Portland Noir (13 page)

The shit hits me like a fucking Amtrak.

I’m not sure how long I nod, but when I come back, the pain is just a dull ache.

The EMT is gone and the blond bitch is on the phone with her back to me talking to someone in Spanish again. I spot the EMT’s horse syringe on the carpet about a foot from me. With her attention focused on the phone call, I try to see if I can reach it. Everything below the waist is dead and my arms feel like boiled spaghetti, but now that the pain is gone, I’m able to shift my upper body just enough. I grab the syringe, hide it behind me, and shift back to where I was. It’s not much of a weapon, but if the bitch tries pressing on my stomach again, at least I can stab her.

Outside I hear a car pull into the driveway and multiple doors slam. The bitch flips her phone shut.

I don’t know what I expected Esteban to look like, but the light-skinned Mexican guy who walks into the living room strikes me more as a male model for one of those multicultural Benetton ads than a drug kingpin. The fucking guy is wearing a neon orange button-down with a baby-blue tennis sweater tied around his neck. If it wasn’t for the white pit bull at his side and the keloid scar across his neck, he could pass as fuck-ing Eurotrash.

“What happened here, Connie?” His accent isn’t very strong, but it’s true Mex, not Chicano.

“Esteban, he broke in … and I shot … and I shot him.”

“It’s okay. Give me the gun. I’ll get rid of it.”

She hands him the Ruger.

Without saying another word, Esteban walks over and steps on my lower abdomen. Even with the heroin, it hurts like a motherfucker. I can’t imagine what the pain would be like if I were straight.

He watches my reaction.

“You’re high, aren’t you?”

I try not to look at him.

“That’s okay, man. I’ve got some Narcan back at the other house. A little of that and you’ll feel it plenty.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s funny, you know. That’s just what the
mayate
said.”

He yells something in Spanish down the hall, and two other Mex guys drag Voodoo Mike in. He’s out cold with his hands zip-tied behind his back and a duct tape gag covering his mouth. His face is so fucked up it looks like somebody put a Rasta wig on a blob of hamburger meat. They drop him right on top of my legs, so that his head is faceup in my lap.

“Your friend here doesn’t listen good.” Esteban shakes his head. He says something in Spanish, and the shorter of the two Mex guys comes over. Shortie actually giggles as he bends down and pinches Mike’s nose closed.

Mike comes to fighting for air, and his eyes practically pop out of his head. If it wasn’t for the hamburger face, he’d look like a fucking cartoon. Esteban waves Shortie off, and Mike’s eyes finally retreat back into their sockets as he starts snorting in air again.

All three of them laugh, and then crack up completely when the phone in Mike’s front pocket begins playing some crappy Mariah Carey ringtone at full volume.

“Aren’t you going to answer your phone,
mayate
?” Esteban asks.

Mike continues snorting, either ignoring the question or just oblivious.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with his ear? No?” Este-ban’s brow furrows in mock concern.

“El lapíz
.” He snaps his fingers and Shortie hands him a pencil. Squatting down next to Mike, he grabs hold of his dreadlocks with one hand and whispers in his right ear. “Can you hear me now,
mayate
?”

Esteban gives me a wink, and then jams the pencil hard into Mike’s ear.

The blond bitch lets out a scream and Mike starts writhing as Esteban digs around with the pencil. Shortie giggles, but the other Mex has to look away.

“Hey, Connie,” Esteban calls out, “I can’t find anything. You try.”

“Esteban … I … Please.”

“Come on.” He digs in farther and Mike starts to go into convulsions. “It’s fun.”

“No. Please. I … I can’t.”

“Okay,” Esteban sighs, and pulls the pencil out.

Mike stops convulsing. His eyes stay open, but the right one goes all wonky and looks off to the side.

Esteban stands back up and then seems to notice the kilo for the first time.

“Connie? Why is there an open brick on the coffee table?” He starts to twirl the pencil in his hand.

“That’s not on me, Esteban! That paramedic you sent said—”

“What did I tell you about opening the product?”

“It wasn’t me! Ask him!” She points to me.

“Him?” Esteban laughs. “You mean, the
pendejo
you shot in the stomach?”

“Tell him!” Connie begs me. Her blue eyes are wide and she’s starting to go pale.

I don’t say anything. All I can think about is the phone in Mike’s pocket.

