Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father (75 page)

He searched his brain for
verses and tried to string them into a sentence that made sense, but nothing formed, nothing came to mind. So, he just sat there and listened.

“You don’t know how good I felt w
hen they was kickin’ my ass out. That shit was a bunch of bullshit, but you might like it. I dunno—talkin’ about me and my moms, the street ’nd shit. They say the same shit all the time. I use drugs to escape my life.” Bomb laughed. “I use drugs to
enjoy
my life, man. All this mama shit, okay, ain’t shit I can do about that now. She was fucked up, she dead now. Papa was gone, that fucka back in the P.R. last I heard. It was just me and the tribe. So fucking what. That’s life.”

“So you called me because Kenny saw Raphael and he told you I was here
, right?” Saint kept staring out that damned window, unflinching.

“Yeah. I meant to call you before now.”

Lies. Sure you did…

“
Then I found out you were in town. I thought, hell yeeeeees, it’s a damn sign, man. Look, I hate to trouble you, but I’m in kind of a jam. You got some dough, man, so I can get myself straight one last time and then go to my parole officer next week and get into another damn program? It’s either that or prison, and I told you I can’t go back.”

Saint paused and leaned back on the bed, leisurely crossing his ankles. He frowned, not out of anger or disgust, but because this was the part he hated about talking to
drug addicts. There was a slither of who they really were buried deep beneath the addictive behavior, the desire to get high, and you had to fight with all of these other demonic personalities they possessed to ever see that person again. Someone, or something, had their fist up Bomb’s ass and was using him like a dummy doll, making him do all sorts of strange shit and say bizarre things. It was his come down, talking. That hole in him needed to be filled, and he was going through the beginning stages of withdrawal. He was still lucid, but come midnight, he’d be in a world of hurt.

“Yeah, I can get you straight
. What are you on, man? Heroin?”

“Naaaaah, man. I don’t fuck with
no damn horse, none of that shit. I told you how I feel about that shit. Saw too many of my cats die from that shit, year after year. I thought I was too pretty to fuck up my arms with a bunch of damn holes. I got primo veins, man! All those pretty ass hoes from Eighth Street, the Mendez family, those sisters, remember them?”

“Yeah, I remember them.”

Saint grinned, recalling a large Puerto Rican family straight off the boat with nine sisters and two sons. Seven of the nine sisters were dime pieces. Saint was just a little kid, but he and his little nasty friends would pile around their apartment like wet shirts on a clothes line and watch those sisters leave to go to Church, their dresses real tight, hair long and dark brown, some to their asses, and they looked like the Queens on a stack of cards. Prim and proper, they ended up in America because their parents thought they’d have a better life here. In less than two years , things drastically changed. No more church service, the bell had rung. Word had got out that five out of the seven beauties, had gotten on that shit and were tricking, selling their virginal pussy for ten bucks a pop as their heroin addictions dragged them to hell. They had been good Catholic girls, and smack had ruined their lives.

“Well, that was like a wake-up call to me b
ack then, fuck that China white shit. I liked Gloria, the shortest one. She was the second eldest. Me and her used to fuck around, you know, those church girls are freaky. She would let me play with her tits, but I never got to third base. She was too holy for that, but she wanted to see my dick. She hadn’t seen one before. So I showed ’er and she screamed and turned all red, embarrassed ’nd shit.” He laughed. “Her older brothers, Juan and Luis, we was all cool. We used to hustle the shops down there in Hunts Point, shake the prostitutes down, pretendin’ to be the man ’til they got used to our shit and had their pimps come after us. It was a good hustle until you see a mothafucka in rollers dashing after your ass with a cane and two fuckin’ fists covered in rings ’nd shit talking about he is going to pound your ass into the ground.” Bomb laughed, this time seeming to genuinely enjoy his banter.

“I found
Gloria dead, man…belt tied around her damn arm. I’m the one that found ’er, man. I stopped by to see her.” The laughter stopped short and he came back hard. “Fucked me all up ’cause she was one of the girls I had a thing for. She wasn’t just someone I wanted to fuck every now and again. I thought she may have been the type of broad I could settle down with. She was a good girl, you know?”

