Disintegration (4 page)

I can see the 21 coming from across the tiny plaza where Division, Milwaukee, and Ashland meet. Happy is kicking in, tracers flying off the back of the bus, and I realize I'm not moving. I thud down the sidewalk, eastbound toward the corner. I have to beat it to the stop. It catches the red light at Ashland, and I'm going to make it. Slowing down I glance down the street toward my apartment, and two white cop cars are sitting out front. Nobody is looking this way, nobody on the street.

The bus eases up to me, hissing like a long white snake, its belly filled with mice and lizards, hot air whooshing out as the doors spread open. I stare at the driver and start to giggle. He's a huge guy, oozing over the seat, his tan uniform bursting at the seams. For a moment when he opens his mouth, I think he's Jabba the Hutt.

“There will be no bargain, young Jedi. I shall enjoy watching you die.”

“What?”

“Before I die? Come on, son.”

I step on board and slide my pass into the slot. These show up too. Different-colored envelope. Definitely not yellow.

I head to the back, the way back, and sit down in the middle of the very last row. We cruise south on Milwaukee, right past my building. Just in time to see Vlad walk outside, shrugging his shoulders, his hands in the air. I can't look away, though I know that I should. The two cops stand there, with their thumbs in their belt loops, looking around with long, sour faces. I catch Vlad's eyes for a second, and a smile creeps across his face. He sees me. Maybe he's not such a bad guy. For a gunrunning, drug-dealing, slave-trading Russkie.

The streetlights are too much for me, a black hole imploding, a sunspot on my brain. Every long black coat is a nest of vipers, squirming under their woolen topcoats, alligator faces under tight knit caps.

“Damn.”

I close my eyes for a second. I have fourteen stops until I get to Fulton. At ten seconds per stop that's almost two minutes. I'm hedging my bets on the conservative side, so I can find some peace for the count to 140. I close my eyes knowing I won't miss it. I start counting.

One
Mississippi…two
Mississippi…three
Mississippi…

“…he wants macaroni and cheese, so we're going to hit the grocery store real quick. I'll get you some Ben & Jerry's, sweetheart…”

I have my suspicions, what these clients have done, but I never ask. Let God sort them out. They creep into my head at every quiet moment, clawing their way into my skull whenever I let down my guard. The brakes hiss and I am gently jostled, but I keep my eyes closed tight, gripping my knees as if dangling off the edge of a bridge. In many ways, I am.

Eighteen
Mississippi…nineteen
Mississippi…twenty
Mississippi…

Wherever I find them, they reveal themselves. At home, sitting in a dark kitchen, a solitary glow from over the brushed metal sink. A glass of clear liquid in their hands with a lime wedge floating listlessly amongst fractured cubes of ice. The hangdog face and dark circles under the eyes. The tie loosened, alone in the night, welcoming me as I come to take them away.

Thirty-five
Mississippi…thirty
-six
Mississippi…thirty
-seven Mississippi…

Sometimes they run. Those are the ones I find out in the dive bars, the sex clubs, the dark reflections in the night. They are always looking over their shoulders, because the evil of their acts is like a black halo ringing their heads, neon flashing
VACANCY
, broken burnt-out letters, incomplete. They feel exposed at all times so they try to hide in plain sight, hoping that when the lightning strikes they are not the tallest mangled oak, not the only fence post standing in a field of broken cornstalks. Amidst other sinners and pederasts they pray they are not the worst.

Fifty-four
Mississippi…fifty
-five
Mississippi…fifty
-six Mississippi…

A bump at my shoulder and mumbled apologies, but I still wallow in the chase, the hunt, the capture, and the swift retribution that I dole out without pause. Every client has been a man so far, and for that I am grateful. But the day will come when my assignment is a woman. It already scratches on the windowpane, its claws extended, this beast I run with, that I cannot tame or ignore. It will be soon, too soon, but not tonight. Tonight it will be erasure, one less murderer, the irony never lost on me, one less rapist or pedophile. They are all deserving and equally void.

