Roachkiller and Other Stories (13 page)

I look at the peephole. No one in the hall on the right. No one in the hall on the left.

I open the door without a sound. Almeja goes out first, then me. Then before I close the door and put on the Do Not Disturb: A hotel attendant. Gold jacket. Horrible tassels. Comes right around the corner with his cart. Sees us coming out of suite 774.

I finished my cigarette and crushed it out.

I chase the attendant down the hall. He is a fast fuck but he misses the closing elevator door. Unsynchronicity for him,
no?
He heads for the stairs and trips. I get him at the bottom of the landing. I have no gun, no knife. I am a manager, not a pimp. All I have is my hands.

I take Juan’s neck in my hands—he doesn’t have a name tag, he just looks like my cousin Juan.

He is the first man I ever killed. His wears cheap cologne—I feel it seeping into my hands and up my arms.

Almeja stands at the top of the landing. No crying, no screaming. Just shock.

Another Juan bites the dust. Juan less bell to answer. Juan to nothing.

“Help me,” I say.

Juan had been fast but he is no lightweight. We both carry him down seven flights to the basement. I am thinking maybe we can make it look like a mugging.

I walk to the door of the bar. The lights are almost enough to blind me. But I can see some faces.

As we are carrying the body, in walks a security guard back from taking a cigarette break, looks like. It has to look bad: Almeja and I holding a dead body. I drop Juan and tackle the guy. He falls back against the door, opening it, but he recovers quick enough to shove the gun under my chin.

The gun jams.

A happy accident. Of sorts. A fortunate result. If only a temporary one.

I put my elbow into his neck and think I am going to kill another man that day. But the gun comes up again. I snatch it. And elbow him in the face. Off the floor, I am running and sweating.

But I have never been much of an athlete.

I look up and see this stupid yuppie bar. Where Beth and I used to go.

Clemente, by the way, was a four-time National League batting champion, finishing thirteen times in the top ten in batting average. He finished his career with exactly three thousand hits, the eleventh player in history ever to reach this number. Ever the good guy, he chartered a plane to deliver food and supplies to Nicaraguan earthquake victims. The plane had a history of mechanical problems and was overloaded by more than two tons of supplies and food. The plane crashed.

Clemente was probably eaten by sharks.

Outside, they were waiting. The first cop I shot, I shot right in the goatee.

Ibarra Goes Down

It’s all right, Larry, I might as well get all this off my chest. I’m just a tax lawyer, certainly I’m no criminal mastermind and not a talented criminal attorney like yourself. The truth is I’ve been holding all of this in for too long, and whether or not this helps my case with Detective Duran here, I’ll fucking explode if I don’t talk.

Here it is.

I only care about two things in this world: number one is my family. God help you if you ever do anything to my wife and my three beautiful kids. And, two, eating pussy, that’s the second. I know that may sound weird, but it took twelve years of therapy for me to say that, to be proud to say that, so I’m not going to make any apologies about it. I may not be the best kind of man, or, excuse me, the best kind of person, but I believe this world is better off when the persons in it are happy and have found and have access to the things that make them happy. There are two things that cause problems, gentlemen, that cause grief and trouble and, yes, murder—it’s not knowing what it is that makes you happy. And it’s knowing, but not being able to have it.

Now. What happened yesterday, last night, I never intended that to happen. But it happened because I was pursuing one of the things that make me happy.

No, not my family. I could do without the sarcasm, Detective. I am a sensitive man.

I’ve never seen so much fucking blood in my life. But it was not my fault. I just thought I was getting an extra bit of—

Well, I’ll get to that. Please. Bear with me, Officer. And Larry, I’m really glad you’re here to listen, too. You’re my friend and my lawyer, and I’m paying you by the hour, ten times what I pay my therapist, but you need to know all this crap. For whatever comes next.

See, fellas, I married a lovely woman. I am very proud to say, Yelena is a beauty. She takes care of me. She’s a good mother. She is a professional and is good at her job. But Yelena was raised in Queens. God forgive me for saying this, but the Catholic Church screwed her up.

