Taste of Tenderloin (20 page)

It had indeed gone better
than usual. Last couple of times, Nicki had been too dry, and by
the time she’d returned from the bathroom with the KY gel, I had
lost interest; too tired, or too old, or too limp, or just too
fucked up from the booze to work up enthusiasm again. Often the
iceworm was reawakened by all the sweaty activity, gnawing away
like mad and ruining everything.

She got up, not trying to
cover up her slight, girlish breasts with their huge, dark
aureoles, the nipples still engorged and standing out almost half
an inch, or even hiding her thick, unruly black pubic thatch, now
damp. Unembarrassed. No false modesty with Nicki. Something else I
kinda liked about her.

“
Got a letter from Ray
today,” she said, her voice slightly slurred, smiling and handing
me the drink of vodka—three fingers neat.

Ray was her son, a computer
whiz working in North Carolina. He’d been concerned about her
welfare after the shooting, wanting her to come out and stay with
his family. But Nicki had resisted his calls and letters to date,
telling me that Ray had a young wife and a two-year-old to care
for. He didn’t need a boozy old lady hanging around; besides, she
was going back to work real soon, right after she got her act
cleaned up.

She was probably right
about the old lady part, but deep down we both knew she wasn’t
going back to police work ever again. It would’ve been so easy for
her to give in, let her son take care of her, but she still had a
little pride left—something else I envied. And she wasn’t any
trouble living with me in the tiny apartment, even with her
kitten.

I felt a little surge of
guilt well up into my consciousness over snuffing Smokey just
because he’d been meowing loudly to get in at the same time the
iceworm had reared up and gnawed away unmercifully, but I managed
to force the feeling to the back of my mind: something I was
getting pretty damned good at ever since going back to work after
whacking the Latino kid.

I got up and joined her for
another drink, both of us sitting around and chatting drunkenly in
our birthday suits, not much giving a shit how we looked. A couple
of worthless, broken-down old cops trying to provide some needed
comfort to each other.

Late that same night,
Nicki
awakened me with a loud groan. She
sat up next to me in bed, then doubled over in pain. Through
clenched teeth, she described an icy gnawing sensation deep in her
stomach. “Maybe scar tissue broken loose, Skippy,” she whispered
weakly, rubbing the two scars near her navel, her face contorted
with pain. “Or even an ulcer. I been hitting the juice pretty hard
ever since the shooting, you know.”

I nodded, making no
comment.

She described the sharp,
biting pain in detail between gasps for breath.

I nodded, got up, and gave
her the last of the vodka mixed with a little milk from the fridge.
“Maybe this will help.”

She grimaced, but managed
to get the mix down. In a few minutes the pain lines in her face
eased up. “I feel better. Thanks, Skippy.” She smiled and kissed me
gratefully on the lips.

I kissed her back, forcing
a smile.

Of course it wasn’t scar
tissue or an ulcer that had awakened her in the middle of the
night. No way. It was the fucking iceworm. I’d probably infected
her by having unprotected sex, just like I’d done with Diane. What
an asshole. I had to do something to help her, for Christ's
sake.

But what could I do? I
couldn’t even drown the hidden devil in my own gut.

10:00 p.m. Friday night:
one
week from retirement, everything slow
and easy in the Tenderloin.
Just hold on
for another week
, I prayed as we patrolled
along the upper fringe of the ‘loin. We cruised along,
relaxed-like, absently checking out the hookers, junkies, and
dealers along the street. Nothing really unusual happened, nothing
out of line.

Then we spotted Gent Brown
signaling us over to the corner of O’Farrell and Hyde. Benny braked
the car and double parked.

“
Yo, Skip, got a minute,
man?” The Prophet asked, gesturing for me to step out for a private
moment.

I nodded, figuring he was
ready to give up Big Leroy. Even though I was nervous anywhere near
the Hyde Street store, I got out of the patrol car and moved closer
to the old man. That’s when I noticed his face looked funny,
stitches out already, barely a scar noticeable on his cheek.
Everything had healed up well; too well. Weird, because that had
been a bone-deep razor cut only a week ago.

“
What’s up?” I asked,
squinting and checking his healed wound a little closer. Yeah, just
a slight red mark, little more than a shaving burn.

“
It’s you, man,” Gent said,
pointing an accusing finger at my chest. His tone wasn’t sharp or
strident as was usual when lecturing someone, but soft, gentle,
like the expression on his face.

“
Me?”

“
Yeah, Skip, you gotta get
your affairs in order, man. Time is runnin’ out—”

“
Hold off, Gent,” I
protested, bringing up both hands.

He just smiled, ignored my
protest, and continued, “I’m serious, man, you only got a couple of
days at most. You need to get rid of that ex-cop girlfriend. Your
wife needs your support right now. You need to make amends, because
the Grand Judgment Day beckons soon.” At that point, he placed his
hand on my shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

Whoa!

It felt like I had been
touched with a live 440-volt wire. The electric shock traveled the
length of my body and transported me to another place.

I was home, back in the
Sunset, in our bedroom, looking down at Diane stretched out on our
king-sized bed. She was pale and skinny, asleep but gasping for
breath. A bright green kerchief partially covered her bald
head.

The view shifted, and it
was like time running backwards. I saw Diane and myself, both
younger, in the backyard barbecuing with friends at my 40th
birthday party; an even younger Diane in a new dress dancing at The
Top of the Mark; earlier, in our first apartment in the Mission,
making love, frantic and slippery, a couple of eager youngsters;
our wedding day. All happy times in the distant past with hopes for
the family that had never come.

I shuddered and moaned,
breaking the man’s electric grip on my shoulder. The vision
disappeared.

