The Interview (26 page)

“Thanks. I will.”

He released my hand. I did not rub it on my shorts. I wanted to. God,
how I wanted to. I stood up and opened the door. I stepped through,
closed the door behind me, and was immediately thrown against the
wall.

“Spread your legs. Arms apart.”

Ah, here was the real muscle. Joey was just the doorman. I relished
the opportunity to beat the crap out of someone after my encounter
with Terrance. I complied with the instructions and was thoroughly
frisked by large, strong hands. It was not a pleasant experience.

“You a cop?”

“I am not a cop. This is not a setup. What is with you guys?”

I was released. I turned around slowly and found myself looking at a
typical strip club bouncer. Lots of muscle, not much brains. I'd take
care of him on my way out.

“Through there. You got fifteen.” He played with his
watch for a moment before saying, “Starting now.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head because that is what I do. I
needed to be normal. I needed to be an emotionless machine on a
mission. I had lost that in the time Terrance held me in his grasp. I
shivered at the thought of his hand touching me, then took a deep
breath, and opened the only door I could see.

The room was outfitted with a toilet, a sink, and a naked blonde
woman. There were no pictures on the walls. No flowers. No furniture
of any kind. The woman was sitting on the concrete floor with her
back against the wall and her head hanging down. As the door shut,
she slowly raised her head and looked in my general direction. Her
blue eyes rolled loosely around their sockets.

“Un-fucking-real,” I said because I couldn't think of
anything else to say to the woman whose name was Stacey. She was
forty-six-years-old. Divorced. Mother of two girls in college, one a
freshman, the other a sophomore. I was her mailman until a year ago.
Stacey had lived in a nice house on Limerick Ave. She had moved in
the middle of the night. Hadn't told anyone she was leaving. She
walked away from the house and vanished. Now, she was apparently a
strung-out hooker in a dive bar. Nice.

“Mailman, wus up?” Her words were slurred and slow.

“Nada. Be back in a second.”

“I'll be . . . here.”

I went back through the door. The bouncer sat on a chair reading an
old issue of Muscle Fitness. He glanced up at me as I took three long
strides and kicked him in the face. His nose was destroyed beneath my
Converse. I kicked again and felt teeth loosen. One more time for
good measure and he was down and out. I glanced around the area I was
in. Wire shelves filled with beer, bags of mixed nuts, and a pile of
clothes. I grabbed the clothes and went back into the bathroom.

“Mailman, wus up?”

“Getting you dressed.”

“Noooo. I'm supposed to . . . suck . . . your dick.”

“That's OK. I'm good.”

“I'll get in trouble.”

“Not anymore.”

Her eyes rolled. I started to dress her. It was like trying to get a
wet spaghetti noodle into the eye of a needle. Five minutes later I
had managed to get her shirt and skirt on. I didn't bother with the
bra or underwear. I didn't see any shoes so she would be going
barefoot. I didn't think she would care, let alone feel any rocks on
the short walk to my car.

I dragged her out of the bathroom, through the door and into the bar.
Ills smiled at me.

“She's leaving,” I said as I walked past him. I turned
right and went out the backdoor into a gravel lot. I didn't expect
anybody to come after me, so I refrained from looking over my
shoulder as I crossed the street towards my car.

“Where we going, Mailman? I am not . . . off yet. I'll be . .
. in trouble if I leave. He doesn't like it . . . if you leave
early.” The pauses in her speech were irritating. I couldn't
decide if she was trying to come up with the next part of the
sentence or if she was blacking out.

“Do me a favor and shut up, Stacey.”

“Why you have to be so mean? I didn't do-” Her words
were cut off abruptly as she tripped on the curb. Probably hurt a
great deal, but she didn't cry out. She just stumbled. I helped her
regain a semblance of balance then kept on walking to the Cougar.

I opened the passenger door and stuffed her into the seat. “Buckle
up.” A scene from a truly terrible movie rose up before me. I
saw Kurt Russell put a drunk woman into the passenger seat of his car
then go on a murderous little drive that ended up killing four or
five women. I couldn't remember the exact total. Tarantino can be
absolutely brilliant at times, that movie was not one of those times.

