Nothing (9 page)

Lost count? Get the fuck out.

A red light flashes across my eyes. A smell I know, a smell I'm familiar with hits me before the muzzle nestles against the base of my skull.  The Colombian with the printed shirt smiles and spits in my face. I raise my arm, the one without the piece and wipe the spittle away with the crook of my elbow. My hand forms a shape.

Blood. Brown blood. Brain matter. Skull casing. Bone. Plasma. Fluids. Fragments. Splatter against the white shiny paintwork. I raise the hand with the .22 in it. Pop. Pop. I put 2 rounds into the face of the Colombian. His partner minus face and half his head is slumped at my feet.

I signal to Largo. We've been fucked. Leave. Now.

I step over the Colombian, his body toppled against the runner of the Cadillac. The moon is white like bone. Blood looks black. My canvas shoes are matted with black blood. A small clump of flesh with black hair sprouting from it has attached to the band across my foot. I use the other foot to scrape it off.

Don't fuckin' move a muscle.

Old Cop has a Saturday Night Special trained on me. Iverson walks past him and grabs the .22 from my grip. He slaps the cuffs on, kinda rough and leads me away.

The line is still there. Small man with clipboard claps his hands. The line cracks into an unscripted blend of applause and hollers. One guy cheers for the good guy cops. I notice that none of them have caught sight of the Colombian blood bath. They are cheering for Black-Whitey who is being carted on a gurney with paramedics as I'm being led away. No one has checked the blood running into the drains yet. Even crass Californians don't cheer stone cold murder.

HISTORY UNTRIMMED

Iverson pushes the top of my head into the back seat. Old Cop climbs in behind the wheel and tells me with a laugh in voice.

You're gone after this little show. Long fuckin' gone.

Iverson gets into the passenger seat. Old Cop guns the ignition. I stare ahead. I can feel the steel of the handcuffs biting into my wrists. It's a good feeling. It's pain. A gnawing pain that feels like it's cutting me. I tell Iverson.

Hey Iverson, any chance I could get these cuffs a little looser, or off even?

Iverson turns toward me in his seat.

Sorry, not a chance. In fact, looks like your chances just ran out.

Iverson twists back to look out the windscreen.

There is a wired screen between me and the cops. I flop back into the seat and look out the side window. The handcuffs gnaw away. Old Cop pulls slowly onto Sunset. A Black and White bounces into the parking lot of Dune. Iverson does not even look or acknowledge it. He almost keeps his face away from the incoming cop car. We drive on Sunset West towards Santa Monica a couple of miles then turn heading North. I feel lost. All the scenery is unfamiliar. Buildings, stores, crummy neighborhoods. The handcuffs gnaw. Mini piranha. I feel the peel of skin. The delicate tension of the membrane snap. Warm blood. I look down but it's dark in the back to see the red stain. An honest stain.

We are far enough North now, I know that San Clemente is not where we are headed. I don't ask and don't really care.

Iverson says something to Old Cop. Old Cop nods and replies. I can't hear either of them. The police radio crackles with voices and crime, I can't understand that either. I am lost. Iverson swivels in his seat and faces me. He says.

I'm curious.

We're all curious.

Yeah. With you though what's the story?

The story?

You're some kind of aberration. A boogey man mobsters tell their kids about, maybe their buddies. But seeing you now, sat there, you just look like some guy to me.

I am some guy.

Well "some guy", how'd you end up here?

In this car? Old fucker there shoved a pea shooter in my ear.

Iverson snorted a laugh.

You know what I mean.

I wait a couple of seconds. Say.

Why not. We'll never see each other again. I was raised by my old man. My mom was long gone before my memory kicked in. He was an asshole so I was always looking for a way to get out. He drank and got a little rough time to time. One time when he was rough he went a little too far. We crossed swords that night. I left. Set up a little business with a couple of friends. Somehow my unique talent came out and here I am.

I hold up my cuffed hands.

Iverson keeps his eyes steady on me.

You crossed swords?

You got a smoke?

Not in the vehicle. Don't even let McFadden smoke in the car.

So Old Fuckers name is McFadden. Sounds Irish.

Old Cop says.

Scottish.

I nod. Iverson repeats.

You say you and your dad crossed swords. What does that mean?

I smile and tell him.