Gent nodded, as if privy to
all I had seen. “Hurry, make peace with her now, or you will be
sorry on Judgment Day. Time to act is short. Give up the juice. Go
home for good, Skip, leave the ‘loin behind
now
.” His tone had taken on a sharper
edge, moving up in pitch. His eyes were clear and shining
brightly.

I pulled away from him,
feeling weak-kneed, stunned by the shock to my system and
especially the vivid vision or hallucination or whatever the fuck
it was. Sweating, I nodded as if agreeing with The Prophet but
quickly retreated back into the patrol car.

“
Let’s get out of here,” I
whispered out of the side of my mouth to my partner. “Now, man,
now!”

Benny dropped the car into
gear and drove off. Glancing over at me, he asked, “What happened
back there, Skip? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“
Maybe I did, at that,” I
answered weakly, remembering how bad Diane had looked.
Automatically, I reached under the seat for my Crystal Geyser
bottle. The iceworm was awake and beginning to feed.

Saturday night I awakened
in
a cold sweat.

“
What’s the matter, honey?”
Nicki asked sleepily, glancing at the bedside digital clock: 2:37
a.m.

“
Nothing, babe, just a bad
dream. Go back to sleep,” I said dismissively, but I was shaken
because I had experienced the first part of the vision again,
updated: Diane obviously dying, looking even worse than the first
vision when The Prophet had grabbed my shoulder; her older sister
at her bedside.

I got up, went out to the
kitchen and drained a Bud, idly glancing out the window at the
signboard on the roof of the building across the way. A blue neon
message flashed in the foggy night: NOW, SKIP! NOW, SKIP! NOW,
SKIP!

I blinked and the signboard
was dark as usual at this hour.

Holy shit!

The booze had finally
gotten to me.

I was going around the
corner big time, hallucinating, and Gent Brown had packed my
bags.

I paced about for a few
minutes, finally focusing on the real cause of all my
trouble.

It wasn’t Gent or even the
booze.

No, not really; it was the
fucking iceworm.

I had to do something about
it for the sake of all three of us—Diane was dying, Nicki was
hurting, and I was being driven crazy by the damned thing. Standing
there in the dark at 3:00 a.m., I knew what I had to do.
Okay
, I thought,
smoothing it all out in my mind, dividing it into three
steps.

A few minutes later, with
no one up yet in the building, I dressed. I slid my Glock 9mm into
my belt in the hollow of my back, concealed under my T-shirt, and
took a long, deep breath. Finally, I awakened Nicki.

“
Babe, get up. I heard
Smokey crying. I think I know where he is.”

“
Wha—? Smokey?”

She struggled up, confused,
but finally grasped my meaning.

“
Yes, now slip on your
stuff.”

Nicki pulled on her jeans
and a T-shirt, running her hands through her hair. Then she looked
at me expectantly, her expression still dazed. “Where is
he?”

“
C’mon,” I said, beckoning
her follow me out into the hallway.

The building was graveyard
quiet.

“
This way.”

I led her down the hall to
the old elevator shaft. As hoped, she meekly followed me, not
asking questions, still half asleep and anxious about the welfare
of her kitten. At the shaft, I pushed aside the boxes, exposing the
gap in the elevator doors. “He fell down there,” I said, pointing
down into the blackness, the smell of something rotten almost
making me gag.

“
Smokey? Smokey, baby, you
down there?” Nicki said, kneeling and leaning forward into the
shaft.

I blinked, my eyes tearing
up, my hands shaking as if I had Parkinson’s.
Do it now, man
, I told
myself.

But I hesitated drawing my
gun, thinking it would be easier to just give her a quick nudge…but
she might survive the fall; then what?

Nicki glanced back at me.
“God, what is that smell?” she said, rubbing her nose. She peered
back down the darkened shaft. “You sure Smokey is down there?” she
asked, her voice tight, mixed with hope and dread.
“Smokey?”

“
Yeah,” I replied, resigned
to the original plan. I pulled the automatic out from under my
shirt, my hand trembling. I eased the weapon up, sucking in a deep
breath. “He’s down there, babe, I promise.” Then, through my
blurred gaze, I picked a spot just behind her left ear, steadied
myself, and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed loudly down the
elevator shaft.

Instantly, Nicki tumbled
forward, disappearing into the darkness.

Splat
, then silence.

“
He’s there, babe,” I said,
my voice a barely audible, scratchy whisper. “You found your
Smokey.” I wiped my eyes and runny nose on a hanky before tossing
it down after Nicki, then added, “And the fucking iceworm ain’t
going to hurt you no more either.”

I turned away, fighting
back the tears, and hurried down the hallway to the stairwell as I
heard people in the apartments beginning to stir, awakened by the
echoing gunshot.

A little later, still
very
early in the morning, I found the
extra key on the nail partially driven into the back porch
overhang, where it was always kept at our place in Sunset. After
letting myself in quietly, I tiptoed down to the spare bedroom.
Everything happened in slow motion as if I were watching some dark
movie with time geared down. Diane’s older sister, Robin, was
asleep and snoring loudly. She was a physician’s assistant,
recently retired from the ER at UCSF. As I thought, she’d moved in
and been taking care of Diane, at least the last week or
so.

I tiptoed down the hall to
the master bedroom.

Diane was asleep.
Hospital-room bottles hung on supports on either side of the bed,
one probably morphine, the medicine dripping down lines into shunts
taped on the backs of both her hands. Her breathing was labored but
steady, her lips chapped and flakey, her face emaciated and chalky
pale. So skinny under her nightshirt.

The iceworm was eating her
alive.

“
I’m sorry, ba—” I
whispered, a huge lump rising in my throat, choking off the rest of
my apology.

Well, I will take care of
everything now
, I thought, sucking in a
deep breath, resigned to completing the second part of my
plan.