I got in the car, started her up, and headed to Tristan's. Stacey
was curled up against the door. Passed out or asleep, didn't matter
which. Just to be clear here, I wasn't trying to help this woman. She
was in my way. I needed to move her out of the way so I could do what
I wanted to do. Or maybe it was what I needed to do. Semantics aside,
it would be done. Stacey was Tristan's problem, or would be shortly
after I dumped her on his front porch.

I took Van Buren up to Alta Vista, hung a left, and drove the speed
limit all the way to Soto. I was in no hurry. The Triple Six wasn't
going anywhere, at least not for a couple more hours. I already had a
plan percolating on the backside of my brain but I couldn't put that
plan into action until the place was closed.

Alex's car was in the driveway. Good. I didn't want to deal with
Ashley. She was cute, sexy, and very helpful when it came to my
situation yesterday, but Tristan and Alex had pointed me in the
direction of The Triple Six so they should be the ones that had to
deal with the fallout. I know Alex wasn't a part of that conversation
when Tristan talked to me about the little bar down in Atwood. She
was involved though, of that I was positive.

I parked in the driveway, got out, and opened the passenger door.
Stacey fell out and face planted on the concrete. I heard a crunch,
but nothing else. She was out. Her nose would not be pretty, but she
was still breathing. I rolled her over onto her back. Her face was
covered in blood. I hooked my hands into her armpits and dragged her
to the front door.

I heard the door open behind me and Tristan said, “What's up,
Kelly?”

“Nada.” I reached the entrance and let her body down
gently . A broken nose was enough damage for the moment. I turned and
faced Tristan. “Just dropping off some trash for you to deal
with.”

“Who is she?”

“I don't know. She's your problem now.”

He cocked his head and appraised me for a few moments before he
asked, “What happened to her nose?”

“She fell out of the car. I don't know what she's on but she is
way over her limit.”

“Apparently. Suggestions?”

“I could care less. See ya.”

I walked back to my car. He followed me down the drive but said
nothing until I had one leg in the car. “I take it you didn't
like what you found.”

I shook my head and said, “No. I didn't.” I almost left
it at that, but I couldn't shake that feeling of unease that Terrance
had given me. “You left a lot out.”

“Why do you say that, Kelly? I told you what I knew.”

“Maybe. But you didn't tell me the real reason that place
bothers you so much. That place is nothing. It presents no threat to
you. Bunch of losers getting blowjobs in a backroom is all. The
operation is so far out of your league, it's ridiculous. It's like
the NFL worrying about an amateur Rugby league. And from what I've
seen, you could give a fuck about women prostituting themselves. I
should have thought it through, but I didn't. Now it doesn't matter.”

“Why doesn't it matter?”

“Because I'm going to handle it. But it's a short-term fix,
Tristan. That's all. It's not going to solve the real problem. You
know that, right?”

“And what's the real problem, Kelly?”

“The kid. He's the problem. You made him out to be some geeky
little shit with money to burn. But he's more than that. And that's
why you wanted me to go there.”

I paused for a few beats to give him the opportunity to at least try
and deny it. He didn't. I continued.

“I'm not sure what makes you tick, Tristan. And I definitely
don't have a clue as to why you have chosen to enlist me in your
little campaign, but I'm not your bitch. You don't know me. You don't
know what makes me tick, either. I am going to try and get through
the next thirty-six hours, then on Monday morning I'm going to go
back to being a mailman. Nothing more. Nothing less. And if you get
in my way again, then I'll deal with you the same way I've dealt with
everyone else who has fucked with me this week.”

Now I was done. I slipped into the seat, started the car, and left
him standing in the driveway.

THEY WERE HOLLOW WORDS. I knew it. Tristan probably did as well, but
I needed to draw the line with him. I could never go back to being
just a mailman. Mr. Bat and Tristan had taken that luxury away.
Tristan was too comfortable with me as he jerked my strings like I
was a puppet. I don't like to fight other people's battles. It's a
losing proposition if there ever was one. I get stuck with the
wounds, but not the satisfaction. I have enough to worry about
without becoming some kind of mindless knight sent off to fight a
pretend king's Crusades. That's exactly what I was, though. I knew
it. So did he. Hollow or not, they made me feel better for the time
being.

I parked on the street in front of my house. Annette wasn't home,
which surprised me. It was after ten. She was usually home and in bed
by now. I called her daughter.

