In the Nick of Time (8 page)

She hesitated, looked towards the ground, seemingly a bit self-conscious, vulnerable, then answered in a quiet sort of way, “Por supuesto no.” (Of course not.)

“I’ve seen this too many times to count, Maria. You are headed to one place and one place only: the grave.”

A long time ago, I was once told the same…

She simply stared at him, and he knew he was wasting his time, trying to drill for oil in a well run dry. But he had to say it, for he had to know that he’d tried, didn’t give up on her. “I’ve had to keep kids at the precinct for hours at a time, trying to locate their next of kin or call child protective services so they could get a foster family on the horn. And you know why?” He swallowed a wad of spit, becoming suddenly queasy from her overpowering, cheap fragrance.

Perfume won’t cover the stench of your life, baby…

“Because they had to watch their mother get murdered by their own father or their mother’s boyfriend who decided to snap one fine day. It happens all… the damn…
time
! You’re not special to this man, Maria!”

She sniveled, wiped another tear away as she ran her hand along her baby’s back.

“You and this man’s relationship isn’t kissed by God! ¿Qué es lo que van a hacer?! (What are you going to do?) You’re not exempt from what really happens with stuff like this, Maria! For your children, if not for you…
leave
him, and don’t look back. Dios del mayo le ayuda. (May God help you.)” He walked out of there, knowing the two would be back in each other’s arms in a few days…and he and Tomas would be
right
back at the apartment too, going through the same shit all over again. Only, the next time it may result in a call to the coroner.

He marched out of there, racing down all ten flights of uneven, broken down steps, cursing the malfunctioning elevator the entire way. The blustery air burst against his face like a balloon full of ice, kissing him with the love and hatred of a cold front that simply wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer. He gripped his jacket, zipping it up a bit higher to keep old man winter’s mitts off him, but it was no use. The hoary son of a bitch took his frozen gums and gnawed right through the material, getting down to his stiff bones, licking them clean and leaving everything damn near close to frostbitten in his wake.

“Fuck this fuckin’ snow!” he cursed as he headed to his police car and took a gander at the blowhole in the backseat, not looking even a smidgen remorseful. He daydreamed of driving off somewhere remote, dark and private, maybe to a back alley or near some abandoned building, and fucking up little Miguel real nice and proper. Swallowing down the sordid thoughts, he got into the driver’s seat and looked in the rear view mirror at the slumped over son of a bitch who wore a silly smirk as if he knew a special something, got in on a coveted secret.

“I think you need to battle with a
real
man…” Nick stated as he pulled away from the curb. “Only pussies beat up on women.”

“Yo, fuck that noise she said, okay?! Women swing, too! Maria ain’t applying for no sainthood ya know, Nick. She runs off at the mouth and she smacked me. She put her hands on me
first
.”

“Yeah?” He smirked as he regarded him through the rear view mirror. “Well, funny thing is that Maria is about five foot even, and weighs no more than ninety pounds. You are at least five foot eight, and weigh upwards of one-eighty, and not only that, you throw bows on the street practically every weekend. I saw her face you fucker. Even if what you said were true, how does a smack on your face equal
that
bullshit?!” His anger roiled within him, turning into some toxic, black milkshake in his gut.

“Hey Nick,” Tomas smirked as he readjusted himself in his seat. “Settle down. He’ll be with us again and we’ll get our chance.”

“Chance for
what
?” The man didn’t miss a beat. He hopped on the slightly veiled threat like a flea in a circus.

“Oh, you’ll see. Hit her again, and we’ll make
sure
you find out ASAP.” Nick grinned, no doubt his teeth gleaming like white lights strewn across the miserable town. He was a sly fox on the prowl and he wanted nothing more than to draw blood from a lousy bastard that deserved it. Miguel fit the bill. The fucker slumped further back in his seat, drew quiet, almost disappearing from sight. When they arrived at the jail, Nick jumped out the car and snatched him up by the arm so hard, the asshole hollered out as if he’d been snapped in two.

I could only wish…

“Ohhh, did that hurt?” He grinned a bit harder as he dragged the dirt bag into the place, dropped him off like the sack of shit that he was. He wanted to punch him in the middle of his pathetic face, furious he had to fill out another report; more damn paperwork because of him.