We got married a few years out of college. She was still a virgin, of course. I had been around a little. I mean, I was an altar boy but I wasn’t stupid. I loved sex, and one thing I discovered with my high school girlfriend was that I loved going down on a girl more than anything. The taste, the texture, the pleasure it gives a woman, the satisfaction that pleasure gives me.

Seriously, I could spend hours down there.

So, on my wedding night, my wife and I were getting hot and heavy when I decided to visit Australia.

Anyway, there I go, and while she had been into the kissing, boom, her body froze. “What are you doing?” she says to me.

“Just relax, baby,” I told her.

But she clamped her legs together tighter than a vise. Incredible thighs on that woman. Suffice to say, I was disappointed. Over time, I kept trying. But she would lay there so still, I would think she was asleep. I would look up to see if she actually was but no, she would be staring at the ceiling.

“Baby,” I would say, “don’t you like this?”

And she would say, “I just don’t understand why anyone would want to do that.”

What the fuck?

Other times, and this killed me, she would laugh. Actually laugh. Did I hit a ticklish spot? She wouldn’t answer. Just giggle.

I mean, it makes a man feel like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. That’s a killer.

Well, I wasn’t happy. But I’m not an animal. Like I said, I was in therapy, and the therapist said I should ask her why she didn’t like that kind of sex. Never mind blow jobs, by the way. I was never one for blow jobs. I’m a giving person, you see. Not a taker.

So I ask her, and she tells me this whole thing about the church and her body. Listen, I tried to follow it but she didn’t make much sense. She was my wife, right? We should be able to do what we want?

Anyway, I didn’t know what to do.

Larry, remember I did talk to you about this once, couple of years ago. Embarrassing as hell for me. But I wanted a friend’s perspective. You were very straight up with me. You said, “Shut up and be fucking grateful such a beautiful woman can stand the sight of you.”

I appreciated that, Larry, I truly did. Words of wisdom.

Anyway, I still didn’t know what to do.

And that’s when I ran into Cece. Cecelia Carrillo. She and I had dated briefly in college. We met in some class on Jane Austen. She was pre-med, I think. Used to love to wear pink sweatpants and T-shirts with big words on them, like “Frankie Says Relax.” Incredible sex, but neither of us was looking for a commitment. But the one thing she liked to do more than anything—you guessed it—was have me go down on her.

Now, Detective, I’m getting to the whole thing with the deceased individual in the fridge, and the gun, and the crowbar. Please. Let me tell it my way.

So this was last winter. Day before the holiday weekend. Snow a foot deep. I decided to come down from my tiny little office in midtown to one of my favorite bars, Maguire’s Ale House, near City Hall. In fact, I came down to meet you, Larry, and I ordered a beer, and then you said you had to run, before you got stuck in the City. But you told me to stay, finish my beer. I guess you knew I was never in any hurry to get home in those days, snow or no snow. So, I decided to stay, naturally. There was a small crowd, all in a good mood.

Then all of sudden someone taps me on the shoulder, saying, “This must be my lucky day.”

It was Cecelia Carrillo. Looking absolutely gorgeous. Her still-jet-black hair falling around her shoulders. Leather jacket. Smelling terrific. She said she’d buy me a drink, and so we got to catching up. She’d become a nurse, worked at the local hospital. Married. No kids.

Now, I’m not some big-shot lawyer like Larry here. We went to college, you know, Larry and I. We were in the chess club together, remember? I never won a game against you. Not once. It wasn’t such a good place to meet girls anyway, but you never seemed to have a problem. Larry, with his big hair back then, most of which you’ve kept, lucky you. Me, not so much.

Both wanted to be famous lawyers, we two. But I copped out, went on to tax law, never saw the inside of a real courtroom. But, Larry, you went for the big time, and I’ve always been proud of you. I could never be like you, but I’ve always envied you and what you guys get. What I mean is, a beautiful, sweet-smelling woman like Cece Carrillo might’ve loved me in college, but now I’m half an old fart, and she’d more likely go after some class act like Larry than some tax schlub like me.