“Please! Just tell him it was the paramedic!” Her voice breaks into a squeal.

“
Cálmate
,
mujer
.” Esteban smiles, still twirling the pencil. “I think our
amigo
here just needs a little motivation.”

Mike’s phone makes a whooshing noise to indicate that whoever called left a voice mail, but Esteban ignores it and steps on my abdomen again.

“You don’t want to help the poor
güera
over here?” he asks.

“Fuck you.”

“You know I’m going to kill you, no?” He presses down harder.

I try to speak, but can’t.

“Just tell me who opened the brick.” He takes his foot off, and gives a squeeze of the IV bag to bring me back around. “If you do that, I’ll let you load a few grams into that syringe you’re hiding behind your back, and you go off to junkie heaven …” He reaches over with the pencil and tickles my ear. “Or, if you want, we can always play a little more of Hide the Pencil.”

“Esteban …” Connie tries to intervene.

“Shhhh.” Esteban waves her off and speaks to me. “What do you think? Do you want to die the easy way or like the fucking
mayate?”

Connie’s given up and is just staring at me.

Shortie and the other Mex guy are staring at me too.

Esteban is smiling.

Fuck it.

“It was her.” I tilt my head at the blond bitch, figuring it might buy me some time.

“No! Esteban, he’s—”

“Está bien
,” Esteban reassures her. “Connie, do you really think I’m going to take a
pinche
junkie’s word over yours?”

“No, but I—”

“
Está bien
, okay?”

She nods, uncertain.

“Why don’t you help Jaime and Mario move the bricks out to the truck. This house isn’t safe anymore.”

Connie just looks at him.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

She reluctantly heads back into the hall, followed by the taller Mex, but Shortie lags behind and looks to Esteban for instructions.

Esteban hands him the Ruger and nods.

Shortie giggles as he slips the gun into his coat and trails the other two out into the hall.

“I guess we’re going to need a new
güera
.” Esteban walks back over. “And you know what? I think I changed my mind. We are going to play Hide the Lapíz after all.” He tickles my ear with the pencil again. “But first, I’m going to get that Nar-can.” He gives some sort of command in Spanish to the pit bull, and then leaves.

I listen to his footsteps going down the hall, my eyes fixed on the faint outline of a phone in Mike’s front pocket. Knowing I’m only going to have one shot at this, I wait until I actually hear the backdoor open before making my move. I can barely lift my arms and my hands are so clumsy that they feel like oven mitts, but after a minute or so of struggle, I manage to pull out the phone.

There’s a muffled gunshot down in the basement, followed by Shortie’s giggle. The pit bull lets out a tentative growl.

“Good doggy.”

I use my teeth to help flip the phone open, and then use my knuckle to dial.

Nine …

One …

Shit. I hear the creak of the backdoor and footsteps coming quickly down the hall again.

I fumble with the phone and manage to jam it in the pocket of my hoodie just before Esteban walks in.

He spots it anyway.

“I knew I forgot something.” He pulls the phone out of my hoodie and checks the numbers on the screen. “Ninety-one! Oh … you were so close,
amigo
.” He laughs.

“Fuck you.” I try to spit, but it just dribbles down my chin.

Despite the fact that it was barely audible, for some reason this final
Fuck you
seems to get to him. He bends forward as if he’s gonna hit me, but stops short at the last second. The smile returns, and instead of smacking me, he laughs.

“You know, I’m going to tell you a little secret.” He bends forward to whisper in my ear. “I believe you,
amigo.
You’re not working for the Tijuanans. You’re just some piece-of-shit junkie who broke into the wrong house, no?”

Esteban stands back up and waits for my response, but I don’t give him one.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He laughs again, then pulls out the pencil again and gives it a slow twirl. “So now we get to play our little game just for pleasure, no?”

He pockets both the pencil and the phone, and then blows me a kiss before leaving.

Once Esteban’s gone, everything just drains out of me.

I look down at Mike. His right eye is still all fucked up and looking the wrong way, but his left is staring at me. Almost pleading.

“Sorry, man. I tried.”

Figuring I might as well speed things up, I make a feeble attempt to pull the IV out of my neck, but my arms are so heavy I can’t seem to raise them above my shoulder anymore.