“Yeah, I know
,” Saint said dryly.

“
I’d never met anyone that made me want to settle down before her, but she did. She knew I was out there in the streets, wild and dirty, but she said she’d clean me up and make me good. Told me I could be anything I wanted.” He paused. “She said I was smart, and I could get a nice job. Told me she’d take me to church. I never went.”

“No need in attending if your heart isn’t in it. You’d just be a bench warmer.” Saint sighed, propping his arm behind his head.

“Yeah, man. I need a broad like you got, man.”

They were quiet for a
while. Bomb was waiting for him to tell him when and where, but he just didn’t feel like doing it. He wanted Bomb to beg him to get high and dig his hole of self-destruction that much quicker and deeper. Bomb wanted to dance with the Devil, and he wanted Saint to buy his damned ticket to the ball. So be it. He’d have to jump through some flame-covered hoops first with gasoline draws on.

“
So, I want to get some shit though, get straight and then start a new go at it.”

“Bomb?”

“Yeah man.”

He could tell by the way his surrogate big brother and protector responded, that he knew a
lecture was coming, but didn’t discourage Saint from saying his piece.

“You like being on the streets
, huh? Just out there, doing time. You think you’re free, but you aren’t free. Every time you snort that shit up your nose, you go to prison, you’re locked up. You enjoy how it feels to be crawling around the concrete like an insect, dodging shit, the police and all sorts of criminals that want a piece of you because you almost killed them or their boy? Looking for some shit to smoke, some pills to take, moving around like a cockroach, skirting feet and car tires when it’s out and about in the big city trying to find some shit to make it forget that it is a damned cockroach?”

“What kinda shit is this?
! Saint, save your psychological bullshit! Yeah, I remember. You some therapist or some shit, a pussy and dick doctor, right? Helpin’ men get their cocks to work again. I got bigger issues than getting some pussy right now.”

“Did I mention anything about sex? No
, I didn’t.”

“Stay in your zone, man! So, you got a degree, you a doctor now.
Big jolly fuckin’ deal, good for you! I got a degree, too, one from the University of Hard Knocks, mothafucka, and I ain’t no damn cockroach. Don’t act better than me, mothafucka!”

“I’m not…”

“Like hell you aren’t. You from the same rotten ass ghetto as me. I don’t care how much money you get, that you live in L.A. in some big, fancy house now with all those fake assed Hollywood stars. I don’t care how big your goddamn house is!”

You already said that…

“… How good your woman looks, how many cars you roll, how flashy your threads are, man, you
still
from the ghetto and don’t you forget that shit! You are South Bronx, man! You can take the mothafucka out the projects, but you can’t take the projects outta him, Little Pharaoh.”

“Bomb, you—”

“I protected your scrawny, skinny, grubby, bobble headed little runt ass when that damned faggot pervert child molester, Junie, was eyeballing you and you ain’t even know it! Remember that, little Pharaoh?”

“No.”

“Yes, ya do. We was cool with Junie until he started messing with kids. Nobody gave a fuck that he liked men, so fuckin’ what, faggots were everywhere and faggots would beat cha ass wit’ the best of ’em, but kids? Nuh uh, we couldn’t have that shit…and then when he set his eyes on
you
, that was the worse thing he ever did! I made him live to regret that shit!”

“Could you please not use the word the faggot, Bomb? It’s offensive.
I don’t like hearing that, just say gay.”

