The Barbed-Wire Kiss (26 page)

He took the .38 out of his sling, stuck it deep in his right front pocket so that it wouldn’t fall out. He undid the sling’s Velcro snaps, slipped it off, and set it atop the cinder blocks. He could move better without it.

Voices inside now, the girl’s laughter. He decided to give them ten minutes to get comfortable. After a while, the kitchen light went out, the bedroom light on. To the east, a shooting star streaked across the sky and was gone.

He got the recycling bucket from the back of the house, brought it around to the dark living room window. He put his hand flat on the glass, pushed, felt the window glide upward. He could hear voices then, Wiley’s low and slow, the girl’s higher, not laughing anymore. He climbed up on the bucket, slid the sash higher.

A bed creaked. He heard the girl say something in complaint but couldn’t make out the words. Then came the sound of a brief, compressed struggle, contained as soon as it began. The girl’s voice again, meeker this time, then the sharp smack of a hand against flesh, and she was silent.

He braced his cast on the sill for balance, hoisted one leg in. He hung there for a moment, the other leg waving in the air, then drew himself in, holding tight to the windowsill. He went in silently, felt the floor beneath his feet. The light wash from the open bedroom door lit up half the kitchen, cast shadows on the linoleum. He heard Wiley moan softly, his breath quicken. The girl was whimpering now.

He moved into the kitchen. Wiley had the girl on her knees in the bedroom, his fist twisted in her hair, his shirt off, pants down at his ankles. The girl was half naked, blouse and bra on the floor, her palms against the sculpted muscles of his thighs, trying to push him away. He held her there, his hips moving, eyes closed. As his thrusts increased, she tried to twist away, and he pulled up hard on her hair. Her hands dropped to her sides and she stopped fighting. Harry could see the tears on her cheeks.

There was a door to his left, the bathroom. He stepped in, saw the gray fuse box on the wall beside the door. The moonlight coming through the window was bright enough that he could read the labeled switches. He found the one marked bedroom.

Wiley was moaning louder now, a slow hitched-breath rhythm, an unmistakable primal sound. As it gained momentum, neared its peak, he switched off the breaker.

Silence and darkness. Then the sound of a struggle, a clumsy fall. The girl came through the moonlit kitchen, half running, half stumbling. He stepped out of the bathroom, saw Wiley coming after her, one hand holding up his pants.

“Back here, bitch!”

Wiley never saw him. Harry stepped forward, braced his legs, raised the cast over his right shoulder, and swung it hard.

It took Wiley full across the face. His legs shot out from under him and he went down hard on the linoleum. Harry stepped in, kicked him sharply in the lower ribs on the right side, his weight behind it. Wiley’s breath exploded out of him and he rolled onto his side, his mouth wide as he fought for air.

Harry turned to see the girl watching, frozen, from the living room.

“It’s okay,” he said to her, pulling the handcuffs from his belt. “It’s all right.”

He swung one cuff open, slapped it over Wiley’s thick right wrist, and locked it. He dragged him two feet across the floor, ratcheted the other end around a front leg of the weight bench. Wiley’s face was covered with blood, black in the moonlight.

Harry stepped back, breathing heavily, the pain sharp in his arm. He stepped around Wiley and went into the bedroom, got the girl’s blouse and bra. He brought them out to where she stood trembling in the living room, her arms crossed to hide her breasts. Her face was streaked black with mascara.

“Are you all right?” he said.

She backed away from him. He set the clothes on the arm of the couch.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Get dressed. He’s not going to hurt you.”

In the kitchen, Wiley moaned. Handcuffs rattled on the bench leg.

Harry found the wall switch, turned on the kitchen light. Wiley had raised himself into a sitting position alongside the bench. His nose was red and flattened, a bubble of blood in one nostril, blood spotting his chest.

“Sorry to interrupt your date,” Harry said.

Wiley spit blood, tried to roll onto his knees. Harry took a step forward, raised a boot. Wiley sank back down.

“Sit there. Don’t move. We’ve got some things to talk about.”

He went back into the living room. The girl had her bra on, was turning her blouse right side out.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.