The pit bull growls again at my movements, and I start to wonder if there’s any way I can provoke him—hell, even getting mauled by a pit bull has to be better than that fucking pencil.

“Hey, dog. Fuck you,” I try to yell, but it comes out more like a whisper.

The pit bull promptly trots over and starts licking my face.

Goddamnit.

Out in the hall, I hear what must be Connie’s body being dragged out, and then the backdoor slam shut. There’s another giggle from Shortie outside in the driveway, and after a minute or so, the truck drives off.

The pit bull curls up next to me on the carpet, and I begin to feel lightheaded. There’s something oddly comforting about just giving up, and the pain actually recedes a bit. For some reason I think about my stepmother, and how before she got cancer she used to try and grow radishes in that vacant lot next to the gas station …

Just as I start to nod again, I hear a snorting noise and glance back down at Mike.

His one good eye is still pleading.

“What?”

His eye starts to move. First looking at me, and then down at his jeans. He keeps doing it. Over and over.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

And then I hear it. A faint ringtone coming from Mike’s other front pocket.

BABY, I’M HERE

BY
M
ONICA
D
RAKE
Legacy Good Samaritan Hospital

R
ebar’s first day out of the big loony bin on the hill, just checked into transitional housing, I agreed to meet him at the Marathon Taverna. I should’ve said no. Bad plan. But I went along with it. Over the phone, he said, “I need to get out, see people. Get back in the swing.”

I said, “The only people you’ll see at the Marathon are drunks. Maybe your dad if we stay late.”

He said, “I need to see you, Vanessa.”

And I gave in.

Before that, he’d wanted to meet up at my place. Problem was, my place was his. He owned the house. If I let him in, he’d never leave. He’d pick through my things looking for his things, any sign of him and me together, like playing husband and wife or some other sorry story. His was one of the last shacks set between warehouses in deep Northwest. Rebar’d said I could use it until he got out—out of jail, out of detox, out of the Mental Motel that was part of his sentence. Sounded like a long enough list, I hadn’t expected him back anytime soon. He’s not known for good behavior.

I took a bus down Twenty-first and walked along Burn-side. Overhead it was a gray sky. My raincoat flapped against the wind like a dying bird, slapped my knee with each step. Traffic lined the street thick as a parking lot. More cars jammed the McDonald’s. Across the way, somebody’d built a high-rise condo. The whole town was turning into a city of glass pillars.

A guy in a pickup held back at a green light. He let me cross Eighteenth. When I got to the other side I smiled and waved thanks, wiggled my fingers in the air. The man smiled too. Looking my way, he stepped on the gas and T-boned an idling Smart Car wedged in the intersection. There was the crunch of metal, a broken headlight, something swimming-pool blue that skidded over the macadam. I pretended not to notice because the thing is, that man had been sweet. I didn’t want him to feel bad about his driving problem.

Inside the Marathon, I found a table and peeled off my coat, put down my pocketbook. The tavern air was murky, thick with sweat, beer, and smoke, but warmer than outside. And it was dark. Instant night, in the middle of day. Scattered popcorn on the carpet was the glow of stars. I looked for the North Star, some guiding light in that mess, like an explorer let loose on a new world. Rebar, now sober, crazy, and adjusting to antipsychotics, he was a new world. A new planet. I had no idea how to handle him.

Taki, the Greek who ran the place, dropped his rag. He said, “Ah, Vanessa,
my beauty.
What can I do for you?” He wiped his hands on his pants.

He always said
my beauty.
It didn’t mean much, but I liked it, and liked him for it. I said, “I’ll have a beer and Snappy Tom’s, if you got it.” In that bar, beer meant Budweiser. There was nothing else.

Taki said, “You’re alone?”

I said, “Not alone. With you.” My hair was thick and hung heavy over one eye. I shook it out of the way, but it fell back again. One of these days I’d get a real haircut.

Taki brought the drink to my table. “If I wasn’t working, I’d take you someplace better than this. I’d take you to Greece. You been there?”

I hadn’t been anywhere. I’d walked the same city blocks long as I could remember. An old guy at the bar rapped his glass against the wood. Taki had to get back. Other than people like me and Rebar, who went there for cheap drink, it was geezers who inhabited the Marathon Tavern. Men who lived in single rooms for rent upstairs. When I found the place, I’d lived down the street in the Tudor Arms apartments with a guy named Ray.