He didn’t have one stinking cut! Not one damn bruise!

She refused to go to the hospital…

She stood there looking like something forgotten in a meat locker on a hot, summer day. Jesus!

As minute after minute sailed past, Nick typed away, feeling a wave of irritability that wasn’t easy to shake. He found himself itching for much wanted relief, needed to break away. He’d seen too many domestic violence victims to count, but for some reason, this one tore him up a bit more inside. Maybe it was because Miguel didn’t give a shit, danced around his responsibility, played the role of victim and exonerated himself; or maybe because Maria looked so much like Ma… So much so, when he’d first seen the woman long ago, he literally gasped…

His jaw tensed as he pounded the keyboard:

Name: Miguel H. Vega Sex: Male

Birthdate: March 28th, 1987…

He needed to get away, get done…

Get right…get down…get high…

Please…

He pleaded with his damn self. Begged himself to stay cool as he went through the contrived motions. He kept on, working through it, convincing himself it wasn’t so bad, but then, tickling pools of sweat gathered around his brow and his face turned him into a clammy mess and his head fogged, constrained by his own sordid thoughts. Twenty-five minutes later, the report was done and he was none sooner on his unsteady feet, stating he wasn’t feeling well. Captain O’Sullivan took a slow steady look at him, up and down, dawdling, dragging out the moment.

“Yeah, you don’t look so hot,” he finally conceded, his lips parted and short, fat tongue darted out. He placed his large, heavy hand on his shoulder. “Ya sick?”

“Yeah.” Nick nodded as his keyed-up body tried to rat him out. “Ate some bad chili, I think.”

“That’ll do it every time. Go home. See you in the morning. Get some rest.” The man turned away, leaving him feeling like a big ass pile of fresh steaming shit. He’d never lied to the face of his boss before. This was a new all time low. He’d looked that man in the damn eye and laid a story on him; he hated himself a bit more for the whole damn situation. He’d always been able to contain himself, to wait until he got home to jump into his stash and relax for the evening.

The blow was his nightcap, the thing that calmed his mind and nerves just so. If he missed a week or two, that was fine; he wasn’t wired for a fix, but the alcohol—well, that was a whole ’nother matter altogether. He
had
to drink. It had to happen morning and night and if he got the chance, he’d sneak an afternoon taste or two in a bathroom stall, too. It had become part of his routine during fits of registered exhaustion. He’d jam himself in the back of some hole in the wall covered in thick, gang related writings as the stench of old, funky piss crawled up his nose like a maggot and burrowed there, making him sick to his goddamn stomach…

…but it was worth it.

By the time Nick arrived home that evening, he had no recollection of how he’d made it there. He drove, but the streets, sounds and people were mere moving blurs and distant murmurs never to be recalled again. He fumbled and cursed out his shaking hands as he dropped his keys several times in the omnipresent snow. Finally getting his bearings, he burst into his place as if it were a police raid on his own goddamn self. Several minutes later he had downed three sizeable glasses of vodka and snorted one line of premium cocaine to top it off, make himself forget, come down a bit, make everything alright. He turned on his tunes. The Police’s, ‘Roxanne’ began to play. It soothed him somewhat, the music of long ago; however, some of the tetchy, disconcerting images from earlier in the work day held tight to him like lint balls on an old, forgotten Christmas sweater. Maria’s face kept flashing in his mind, haunting him…

Ma, who did this to you? Who hurt you? Maria, did Miguel do this? I’m gonna kick his ass, Ma. I mean, Maria…

The heated confusion spread across his brain like fungus. He was hell bent on flushing it away for good.

Roooxxxaaannne! You don’t have to put on the red light!
The music droned…

The brand spanking new beauteous bottle of Patron he’d just purchased the night before—or was it last week?—called his name. Just what the Devil in the details ordered. He poured a tall glass of the stuff, prompting the deliquescent gates of heaven to creek open right before his soon-to-be bloodshot eyes. He drowned in the hallucinogenic clutches of the rapture until his face numbed and his body morphed into nothingness.

Calm after the internal storm.

He had more where that came from and now, he no longer cared.