He got Kleenex from the bathroom, carried them out to her. She had the blouse on, was fumbling with the buttons. Two of them were missing and the discovery bought a fresh round of tears.

He handed her the tissues, stood back. She turned away, wiped at tears and ruined mascara, blew her nose.

“What’s your name?” he said.

She ignored him, began to button the blouse as best she could.

“Where do you live? Do you have enough money to get a cab home?”

She turned to him. “Who are you? Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Let’s just say …”

“I want to call the police.”

“You can if you want to. The phone’s in the kitchen.”

She looked in there, then back at him. For the first time, he saw the faint red imprint of a palm across her left cheek.

“I want to get out of here,” she said.

“I’ll call you a cab. It’s late, though, it might take awhile.”

“I want to get out of here right now.”

He pulled the Saturn key chain from his left jeans pocket. He saw her eyes drop, knew she was looking at the butt of the .38.

“My car’s parked nearby,” he said. “Here’s the key, you can wait there. I’ll be out soon and I’ll drive you home.” He held it out.

“Are you going to kill him?”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you?”

“What you want to do now is up to you.”

She took the key.

“Go out to the street, make a right, walk a block, and then make another right. There’s a building there, used to be a bait shop. The sign’s still there. You can’t miss it. There’s a blue Saturn parked behind the shop. When you get to the car, stay there. Lock the doors. Don’t come back.”

Wiley was sitting up, watching her.

“Go on,” Harry said.

She went to the front door, pulled at the locks, got it open.

“Cunt!” Wiley called out.

She went out and Harry closed and locked the door behind her. Then he moved to the window he’d come through, slid it closed. He went back into the kitchen.

“Couldn’t resist that last remark, could you?” he said.

Wiley spit a clot of blood onto the floor at Harry’s feet.

“Time to talk,” Harry said.

“Get fucked.”

“You’re making this easier.”

He caught one of Wiley’s loose pants legs, yanked on it. Wiley tried to hold on to the waist, but Harry had the pants down his legs and off in three pulls. Wiley wore no underwear and his testicles and penis were tight and shrunken. He shifted his legs to cover himself.

Harry tossed the pants into a corner, dragged a kitchen chair away from the wall, sat down, still breathing heavily, his arm throbbing within the cast.

“Here we are,” he said.

“I ain’t saying shit to you.”

“You’re all hormones and no brains, Lester. That’s the problem. You can’t see what’s going on here.”

“Unlock these handcuffs and we’ll see what’s going on.”

“Is that what you want?”

“You act tough now. You weren’t so tough that other night, were you?”

He stood up, dug into his jeans pocket, came up with the handcuff key, bounced it off Wiley’s chest. It skittered on the floor.

“Go ahead. Unlock them. Come get me.”

Wiley looked at the key.

“Do it. Go on.”

He waited. Wiley didn’t move. Harry leaned over, picked up the key, and pocketed it again.

“Then shut the fuck up,” he said.

He went into the bathroom and looked at his cast. There were thin cracks along the forearm and the plaster was smeared with blood. The pain was like heat in the bone.

He yanked aside the shower curtain and pulled it out of the bathtub, plastic rings popping off. He found the rubber plug and fit it into the drain, then twisted the cold faucet. Rust-brown water streamed into the tub, then cleared. Above the sound of the water, he heard the creak of the weight bench.

He opened the medicine cabinet, looking for aspirin. Inside were prescription bottles, toothpaste, a disposable razor, and a tube of ointment, nothing else. When he shut the door, plaster dust drifted from the bottom of the cabinet. He looked down and saw there was already a thin film of it on top of the toilet tank and on the floor behind.

He opened the cabinet again, put his fingers against the inside wall, and pushed. It rocked slightly.

He went back into the kitchen. Wiley was crouched beside the weight bench, trying to get enough leverage to lift it and slide the cuff off the leg. He got the leg about an inch off the floor, but the end was flared and the cuff wouldn’t clear it.

“Hey,” Harry said.

The leg came down with a crash.

“Where’s a screwdriver?”

“What?”

“Screwdriver. You deaf?”

Wiley looked at him.