But there we are, in the ale house, a few beers in, and Cece is reminding me about how I used to use my tongue on her, and how no one had ever done that to her the way I did. And I agreed. And then somehow she’s kissing me, and somehow we got to my office and kept on kissing, and there at my desk she put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down to a place from which I had been too long absent.

Gentlemen, I was a happy man.

Now, you might be thinking, didn’t this thing interfere with the other thing? What about my family? Like I said, it’s the not getting access to the things you love that causes problems. I had had my breakthrough in therapy and I knew what I needed. And now here it was. At the back of my mind, I knew I could never let it interfere with the other part of my life. That I needed both things.

Cece and I agreed—we both had families and wanted to keep things as they were so no one would get hurt. We decided to meet once a week. It was always the same. After hours. At my office or a hotel. One time one of my coworkers was in the hospital where Cece worked, and while he was sleeping, or at least I hope he was, we did it in the bed next to his. We were insatiable.

Cece would stand up and lie back and I would bury my face between her long legs. I don’t care what you fellows think, but when I was there I was in heaven.

She would scream and moan and beg. And never laugh.

This went on for the last year and a half. I guess I knew it couldn’t last.

One time, we were at my office late. She was sitting in my desk chair, her nurse’s pants and underwear on the floor, her black leather jacket still on, and a lovely look of satisfaction on her face. I got up to wash my face because, well, you know. Anyway, I figure it’s time for us to get going back home when out of nowhere she says, “Wouldn’t it be nice to do this all the time? To not have to worry about anybody else? Just us, you know?”

I tell her, “Where is this coming from? I thought you wanted to keep things status quo?”

“It’s my husband,” she says. “It’s just not the same like it is with you. If we could just get rid of my husband.”

“What the fuck? Are you crazy?” I tell her. “Don’t say another fucking word. Just put your panties back on and let’s get out of here.”

And that was the end of that, I figured. Until last night.

It was about seven o’clock. I would normally have been on my way to Scarsdale, but Larry here called and said we hadn’t seen each other in a long time, why didn’t I have dinner with him, shoot the shit. What the hell? I figured, I could use a snootful.

So I think we were talking about our new smartphones, weren’t we, showing them off like kids comparing dicks? I just got a new one and I really wanted to show it to you because I had seen yours and I guess I had to have the same one, exact brand and all. I mean, you know, be as cool as you, Larry, in a small way.

Remember, you said to me when I showed you, “You know how to use that fucking thing? It’s not easy.”

I told you I thought I could.

Then you said, “You’re some fucking genius, Ibarra.”

You laughed a little. I think I laughed, too. Pretty sure I did.

So then we were talking technology like a couple of fucking tech geeks. Anyway, right about then, Larry, you got up to go to the john, and I’m sipping my drink when all of a sudden my fancy new smartphone lights up, so I pick it up and see there’s a text—from Cece. It says, “I’m ready now.” So I wonder what the hell is going on, so I press the thing to call her back.

She picks up and I start talking. “What’re you ready for, baby?” And then Cece answers, sounding a little out of breath, kinda funny, and says, “Bob—Bobby,” like she’s not sure it’s me. Then she needs me to help her out with something right then. I told her it wasn’t one of our nights—you know, we had a schedule. Then she gets mean, and I could tell she was desperate, she says, “Get the fuck over here now or your wife finds out everything.”

Well,
c’est la vie
, gentlemen, and I said a quick good-bye to you, Larry, remember, and was off to Queens in a cab.

I had never been to her house—it was just too far out to make things easy, if you know what I mean. It was a nice place. There was a motorcycle parked in the driveway. That was interesting, I thought.

Anyway, she pops open the door and lets me in, and I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing there when she starts blurting out real fast, “My husband. I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted out. For the past year I’ve been injecting him with all these drugs. He’s got a bad heart. I was hoping to make him go over. I think I finally did it.”

Gentlemen, right then, I truly and spectacularly shit a brick.

So I say, “So what do you expect me to do about it?”

She says she just wants me to check if he’s really dead. I tell her, “You’re the nurse.” And she says he’s a big guy and if he’s not dead he’ll have figured out what she was doing and break her neck. I’m totally perplexed at this point. Then she says, “Just come down to the basement. He’s in the fridge.”