From a sweet heat, mellow and warm, his cells incubated and cared for one another with the sweetest kisses delivered via inebriation. A few moments later, he was back in his bedroom, hyped and ready to roll. The shit in the room grew vast wings and spun around him like tiny rock star angels, making him laugh with spirit manufactured mirth. He continued to burst out in fits of deranged laughter, his eyes glossing over in strange delight. He swiped at his nose, removing the chalky residue, as if he wanted to look presentable for no one in particular. Lying back on his bed in his uniform, he tossed his police hat across the bed like a newspaper from the paperboy’s route. He felt like a mountain that couldn’t be moved.

My name is Officer Nick Vitale, and I’m a spectacular motherfucker! The motherfucking greatest!

Fuck the world! None of you appreciate SHIT!

Fuck Miguel and everyone else, too!

He shifted back and forth, casting his arms into the air as if in a boxing ring with a million and one opponents.

Fuck Santiago for killing my best friend! Fuck Dad for never showing his rotten face! I didn’t need you anyway! I don’t need NOBODY!

…Fuck everyone who said he’d be nothing but a petty, two-bit half Wop, half Jabaro son of a bitch. A crooked thief who tore up the Brownsville streets as if he had scissors for feet!

Fuck!

Them!

All!

His high began to even out, and his anxiety dissipated as several more minutes passed, rendering him finally still after his violent, albeit brief outburst.

Silent.

He could barely move, but his thoughts turned sensual and hedonistic nevertheless. Sumptuous contemplations took over. He curled his hand over his thickening cock, deciding to get the motherfucker some service as his deviant deliberations turned more and more sexual, borderline perverted. Before he could fumble about and make the call for some pussy delivery on speed dial, his cellphone rang, interrupting his internal proposals.

“Yeah?” he answered after two failed attempts to grip the damn thing with a steady hand.

“Hey, you still sick?” Officer Tomas questioned, his slightly nasally voice piercing the line. “I hope not, Nick, ’cause you won’t believe this shit.”

“What do ya mean? What’s going on?” He ran his hand roughly through his hair, messing it up, trying to massage himself sober so he could follow what the hell was being said.

“Some son of a bitch has a three year old boy on top of his building on Livonia and is threatening to jump with him.”

Nick jerked like a lightning bolt tied to a tether pole. He tried and tried to gain full control over his damn watered down muscles, but couldn’t get his body to cut him a break. Forcing the issue to the point of physical strain and pain, he grabbed his remote control with stretched fingers, turning on the news. There it was, right there, the breaking story. His chest caved and throbbed with mounting unease as sweat rivulets ran zigzag relays down his face. Through tense eyes he desperately tried to focus…see the screen…clearly comprehend and take in the words from the reporter.

Oh God…Oh no…

Even through tainted vision, his senses weren’t playing tricks on him, but he prayed to whoever would listen that they were…

“Who is it? Who the hell is that?” he questioned as slightly fuzzy footage of a man dressed in blue moved about atop a roof.

…Don’t you say his name, don’t you dare say who I think it is, Tomas!

Bricks

F

A

L

L

I

N

G

From the sky…

“Well you know that they haven’t released that information to the press yet but the guy’s name is Eric Leech—and that’s his son.”

Eric Leech… Oh God…it IS him!

He knew Eric. The guy was a stoner, a poet, and a fucking mental case. One of the few white guys flipping about in Brownsville, Brooklyn and didn’t seem to really give a shit about that fact. Regardless, he’d appeared harmless enough. Nick attempted to get to his heavy feet, but could barely stand as he saw double, then triple and sparks of blinding white. Finally up, he fell against the wall, taking items from his nightstand with him and causing a mighty crash of all things pretty, fragile and delicate.

Barely holding onto his phone, Officer Tomas kept talking, rattling off the play by play, and the news reporter stated that some walking disaster was coming down there to try and tell Eric how sweet and beautiful life was.
Nothing
was beautiful about surviving another day in Hell, and nothing could make a guy like Eric see the glittering promise of hope, especially while barreling down on psychosis. The headlights of Doomsday shone so bright, they undermined all else. No one took Eric seriously; he was like a mere broken window inside an abandoned building but, people were definitely taking a peek,
now
…