Scarla (11 page)

She watched him. He held eye contact, unblinking. She raised the file, held her cigarette to its corner. It smoldered. Crane sighed. “Scarla.” Flames sprang up the edge of the pages. He eyed the smoke detector. “Security will come when that goes off.”

She shrugged. “Shouldn’t smoke in the office.” Fire consumed the file. She held it out, let it burn.

Crane’s face suddenly dropped. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

She followed his eyes to her arm. It was sliced from wristto-elbow, blood pouring onto the carpet.
How’d
that
happen?

Crane leaned closer, eyes glaring.
“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”

“Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”
Ray Smith’s battered face hovered inches from her own. Her heart jumped in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he’d just said something, or if he was even real. Her eyes focused, filling in the hospital room around him. He smiled slowly. “If I frightened you … I’m sorry.” Both her arms were bandaged like a mummy from wrist-to-elbow. She was hooked to an IV drip and vitals machine, oxygen tubes in her nostrils. She pulled the IV out of her hand, yanked the oxygen tube and sticky pads off, dragged herself along the safety bars to the foot of the bed. The room spun and she fell off the edge, slamming her cheek on the cold white floor. Smith stepped back. Two masked riot officers rushed in, hooked her arms, hauled her to her feet.

“No! No!”
she screamed, elbowing one in the mouth and hurling the other into the wall. An urgent voice came over the intercom.
Code grey, sixth floor. Code grey, sixth floor.
Scarla bolted. Smith let her go, looked down. One nurse was out cold, the other slumped semiconscious against the wall. He smiled. They’d have their dance soon.

* * * *

The nurse’s station was frozen like deer in headlights. Scarla’s bare feet slapped the floor as she charged past, mooning them in her hospital gown. The intercom sounded again.
Code grey, sixth floor, code grey.
She saw the elevator doors opening ahead. Two white-clad hospital security guys stepped out, both well over six feet. She slid to a stop, looked right. An elderly woman eating soup in bed. She frowned, looked left. The exit stairwell.
Sometimes it’s the little things.
The security guys charged her.

She blew through the door and bounded down the concrete stairs, jumping the last six and hitting the landing wall, wincing as pain shot through her heels. They were fast on her. “Stop before you hurt yourself, ma’am!” She grabbed the handrail and vaulted another ten feet down, stubbing her toes badly and tumbling the remainder of the flight. She landed flat on her stomach, looked up. The guys stopped, one calling out. “Ok, ok, we’re not chasing you! We’re
not
chasing!
Please
don’t hurt yourself!” She grimaced, jumped up, took the rest of the stairs at top speed until she reached ground level and ran through the door into the emergency room waiting area. Dull-eyed patrons stared as she made for the exit. The front desk interns sat speechless. A little boy playing with toys on the floor smiled as she streaked him. A cop appeared out of nowhere, blocking the doors. She didn’t even break stride as she buckled him with a thrust-kick to the leg, dropped him with an elbow to the face. “Nice!” yelled a guy sitting nearby with paper towels pressed to a bloodied eye.

She crossed the driveway and rushed the first car she saw, which happened to be driven by a newly-licensed teenaged girl, with grandma in the passenger seat. The girl carefully backed out of her parking spot, biting her tongue in concentration. The door opened and Scarla’s hand was around her throat before she could scream, but that didn’t stop grandma from wailing like a banshee. “Outta the car,” Scarla calmly instructed, as she unclipped the girl’s seatbelt and tossed her to the ground. She slipped behind the wheel with the car still rolling, hit the brake, reached over grandma to open the passenger door. She looked the old woman in the eyes, unclipping her belt. The screaming stopped.
“Get out.”
Grandma fumbled out, stunned. Scarla hit the gas. As their car peeled away, the old woman fainted, her granddaughter catching her before she hit the ground.

* * * *

She ditched the car at the curb with the keys still in it, drawing stares as she punched in her building’s security code and slipped inside. They’d be looking for her soon enough anyway, though exactly
who
and
for what,
she wasn’t sure. She racked her brain to fill-in the blanks, riding the traction elevator up to the top, eyeing her bandages. The last thing she recalled was talking to Crane, burning her file, then …
blood, hospital, creepy German guy. What the fuck did he say?
The elevator stopped and she threw the gate open. The loft was empty, windows open wide, curtains blowing in the breeze. She followed a trail of blood drops to the bathroom, found the shower drenched in blood, surgical scalpel lying near the drain. Her memory sputtered to life, returning in disjointed flashes.