Seventy-two
Mississippi…seventy
-three
Mississippi…seventy
-four Mississippi…

It's surprisingly easy to get up close to them. But I don't work in public, I don't give them that quiet exit. It's personal to me, and because of that I need time alone with them. I need to look them in the eyes, to make sure that they know they have been revealed. That this isn't chance or bad luck or coincidence. This is a planned action, the exact result of their animal urges, and while I'm a kindred spirit in many ways, I have come for them specifically, and they will not escape. I could slide an ice pick in between the sixth and seventh rib, and pierce their heart while they still laughed at the joke they just told, dying in the night air, cackles and chortles all around. I could place the tip of a gun in their ear and pull the trigger while their eyes shine in the rearview mirror, words still forming in their throat, disbelieving. But I don't. This is my choice.

Ninety-two
Mississippi…ninety
-three
Mississippi…ninety
-four Mississippi…

I never speak to them. Not one single word. I don't dignify their existence with any sort of palaver. They do not deserve my ear, or one minute more. But they speak anyway. They beg for forgiveness, they search for an explanation, a past as sordid as the one they created for others, broken homes and repressed memories, their reasoning nothing more than an annoying screech of chalk on a blackboard, and when it turns to fingernails, scraping the surface in a high-pitched whine, the world disappears and my hands find their neck. With every flexed muscle and knot of tension, the screams of my children fill my ears.

One hundred nine…one hundred ten…one hundred eleven…

Tonight will be no different. His face swims into focus, the pale skin, wild white hair shooting out in all directions, the mask on his face filled with teeth and laughter, a drink in his hand as if the party just started and it will never end. He looks like a pedophile to me, possibly little boys, stopping at his door in a soccer uniform, or maybe in full Boy Scout regalia, badges earned, displayed proudly. No mother behind them, watching out for this wolf in sheep's clothing, because they're big boys now, and embarrassed by such nonsense. Just stepping inside for a glass of iced tea in the summer, the tall thin man no immediate threat. The offer of hot chocolate, declarations of freezing weather received by rosy-cheeked nodding little faces in the wintertime.

One thirty-eight…one thirty-nine…one forty.

Eyes still closed, my hand reaches out and grabs the line, yanking hard. A bell chimes across the horizontal cavity of the bus and it lurches to the right. My eyes shoot open and for one moment I am encased in white, the brightness blinding me, echoes on the wind.

“Father?”

“Yes, son?”

In the span of one hundred and forty seconds I have transformed once again. I spill out of the seat, and to the back door of the hissing white beast, the crisp night air filling my lungs as I disappear down the street. The metal spits out exhaust, hardly pausing, not a single head raised or any eyes to my back as I slip down the concrete sidewalk, a ghost in the night. A dog barks in the distance. Back on Milwaukee Avenue cars roll by, streams of light, red carcasses sliding away from me, out of sight but movement at the edge of my periphery. There is plenty of life out here. Hands shoved into my coat pockets, my eyes are filled with rage, the laughter of a circus clown echoing in the alleyways between the tiny houses, the brick apartment buildings, the long warehouses that extend away from me. And I can already feel my hands on his neck.

“…I'll get you some Ben & Jerry's, sweetheart, New York Super Fudge Chunk. I have the cellphone, call me if you get home before we do…”

I pull my hands out of my coat pockets and blow on them. Habit. I'm not that cold. A flutter of white falls to the street, an old wrinkled receipt, with several items on it:

Walter E. Smithe

Furniture Store

“You Dream It. We build it.”

Espresso Dining Table $899.00

High-back Dining Chairs (6) $720.00

Southern Enterprises Armoire $1200.00

Valencia Dresser $799.00

Cars line both sides of the street, a mixed bag of aging Camrys, new Beamers, and SUVs of every possible make and model. I kick the black BMW as I pass it, for old times' sake, shattering the taillight. Maybe he won't notice later, and when he's driving home hammered, some bored cop will. A guy can dream, can't he?

The closer I get to the address, the more noise I hear. Car doors open and close. Pockets of people lean against brick walls, inhaling cigarettes and groping each other in the shadows, laughing all the while. A wide metal door with rounded-off rivets opens, and out spill two young women in torn wedding dresses, heavy black raccoon eyeliner, and combat boots. Fuck. 2139, that's the address. He's having a goddamn party.