“Jolie, it's Kelly.”

“Hi, Kelly. Looking for mom?”

“Yeah. She didn't leave me a note. Just wanted to make sure she
was OK.”

She laughed. “You guys are so cute. She's fine. She drank a
little too much tonight. I convinced her to stay over.” Jolie
sounded like she had had a little too much as well.

“Annette drunk. That's never pretty.”

“Oh my God, Kelly. You have no idea. She was on fire tonight.
She busted the blender out and raided the liquor cabinet so she could
show off her bartending skills. You must be a great teacher. She
whipped up a couple concoctions that knocked me a little sideways.
Actually it was kind of nice seeing her laugh so much. She can be a
little Drama Queen, as you know.”

“Yes she can,” I agreed.

“Kim and mom showed up around seven. I like her, by the way.”

“Who?”

“Kim. She's wonderful.”

I wasn't following her drift. “Good.”

“I always wondered when you were going to get hooked by a
beautiful woman.”

I now got her drift. “I'm not hooked, Jolie. She's just a
friend. She spent the day with your mom, remember.”

“Well, either way.” Which was her way of saying that she
didn't believe me. Kim and Annette had been out shopping for china
patterns as far as Jolie was concerned. “I like her. They're
both spending the night so you don't have to worry about them. And,
bonus, you get the house to yourself.”

“Yeah. Listen, Jolie, I have to go out of town till tomorrow
night. Will you let Annette know. I'm not sure when I'll be home, but
probably in the evening.”

“Can do, Kelly. Did you want to say goodnight to Kim?”

“No, that's OK. You guys have fun.”

“Will do. Have a good trip. Be safe.”

That almost made me laugh. Annette would have a heart attack if she
knew what my plans for the rest of the night were. I assured Jolie I
would be safe, and hung up. I went to my room and threw some clothes
into a backpack. I spent a couple minutes putting a playlist together
that I thought would suit my mood in the coming hours, then synced it
to my iPod. I grabbed the envelope that Mr. Bat had left for me. Took
a look around my room for a few seconds on the off chance I never saw
it again. I grabbed my toothbrush and deodorant, made sure the house
was locked up, then went into the garage to grab a few items.

When the Cougar was loaded, I clicked the button on the garage
opener. I made sure the door shut, then headed off into the night to
do reckless and stupid things.

I STOPPED AT THE 7-ELEVEN on the corner of Rose and Orangethorpe to
stock up on munchies, cigarettes, and coffee. I'd never done a
stakeout, but I figured those three things would be good to have on
hand as I sat in a car for a few hours doing nothing.

I crossed Orangethorpe and wound my way through one industrial park
after another until I arrived on Van Buren, and subsequently, Olive
Street. I hung a right on Olive and parked in front of an auto
wrecking company. Directly to my left, across the train tracks and
Orangethorpe was The Triple Six. It was eleven o’clock. Through
the open window, I could hear the faint whisper of music still coming
from the bar. I lit a cigarette, took a sip of my coffee, and waited.

Olive Street is half vacant lots and the auto wrecker, half run-down
houses. The nearest house was a good two hundred yards down the road
so I wasn't all that concerned with somebody peeking out their window
at me. This side of Orangethorpe was ignored by the developers while
they were building condos and apartment homes a few years back. There
is a small neighborhood on the next street over, probably eighty
homes in all. The area is still controlled by the Atwood gang, so
there was a possibility I might have to deal with them. I wouldn't
normally hang out here just for fun. For the most part, however, the
residents of Atwood just hang out on their porches and side yards and
sip forties.

Time dragged. I checked the clock every two minutes. I thought about
Frankie. I knew she was hurt, but I didn't care. Or maybe I did, and
I just didn't know why. I had played her game for so long that it had
become the norm. She came. She left. She lived her life without me
and came back for a dip in the pool every so often to keep her
sanity. She never asked why I did what I did. Never inquired as to my
motivations. So for her to suddenly become angry with me was a bit
selfish as far as I was concerned. Since I took all the blame for the
demise of our relationship, it never occurred to me that she might be
a tad fucked up as well. As I glanced over the last twenty or so
years of my life, I realized that Frankie was a selfish bitch with
more than a few issues.