She washed down the rest of the pills with a glass of wine, studied herself in the mirror. She got into the shower, adjusted the water. She held the scalpel under the spray, saw her reflection in its blade. She extended her arm, stabbed her wrist, sliced all the way up her forearm and repeated on the other side. Blood spurted the curtain and wall, but she was too high to feel anything. That was the goal—to feel nothing, let it all float away, say goodnight. She sat down and waited to die.
How she got from dead-in-the-shower to alive-in-the-hospital was a mystery. She had no idea it was a surprise visit from Tommy Delmones, whom she’d never formally met, although he knew her building code and loft number. He’d gone to see her after hearing Crane’s recommendation to pull her off the street for her own safety. Crane the puppet, who thought she was a cop. It was Delmones who interrupted the bid and got her to the hospital for arterial stitches and three bags of blood. Perks of working for The Man.

She saw the pill bottle on the sink, upended, empty.
You took them all?
She went to the mirror, stripped the hospital gown, felt along her bicep. She knew how they were tracking her, and if she had any chance of disappearing, it had to come out. She eyed a bottle labeled Bupivacaine, a local anesthetic she’d lifted from Overlook, among other things. She jabbed it with a needle, drew a full syringe, plunged it into her arm, pressed the plunger. It would take effect shortly. She set the syringe aside, tore a new scalpel from its wrapping, cut a small incision in her arm. She felt no pain as she plied the skin with her fingers, feeling inside. Blood spritzed the sink as she dug in.
Where was it?
Just as she wondered, she grazed a small foreign object, pinched it between slippery fingers, pulled it out—a hermetically-sealed clear plastic device filled with coiled red wire and a computer ID chip, no bigger than a grain of rice. She threw it in the toilet.
Track that, assholes.
She wrapped the cut with gauze
,
went to the closet to rummage for an outfit. Blue jeans sans panties, black pullover sans bra, worn Docs sans socks. She went to the bed, lifted her pillow, tucked the .38 in her pants. She went back for the med bottles and syringe, grabbed her keys, jumped in the elevator and watched her place glide out of sight, maybe for the last time.
Where to go?
The answer was easy. She hustled through the underground parking garage, jumped behind the wheel of her ’72 Mustang Fastback and peeled out, heading for the only safe haven she knew. She didn’t see the arm hanging from the dumpster as she sped by.

* * * *

Facil lay flat on the metal bunk of a bright 8x6 protective custody cell, concrete on all sides, steel door with one small shatter-proof window looking at the hallway outside. He’d been extracted from his previous cell unconscious, following a nearly two-minute beating. His face was battered, one eye swollen shut, and he was pretty sure a rib or three were broken. He couldn’t sleep or take a deep breath, had no idea what time it was, or how long they’d hold him. He wondered about blood filling his lungs, as he read the various epithets carved into the walls.
How the other half lives.

A large crowd was gathered at the corner of 2nd and Allums. At first, Scarla thought business was picking up, but as she drew closer she saw the faces, shocked and grieving. Flowers, candles, photos, boxing gloves, all lined the sidewalk. A lump filled her throat as she pulled to the curb, noting the crime scene tape across the street, where the girl with the spider tattoo had been discovered. She put the gun under the driver’s seat, legs numb as she got out of the car. She cut through the crowd, ducked into the gym.

* * * *

Bodies packed the room, holding hands, huddling, embracing, crying, reminiscing, laughing. Fighters milled around, looking lost. The punching bags hung still. The ring was full of flowers. An enormous wreath adorned the ringpost. The old janitor was sweeping up, not good at talking, not knowing what else to do. Scarla scanned faces. She knew many, but only sought one. She eyed the office. It was dark. She looked around. People were staring at her. Finally, a hand touched her shoulder. She spun, hoping to see him, but it was Clay. He said nothing. Didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.