He comes home steamed. Booze is almost running out his ears. He has this tan suit on. Real nylon like a safari suit. He used to wear it every Friday night like he was going into the bush with fucking Tarzan...remembrance of this ridiculous suit makes me smile. Every time. He had a powder blue one too. Fucked up fashions back then. He comes in the house blathering that he's fed up of me running round the streets selling shit and mixing with the Italians and the Jews. I tell him to keep his fat head out my business.

How old were you?

Sixteen. He goes to his room talking shit to himself. I go turn up the volume on the TV. I remember the show - Happy Days. He clods back down the steps and threatens me with this shitty Luger he kept in his bedside drawer. I laugh at him. He fires. Hit's me here.

I point to the area outside my right elbow. A neat scar shines in the darkness of the car. I continue.

For some reason I don't see this as a serious problem. So I told him what a cunt I thought he looked in that fucking safari suit. He was shit-faced and seemed pretty tired. I didn't think he'd do much, maybe go pass out on his piss stained bed. Sure you don't have a smoke?

No, not in the vehicle. Go on.

I take a breath. Continue.

He fired the Luger again and missed my head. I felt the heat near my cheek. I had no choice I kicked him in the balls. Pretty hard. Like it was the last kick I'd ever kick, you know. He still got another shot off though. Straight into the ceiling. Hey, McFadden crack a window would you? Anyway, I went into the kitchen grabbed a knife we used for filleting fish knelt on his belly and pushed the blade into his chest. He sort of groaned and coughed. Got a bit feisty. Thrashed around a bit. I left it in him, just the handle sticking up. Took the Luger out his hand and watched Happy Days until it finished.

Iverson stares for a good minute then says.

Jesus H Christ!

I think that's pretty much the last thing he said too. Or something pretty close.

Old Cop McFadden speaks.

What a crock. I bet he's some made guy in Vegas. Up to his armpits in crack whores and rum and coke. Probably pissing into a bag on his hip.

I flop back into the seat. Look out the window.

Iverson is still turned. He asks.

What did you do with the body?

Drove him North. A place where coyotes hang and buried him. Oh, I burned him first ... before burial.

Burned him?

Wasn't so sure what the cops could do then. No CSI to teach us wise guys how to cover our tracks, so I took some gas dug a big fucking hole and poured it over him and his fucking stupid safari suit. He went up like a candle. His body. It wasn't him by then. When day broke it was just a lump of charred meat and bone, so I buried what was left.

Iverson looks blank and turns back to facing the windscreen.

Old Cop takes driving instruction from Iverson and pulls the car into an underground parking lot. The car bounces down into a spiral until the car stops between vacant parallel white lines. The engines dies. Iverson gets out and opens my door. He says.

Out.

I can see the blood at my wrists. I smile. Iverson sees it too he looks shameful but seems to shrug it off. Takes my elbow and gently leads me to an elevator. The parking lot is virtually empty. Blue white fluorescent light sheets everything. Steel elevator doors part and we get in. Old Cop stinks of Ben Gay and stale smoke. Old Cop stares at the different floor level buttons. Iverson hits 14. Old Cop stares up at the circular numbered bulbs above, the discs illuminating as we climb. Old Cop seems nervous.

I say aloud.

Doesn't strike me as a law office?

No reply from the Cops.

Looks kinda corporate.

No reply.

The numbered discs illuminate until 14 glows and a bell-ding sounds. Old Cop pulls his weapon. I say.

Slightly unnecessary.

He waves the barrel for me to step out through the doors. Iverson steps out first and places a hand on the door strip to stop it closing. I follow into the empty space. The whole floor seems to be in mid construction. Walls have no dry-wall and are formed into a cage of struts. Plastic transparent sheets de-mark areas that billow with the small air movements. Steel struts form cubicles, dim light shines in the distance from the outer walls.

Old Cop shoves me along. Iverson walks ahead. I have been in this type of situation before. I have played different parts in this very same scene. And this is what it is: a scene. A montage of effect designed to intimidate and unnerve. I'm hard to intimidate. Both Old Cop and Iverson seem more nervous than me. Maybe they have a right to be worried. Maybe whatever awaits us at the final destination scares them. Iverson says.

Stay here.

We all stop. Cut to Iverson walking into a makeshift boardroom of plastic sheeting. He nods at Old Cop, as if to say Proceed. Old Cop jams the muzzle of his piece into my kidneys. I stagger forward following Iverson into the room.