“Fuck you, Saint. I will say whatever the fuck I want to say. I’m a grown man! I’m not politically correct. Fuck Paula Deen’s cankle havin’, quadruple chin butter eatin’ ass! I ain
’t got a million dollar show and cookbook chock full of slavery recipes, man. I call people what they are. Spics, faggots, niggas, gooks, dykes, blue-eyed devils, big nose Jews, we all family, I’m friends and family wit’ all of them mothafuckas but this mothafucka right here, Junie, had crossed the damn line. People knew how I felt about you, but he found you so damn cute, he just couldn’t resist.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was givin’ you shit, candy and money, and you was all proud about it and I had to go and fuck him up! He was buttering you up to steal that ass! You was just a poor little boy, you ain’t know no better. I protected you from shit you didn’t even know was on its mothafuckin’ way, on the horizon, ’cause you was too young and naïve to know any goddamn better!” he repeated, breathing hard. “When you ain’t have shit to wear, who bought you some damned clothes?! It was me, mothafucka! When you said you wanted to drop out of school and hang wit’ me, who told you that if I find you truant, I was going to beat your ass? Me! And I made sure you looked decent in class, too. Damn clothes… That stingy ass old man of yours wouldn’t drop a mothafuckin’ penny in your honor, had you walking around lookin’ like someone’s old dishrag, hair all over your fuckin’ head, holes in your damned shoes, and now you wanna sit there and get righteous with me! I’d have to be a dumb mothafucka to not know that drugs are not good, okay?!” He laughed angrily. “But for right now, this is what’s up! Your big brother is doin’ the shit. Never said it was right, but this is what is going on and unless you’ve ever been in my shoes, then you can stay the fuck down—make me regret I even called!”

The bomb had erupted…

“I’m down on my luck, call it what you want! Don’t spit on me right now. That’s some fucked up shit you just said, man.”

Saint exhaled and didn’t say shit else.
Words would be useless on the man right then, but he was angry, and he needed to let Bomb know he didn’t approve of the shit he was pulling. The whole tirade was an attempt to try and guilt him. Everything Bomb had said was true, but it was manipulative all the same. Saint had dealt with enough addicts to recognize it and it was the same ol’ mess, time and time again. He recalled himself making up excuses initially when faced with the reality that he was addicted to sex. It was always: ‘Just one more woman, and then I’ll stop.’ Or, ‘No one knows how I feel, they can’t judge me.’ He had to get serious about the problem, but only when he was ready and one day, Saint looked up and realized his life was fucked up. He had money, prestige, a thriving career, and he was with the White Knights under James’ leadership, but something was missing. He was lonely and sick, and he would remain so until he accepted who and what he was—an addict with some serious issues.

“
I still love you, man, but I’m not tryna hear all of that, man. You got some bread to help me or not?” Bomb asked after another long silence.

“Yeah, I’ll fix you up and then I’m going to make you sober up. We gotta deal?”

“I already agreed to that, it was
my
damn idea,” Bomb bit out, his temper swelling.

Saint didn’t give a shit. He wasn’t afraid of the man, though most people probably still were. He had an air about him and taught everyone in the Bronx
that you didn’t have to be big to be deadly. You didn’t have to scream loud,to move a crowd. He was fast with his hands, on his feet and in his mind, and he could outtalk a pimp in the pulpit with two mouths and five collection plates in each hand. Bomb was slicker than grease on a kid’s slide on a hot ass summer day.

“Let me hear you say it
.” Saint knew whom he was dealing with. Bomb was no fool. Where there was a loophole, Bomb would find that son of a bitch and squeeze his narrow cocaine addicted ass right through it, no matter how damn small. He was the drug-filled needle in the proverbial haystack. The man should’ve been a lawyer.

“Fix me up, and I’ll do whatever you want.
”

“Tell me where the hell you are
, man.” Saint grabbed the complementary hotel pad of paper and ink pen, and jotted down the information. Bomb was staying at the Aloha Motel in Rochester, a place known for less than stellar accoutrements, accommodations and clientele. It was also a long ride to the middle of nowhere.

“I’m leaving here though. I gotta go to Harlem.”
Saint was relieved to hear this. He didn’t feel like taking such a long drawn out journey to engage in illegal activities, no less. But on the other hand, he was concerned about Bomb moving about as well.

“That’ll
take about six hours, Bomb.”

“I know
, I’m leaving right now and this mothafucka will be speedin’.” He laughed. “My dude from rehab is goin’ home, and he stayed up here with me. We leavin’ now. Come get me at a halfway point, at uh, the Kings Bar.”