“You got me fired, asshole.”

Everything slows just a bit. “What?”

“You complained and they fired me. On Friday.”

“I didn't tell them to fire you.”

“Well, they did. They said you were their best customer and that because I was rude to you, I was a goner.”

“You were rude to me.”

The fire in her eyes diminishes slightly. “I was having a shitty day.”

Royal, in defiance of my order, envelops her in a sudden bear hug that neither she nor I see coming. Lifting her aggressively, not afraid to exert brutal force against her tiny frame, the broad man carries her toward the street.

“Put her down, Royal,” I command, unexpectedly concerned for the girl's safety.

“Nothing doing, T. This bitch ain't welcome on Factory property.” Royal spikes her onto the rough concrete of city sidewalk, where her tiny body crumples upon impact.

“Fuck, man!” I chide Royal, shoving ineffectively against the expanse of his shoulder as I move to help her up.

“Fucking assholes,” she yells, feral once more. She pushes back off me, standing unsteadily, and there is blood. She slaps at me, and it displaces pebbles from a cut on her palm. Frothing, but holding back tears, she spits, connecting her saliva with my cheek. She looks to Royal, thinks better of it, and limps down the sidewalk.

“Tom, come back inside, man, your Cokes are on me,” Royal says, and he is calm, as if it all didn't just happen. I wipe the spit and know I should listen, just let her go, and wipe her drama from my memory banks.
A girl like her, she's used to the rough stuff.
And then I find myself walking again, pursuing now.

“Tom, man, forget that cluck,” Royal gripes, but I'm already gone.

“Hey,” I yell after the girl, Ivy, this time softer. “Ivy.”

“Just leave me alone,” she says, heavy between snuffles, and splits between two European men, who are no doubt headed in the direction of the Candy Factory. They grin oafishly at me as I pass between them, closing the gap on Ivy.

“Look, I'm sorry,” I say, and stop, deciding that I've gone as far as I'm willing to go. She senses the chasm between us and stops as well, turning to face me.

“I didn't deserve that.”

“I know.”

“I could file charges.”

“For what?” I ask, not coldly, but not pleasant either.

She takes a meek step back in my direction, not quite trusting. “Why did you follow me?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess.”

She glances at her hands and knocks some more pebbles from them. “I'm fine,” she maintains, and her steely edge returns. Deciding, she turns once more and begins to walk, calmer now.

Here, I am at an impasse. I definitely don't want to go back to the Candy Factory, but I don't know this girl,
don't want to know this girl
, my brain corrects me, and yet, “You hungry? I'll buy you dinner.”

She eats quickly, gripping her fork and keeping her wounded hand to the side of her plate, at the ready, as if I might try to take it from her.

“You should eat,” she declares, swallowing.

“Nah.” I decline, and twist the ceramic mug between my hands. Even in the diner it's too warm for coffee, and I'm not sure why I ordered it.

“I'm still not forgiving you,” she warns, before hauling a gravy-logged fork load of chicken fried steak and green peas into her mouth.

“You don't have to,” I say, and maybe it comes out more apathetic than either of us wants it to sound.

“How come you go to that stupid club so much?”

“How come you were waiting for me in the parking lot?”

“I don't know, what would you have done if you were me?”

“Not that.”

“I'm just sick of guys like you getting away with everything.”

“What's a guy like me?”

“Richie Rich asshole types,” she says with her mouth full.

“I'm not rich.”

“Bullshit. I bet I can guess what you do for a living.”

“I bet you can't.”

She's eager now, sizing me up, squinting her eyes and looking over every visible inch of me. “You're not an actor. You're not pretty enough for that. All the big Wall Street types are out on Wall Street, so you're not whatever that is, you dress like a bum, and your eyes look like you're dead inside. So…something to do with porno.”

I laugh, just once, a sharp unexpected gasp that escapes me, and I can tell it stings her; she was serious. “No, not porno,” I assure her.

“Were you ever in jail?”

Now I am the one who is stung. “Why?”

“Yep,” she nods, pleased. “You were. It's your eyes that give you away.”

I lay a twenty out and stand to leave. “Look, about your job: you're pretty, I'm sure you'll be alright.”

“I'm sorry,” she persists. “I'm fuckin' sorry, alright? It's not my business. Just sit back down. No more questions—me or you. We'll just be two people in a diner talkin' about the heat, alright?”

Before I can say no, my phone rings. “Tom,” I answer, turning away.

“We have a service request for you, sir; it is an Offramp Inn on Sepulveda Boulevard in Mission Hills. Can I tell them you'll take the call?”

“I'll work it.”

When I hang up, Ivy is staring up at me, suspicious. “What kind of job calls you out in the middle of the night on a Monday?”

“I thought you said no more questions. I gotta go—I've got a walk ahead of me.” To my chagrin, she hops up, abandoning her treasured plate of food.

“I'll drive you. I'm parked close-ish.”

“No.” I head for the door but she is at my heels.

“I'll follow you then.”

“What is this? I buy you dinner, now you're going to punish me for it?”

“Maybe I wanna get you fired from your job too?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck
. “Look, you're some stripper skank that I thought I could get a quickie off of, so let's just leave it at that. Now get the fuck out of my life, okay?” I march outside, certain that will be the end of it, but she's still behind me, slamming the door to get my attention.