They stumble past me, pale arms interlinked.

“Hey, killer,” the redhead says.

“Shut
up,
” her brunette friend mutters, bulging eyes glued to me, giggling.

“Ladies. What's going on?”

They pause for a moment, turn to each other, back to me.

“Can you roll a joint?” Red asks, her free hand on one hip, leaning toward me. She's the vocal one.

“Rebekah!”

“Well, you sure can't, and I'm too drunk.”

Four eyes on me, the streetlamps shoot light up and down the broken street. One deep breath and I inhale their profile: the silver Tiffany's charm bracelet on Rebekah's wrist; the rush of gin from Red; the glistening cleavage of their restrained breasts, always tempting, always trouble; the Prada Cervo Antik Hobo Tote over the other girl's shoulder. $1,895. Nouveau goth. Money and time.

“So, you up for it, mister? Care to rescue a couple of damsels in distress?” the slender flame asks.

I glance up to the loft windows, yellow light and a deep bass spilling out into the air. Masterson Gallery. Fuck. I'll have to come back.

“Sure, why not?”

A flush rushes over the brunette's face, and Red's grin slowly intensifies. She holds out her long thin fingers, a china doll hand. For a moment I flash on Holly, her hands on my shoulders, rubbing, squeezing.

“Rebekah,” she says. “This is Cammie. What's your name? You a friend of Peter's?”

I take her hand in mine.

“Listen, Red, we're gonna go roll this thing, but let's not get too chummy, okay? I could use a little mellowing out and you two aren't murder on the eyes.”

They stare back at me as if I just pissed on their legs. I ease open my leather coat and flash them a bit of gold. Their eyes widen and they take a step back.

“Easy, no big thing, all right? You two watch too much TV.”

“You're a cop?” Cammie asks.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Rebekah points back up the street in the direction that I just came from.

“I'm parked over here,” she mutters.

We wander a couple of cars in that direction, them in the lead, long legs kicking down the concrete, furtive glances back over their shoulders, thinking this is a mistake.

“Motherfucker,”
Rebekah mutters, “my taillight is busted, Jesus Christ, you just can't park on the street around here, I told you, Cammie.”

“Oh, Becka, relax.”

A grin slides across my face, and they glance my way.

“I hope you can roll the fuck out of this joint, buddy, or I'm really gonna be pissed.” Always Red.

Rebekah places her hand on the door handle, her thumb over a tiny button, and the locks disengage. She pulls open the back door and climbs in, bending over, the dress riding up her thighs, and I get a bit weak in the knees.

“You first,” Cammie says, biting her lip. “I have to go…um…”

“Take a piss?”

“Yeah, that.”

I ease into the backseat, all black leather, like a glove. Rebekah's pushed against the far side, rooting around in a small metal tin. The musky scent of dope fills the air, and it smells good. Been a while.

“Here, all yours.”

Even in this meager light I can see the tiny red hairs scattered in the bag of pot. Her thigh is pressed against mine and the heat she is giving off pulses up my leg.

“Where's Cammie?” she asks.

“Taking a piss.”

“Jesus.”

A blur of white from between rusty brick walls and Cammie slides back into the car, the door shutting with a dull thud. She turns to me and I realize how close I am sitting to these two young women. They must be in their twenties. Suddenly the car feels very small. I turn back to the business at hand, pulling out a rolling paper and sprinkling it with loose weed. A little shifting back and forth between the fingers, settling the shake, and they're pressed up close to me, watching my every move. Two fluttering birds alight on the side of my thighs as their hands press against me, leaning in, eager. I run my tongue across the edge of the paper and catch Rebekah's eyes. Green with flecks of amber. A trickle of sweat runs down my temple.

“We're good. Who wants the honors?”

I raise my eyes to Rebekah, but Cammie takes it, and slides it in between her glossy lips. A lighter materializes out of thin air and she inhales, the paper crackling, red lava shooting up the sides. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she holds her breath. Passing it to me, I take a long slow hit, and pass it on to Red. She sucks it in, the edge burning up, sucking half of it down. Cammie exhales slow and smooth and her mouth is on my neck.