He tried the drawers near the sink. In the third one down he found a long-handled screwdriver mixed in with a tray of silverware. Wiley was watching him now, the weight bench forgotten.

He went back into the bathroom, took out the contents of the medicine cabinet and set them on the floor, then used the tip of the screwdriver to pry the bottom edge of the cabinet from the wall. It came out easily.

He shut the cabinet door, then used the screwdriver on the edges. When a full two inches of the cabinet was out of the wall, he put down the screwdriver, got his fingers under the bottom edge, and tugged. The cabinet came out all at once. He pinned it against the wall with his shoulder to keep it from falling, then lowered it to the floor beside the toilet. Plaster dust floated around him.

He looked into the hole. About a foot down inside the wall there was a small blue knapsack wedged against one of the joists.

He pulled it out, raising more dust in the process. The bag swung heavily. He set it on the closed toilet seat, worked the zipper up and around. Inside was a package about the size of a hardcover book, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper sealed with strips of white tape. He set it on the sink, took out his pocket knife, and sliced through the tape. Beneath the paper was aluminum foil. He peeled it away and inside were individually sealed glassine bags of white powder, maybe twenty in all.

The auxiliary drain began to work noisily as the tub filled. He twisted the faucet off, went back into the kitchen, tossed the screwdriver on the counter.

“Going into business on your own, Lester? That’s about a half a pound of skag you got in there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Some things are starting to make sense now.”

He reached into his back pocket, pulled loose the can of CS spray. Wiley saw it, tried to get to his feet, hauling the weight bench with him, and Harry gave him two solid blasts in the face from about a foot away. He cried out, folded, and Harry got a knee in his back, pinned him to the floor. He shoved the canister back in his pocket, took out the key, and unlocked the cuff from the bench leg. He managed to pin Wiley’s arms behind him, got the loose cuff around his left wrist, locked it shut, then took hold of the short chain and hauled him across the linoleum and into the bathroom, panting with the effort.

He got Wiley to the tub, heaved up on the chain, and pushed him forward so that the rim of the tub hit him across the chest.

“Go on. Get your face in the water.”

He pushed Wiley’s face down, then let go. Wiley kicked out, his heel thumping into the base of the toilet, but his struggles slowed as the water cooled the burning in his eyes.

Wiley kept his face there until Harry pulled back on the chain. He slumped down the outside of the tub, his back against the porcelain. Water splashed over the rim and onto the floor. His eyes were still slits, the flesh around them puffy, but he could see now. His chest was heaving.

Harry took out the .38, moved the knapsack to the floor, and sat on the toilet seat facing him. A thin trickle of blood still oozed from Wiley’s left nostril and his eyes were a bright red. All the fight was gone.

“I’m about done here,” Harry said. “The only question is what kind of shape you’re in when I leave.”

Wiley blinked water from his eyes, watched him.

“You know why I filled the tub?”

Wiley coughed pink phlegm, spit it away. He shifted against the tub, skin squeaking on the porcelain.

“If I put you facedown in the water and shoot you in the back of the head, it won’t make much of a mess at all. And chances are I’ll be able to recover the bullet and take it with me. Then I can throw some of this smack around, put a twenty-dollar bill in your mouth and, as far as the cops are concerned, it’s an open-and-shut case. Six months from now, no one will remember who you were, or care.”

Wiley let his chin drop to his chest as if exhausted, shut his eyes. Harry touched the muzzle to the center of Wiley’s forehead.

“Look at me. Look at my arm, my face. You think I won’t pull the trigger on you?”

Wiley looked up through half-closed eyes.

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Bullshit.”

“That was between you and Eddie.”

“You took your shot when you got the chance, though, didn’t you?”

He thumbed the hammer back to half-cock.

“This …” Wiley started. “This is all Eddie. It’s his thing now. I never wanted anything to do with it.”

“How did he know?”

“About what?”

“About me.”

“He had me watching her when he wasn’t around. He thought she was acting funny, so he asked me to stick close to her. Then one day I followed her to the beach. It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on.”

“So you’re the one who told him?”

“That’s what he was paying me for, man.”