She grimaced, shaking her head.
“What—”

He took her hands. “I found him this morning,” he whispered, nodding to the ring, fighting back tears. “He was already gone. Maybe the pressure, bills, I—I don’t know why he did it. Didn’t leave a note or nothin’.”

It took a minute to process what she was hearing, but she still refused it. “No.” Then, louder.
“No.
”

Clay hung his head. “I’ma keep the gym goin’. I’ma keep it alive for H. He’d want that.”

She pulled away, speechless, looked around. People standing nearby gave her a wide berth. “Where’s Wanda?” she asked.

“Home. She ain’t doin’ real well.” He had nothing else to say. She looked at the ring. Two little kids, a boy and a girl, too young to fully understand why they were there, chased each other around the ringposts, laughing. It was a good image to end on. She turned, walked out. Clay watched her go until someone grabbed him, pulling him into conversation. The gym would go on. If only so someone, somewhere, could believe in something.

* * * *

How could it be true? It couldn’t. It wasn’t. He was too strong. Too smart. He cared too much. He was a force of nature.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t,
didn’t
believe Harold Fields would give up and commit suicide over
bills
. That was bullshit. That wasn’t what he taught her, and she knew him better than anyone, except maybe his wife. That wasn’t the warrior’s way, it was the coward’s way. Over the years, Big H had been a lot of things to a lot of people, but he was never a coward. He was the last honest brave motherfucker in a world of shit, pain, lies. Or maybe that was what she
needed
to believe. Maybe he was just a man. Mortal, fragile, broken, who knew the best was behind him and there were no surprises left. Maybe going out on his own terms
was
the warrior’s last uppercut.
Down swingin’.
She tried to convince herself of that, take solace in it. But the truth was, it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered.

She suddenly felt sick, popped the glove compartment, uncapped an aspirin bottle, chewed a few. She’d kill for a pill.
Her
pill. She had to find Face.
Forgot the fucking cell phone. Or was it missing?
She hadn’t thought of it at the loft.

Maybe it was at the hospital. Maybe the German creep had it.
She futilely checked her pockets, hung a left on 14th for no discernible reason, felt dizzy and pulled to the curb. She eyed the labels on the bottles she’d brought. Codeine. Fentanyl. Suboxone.
Morphine.
She laid her head on the steering wheel, tried to relax.
In
…
out. In
…
out.
When she looked up, she realized she was on the lip of skid row. Across the street was a two-story, four-unit, sickly-pink apartment building with aluminum-foiled windows, tucked between two warehouses in the middle of the block. It was one of Conroy Flowers’ flop houses, notorious for a recent drug shoot-out that made national news headlines and left six dead. Truth be told, they had it coming and wouldn’t be missed. They were worthless, grotesque parodies of life. You
had
to be to play in that hellhole. She tucked the morphine in her pocket and crossed the street, scaling graffitied steps to the front door.

No one answered when she knocked, so she tried the knob and it opened. The first thing that struck her was the
smell
. Cigarettes and alcohol, cut with unventilated decay. She faced a narrow staircase littered with stains, burns, debris, and a guy of dubious nationality, drunken and comatose—
maybe dead
—halfway up. There was no railing along the top, just a drop on either side of the stairs. Apartment doors flanked her on the right and left, both damaged from someone trying to break them down, the words
Abandon Hope
scrawled on one. She started upstairs, for
what
she wasn’t sure. A huge cockroach scurried out of a potato chip bag, over a bloodied syringe, off the edge of the step. She felt sick again, but made it to the top before turning and puking on the blackened carpet outside someone’s door. She was doubled-over when it opened, looking up to find herself crotch-level with a tall, sweaty, bloodshot-eyed black guy. He glared hard, and she couldn’t tell if he was shocked, angry, high, or all three. She stood up, assuming the latter. His room was dim, smoky, reeking of body odor, with reggae playing low.

He eyed the soiled doorstep and scowled.
“What you do dat far?”
he spat, in a thick Haitian accent.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t hold it.”

He stepped over the puddle, got in her face.
“Ya gonna clean it up, y’heard?”

She nodded, still nauseous. “Okay.”

He looked her over, eyes narrowing.
“What ya here far?”

She paused.
What
are
you here for?
She pulled the morphine out, showed him. “Conroy said it’s cool.”