Fade in. Small lamps are dotted on the ground providing a strange glow. The concrete floor is duct taped with more plastic sheeting. A chair sits alone in the center of the sheet. This must be for me. A low table is in the corner with tools rested on top. Iverson nods at me towards the chair. He says.

Take a seat.

I walk over and sit down. I say.

Doesn't look like a regular police interview room?

Iverson tells me.

I've read your jacket. You're a bad guy. Looks like the assholes in Chicago couldn't prove much in court. I don't really care for proof, but I do really need to know why you're here.

Old Cop walks to the table and grabs a reel of duct tape. He comes to me and tapes my ankles to the legs of the chair. He is careful and determined. He grunts as he winds the tape around and around. Grunts some more as he pushes to stand himself erect, pushing at his lower back. He looks in pain. He is old and doesn't like to bend. Iverson is young. Iverson will not bend. Iverson is in control now.

The Old Cop McFadden keeps my hands cuffed. Blood has run onto my print shirt creating a red brown smudge across my waistline. Old Cop tapes my upper body to the back of the chair. Around and around. Pan down, he removes my bloody canvas shoes.

Iverson stares at me the whole time hardly blinking.

Old Cop slips out his hand gun and places the barrel against my forehead. I say.

Go ahead. Pull the trigger.

He says.

An hour from now, you'll wish I had.

You're right. An hour from now you will wish you had.

He snorts and pushes the gun back into its holster.

Iverson starts in now. A steady stare and nostrils flared.

You are scum. You are a killer. An aberration. A throwback of a sociopath.

We are now in a close-up of Iverson's face. His voice echoes around the construction site. He continues.

A criminal who aids other criminals.A cancer upon this earth infiltrating society and leeching its blood. Your scum sucking has made bad men powerful. You have created fear where you have gone. But let me tell you. I am not afraid. I am not afraid of you.

Those are big words Iverson, especially as I'm taped ...

Pan down to my handcuffed wrists.

...Otherwise engaged. You might not be afraid. That may be true. I doubt it. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Some things you say to me may well be true. Tell me this. All this charade ... what is it for?

Iverson slips on black gloves. Old Cop follows and slides on gloves. Why do they put on black gloves? Seems a cliché to me. Maybe it's all part of the scene. I can feel the rage rising within me. I blink. I can see Carly somewhere behind the misted plastic film. Iverson goes over to Old Cop and whispers something to him. Old Cop nods in acknowledgement though his body language tells me he is reluctant. Iverson folds his arms across his chest, watches, waits. I ask.

Well? Do you work for Yama?

Old Cop goes to the low table. Unbuttons his cuffs. Rolls up his sleeves. Picks up a hammer. A ball peen hammer. Close up on hammer. It's about 9lbs. I repeat.

Do you work for Yama?

Old Cop kneels beside my chair. I keep eye contact with Iverson. Old Cop looks at Iverson too. Pan down to my bare feet. Close up on Old Cops face. It is craggy with unruly grey eyebrows. His lips are livid and pink. His lower lip is slick and wet and shiny purple. Iverson nods.

Old Cop slams down the hammer onto the instep of my foot. I feel bone shatter. A bright white sun bursts behind my eyes and explodes into my vision. My body convulses making the chair jog around a couple of jerks. Muscle in my neck and face tense until they throb. Oxygen is in short supply my nostrils flare and mouth drags in as much as they can. I roar.

Do you fucking work for Yama?

Iverson smiles. He says.

I ask the questions now asshole. What do you know about Chicago and your sister?

I know I'm reeling. I know my senses are not intact. I know this is not real. It is real to my body, it is not real to my mind. I am not here. I do not understand his question. I am lost. I am truly fucking lost. If I can put my mind away. Close it off. Let them have my body. Carly. Chicago. I know my body is panting. I will not plead.  They always plead. I will not plead. I ask breathless.

What do you mean?

Iverson nods. I see a blur to my left and just catch a glimpse of Old Cops swinging arm. The pain is mind cracking. White light again as endorphins or some other natural pain numbing chemical fires into my brain. I scream. I try to stop but it feels good. It feels too good. The release of energy feels good. Why didn't I scream before? I scream again and again. The rage builds like I have never felt it before. I hear my scream. It has laughter in it. I like this scream. In fact it feels orgasmic. It's like coming. I laugh. I'm coming. It feels so good.