My eyes stay on Rebekah as I slowly exhale, a soft fog drifting out. She shoots her smoke out past my head, places the roach in the tiny metal ashtray, and shoves her tongue in my mouth. Cinnamon and ash, her tongue probes, and I fear I may swallow her whole. Cammie's hand runs up my thigh, her teeth at my ear, biting on the lobe, and Rebekah's hand is drifting to my crotch. Every muscle is tight, my hand on the small of Rebekah's back, pressed up against me, and in the haze I fear we will melt. My hand is on Cammie's thigh, the soft flesh like silk, as she presses closer to me, my hand sliding up between her legs. She is a furnace and she grinds against the palm of my hand.

Rebekah pulls away gasping for air, and I open my eyes for a second. Her gaze shimmers like ripples in a pond and I feel Cammie sit up. They lean toward each other, inches from my face, and their lips come together in a moist smack, their hands rising up to grab each other's faces, mouths opening and closing, tongues darting in and out, sliding over each other, tiny moans escaping.

There is a rush of cold air and Cammie's eyes widen, her head disappearing from view. A squeal escapes her mouth as she flies backward out of the car and onto the sidewalk, landing on her ass.

“Shit,” Rebekah mutters.

Cammie sits on the ground, propped up on her elbows, her dress hiked up, eyes glancing upward. Her head snaps to one side, the hand invisible, a red mark slowly spreading across her cheek the only sign of the violence. Her tiny fingers rise to her face, tears welling up. Rebekah pops open the door and shoots out her side.

“Goddamnit, Mark, what gives you the fucking right…” she begins.

I close my eyes for a second. For one moment in time, it was perfection. For just one minute, it had all disappeared, as deep as I went, numb. I take a slow breath, preparing myself for the inevitable.

“Shut up, Becka, you stupid fucking whore.”

I lean toward the sidewalk, Cammie's eyes wet and pleading.

“It's bad enough that my girlfriend can't keep her legs closed, but my own fucking sister?”

“Jesus, Mark, don't be such a tight-ass,” Rebekah mouths.

A small grunt, the crisp smack of flesh on flesh, and Rebekah reels from a strong backhand across the jaw.

I ease out of the car, sure that this is not the right time, nor will it ever be.

“Who the fuck are you?” he yells, his voice rising in pitch.

His head swivels on his neck and I worry it will break off, back and forth between the girls. They hold their hands to their faces, troublemakers no doubt, but they're still women. And I've never hit a woman before.

“Listen, jackass,” I begin, clenching my fists, knuckles cracking as I move toward him. “You can apologize to the ladies here, or you can get hurt real fast.”

He comes toward me, furious, out of breath, and throws a punch high. I duck under it, and come back up with a shot to the gut. He bends over and hurls cheap white wine over the side of the car.

“You two can head back in or hop in your car.”

Cammie slowly stands up. As she takes Rebekah's hand, they wander back toward the party.

“Don't hurt him,” Cammie says.

“Go on, he'll be fine.”

When they're out of sight, back through the metal door, their thrill for the night slowly fading, I turn to the dime-a-dozen leaning on one knee in the dirt by the car, one hand on the black Beamer.

“Stand up.”

“Fuck it, man,” he says. “Stupid bitch.”

“Stand up.”

He raises his eyes to mine and I see nothing stirring behind the eyes—only a drunk kid who can't control his bisexual girlfriend. I feel sorry for him. Slowly he stands up, shaky, face pale, cheeks flushed.

“This will be over fast,” I say. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I punch him hard in the face and he staggers a bit.

“That's for hitting Cammie, your girlfriend.”

He smiles, blood creeping across his perfect teeth.

I punch him again, a little higher this time. It'll leave a black eye. He reels but stays up.

“That's for hitting Rebekah, your sister.”

I turn and head back down the street, the way I came. Total bust. Way too much trouble tonight, can't have anybody remembering I was here—too many dots connected, too many witnesses. I'll have to come back.

And now my hand hurts.