The Little Sleep (26 page)

The door flies open and crashes into the wall. The knob sinks into the plaster. The insurance bill just got a little bigger. As inevitable as the tides, the two goons are in my doorway.

I say, “That ain’t the secret knock, so I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave.”

Redhead says, “Candles. How romantic.”

Yeah, even with the added ambience of streetlamps and assorted background neon, the light quality isn’t great, but it’s enough to see a hell of a shiner under his right eye, scratches on his face, and the gun in his hand. He holds it like he’s King Kong clutching a Fay Wray imposter and can’t wait to squeeze.

Can’t focus on the gun. It gets my panic juices flowing. This time with the goons, it feels different already, like how the air smells different before a thunderstorm, before all the action. My legs get a jump on the jellification process.

Baldy says, “Romancing yourself there, retard? You’re fuckin’ ugly enough that your right hand would reject you.”

I blow some smoke, don’t say anything, and try to give them smug, give them confidence. My bluff will work only if I get the attitude right. And even then, it still might not work.

Redhead is a totem to violence. He wears threat like cologne. He says, “I wouldn’t be standing there fucking smiling like you know something. Smiling like you aren’t never gonna feel pain again, Genevich.”

I say, “Can’t help myself, boys. I’m a happy guy. Don’t mean to rub your noses in it.”

Baldy says, “We’re gonna rub your nose all over our fists and the fuckin’ walls.” He cracks his knuckles, grinding bone against bone.

They walk toward me, necks retracted into their shoulders, and I can just about hear their muscles bulging against their dress shirts and suit coats. Dust and sparks fall out of their mouths. Oh, and the gun is still pointed at me.

Can’t say I’ve thought my Hail Mary bluff all the way through,
but I’m going with it. I open my jacket and pull out the dummy film, the black one, the one from Ellen’s store. Only what I’m holding isn’t the dummy film. Apparently I put that one inside the couch cushion. What I’m waving around in front of the goons is the take-up reel, half full with Tim’s film.

Oh, boy. Need to regroup, and fast. I say, “Have you boys seen this yet? Some of the performances are uneven, but two thumbs way up. You know, you two fellas remind me of the shit-talking boys that star in the movie. Same intensity and all that. I’m sure the reviews will be just as good when it gets a wide release. Twelve thousand theaters, red-carpet premiere somewhere, Golden Globes, then the Oscars, the works.”

The goons stop their advance, share a look. My cigarette is almost dead. I know the feeling well.

Redhead laughs, a car’s engine dying. He says, “You trying to tell us you made a copy?”

Baldy’s head is black with stubble. I guess, with all the
mishegas
, he hasn’t had time for a shave. He should lighten his schedule. He says, “You haven’t had time to make any copies.”

“Says you. I had it digitized. Didn’t take long, boys. Didn’t even cost that much. Oh, I tipped well for the rush and all. But it got done, and done quick. Even made a few hard copies for the hell of it. You know, for the retro-vibe. The kids love all the old stuff.”

Baldy breaks from formation and takes a jab step toward me. I think he’s grown bigger since he first walked into the room. His nostrils flare out, the openings as wide as exhaust pipes. I’m in big trouble. He says, “You’re fuckin’ lying.”

I don’t know if that’s just a standard reply, maybe Baldy’s default
setting. The goons creep closer. My heart does laps around my chest cavity and its pace is too fast, it’ll never make it to the end of the race. Appearing calm is going to be as easy as looking pretty.

I say, “Nope. This one here is one of the copies. You don’t think I’d wave the original around, do you? I figure I can make a quick buck or two by putting that puppy on eBay.”

It’s their turn to talk, to give me a break, a chance to catch my breath, but my breath won’t be caught. It’s going too fast and hard, a dog with a broken leash sprinting after a squirrel. Black spots in my vision now. They’re not buying any of this, and I’m in a barrel full of shit. I move back, away from the window. My legs have gone cold spaghetti on me and I almost go down, stumbling on my twisted and bent CD tower. Muscles tingle and my skin suddenly gets very heavy.

I say, “If my video guy doesn’t see me on his doorstep tomorrow morning, alone and in one piece, he uploads the video onto YouTube and drops a couple of DVDs into FedEx boxes, and the boxes have addresses, important addresses, on them, just in case you were wondering.”

The goons laugh, split up, and circle me, one goon on each side. I’ll be the meat in the goon sandwich. Looks like I should’ve gone with a frantic fire-escape escape. There isn’t always a next time.

Redhead scratches his nose with the gun barrel and says, “You’re bullshitting the wrong guys, Genevich. We don’t believe you, and we don’t really care. We’re getting paid to find the film, take that film, copy or not, and then knock the snot out of you.”

Things are getting more than hairy. Things are going black and fuzzy and not just at the edges. I say, “Don’t make me drop another shed on your asses.”

Baldy lunges, his coat billowing behind him like giant bat wings. The wings beat once, twice, he hangs in the air, and I feel the wind, it’s hot and humid, an exhaled breath on glass that lifts the hat off my head. Then he takes a swing, but he doesn’t land the blow because I’m already falling, already going down.

I open my eyes and everything is wrong. Cataplexy. My waking coma. The wires are all crossed, the circuit breakers flipped. I can’t move and won’t be able to for a while.

DA Times sits in front of me. He’s wearing black gloves and holds a gun. Maybe I should get me one of those; seems like everyone else is buying. I’m always the last one in the latest trends. I’m the rotten egg.

“Mark? You there?”

I try to say, “Yeah,” but it’s only loosened air, don’t know if he hears it so I blink a few times. Yeah, I’m here, and here is wrong. Here is my couch. The projector is on the kitchen table, the take-up reel and the film hang off the rear arm. The candles are two fingers
from burning out, white melted wax pools around the holders. The screen is set up in front of my bedroom door. The blankets are over the windows.

The DA is dressed all in black: tight turtleneck and pants. He says, “I never realized how awful narcolepsy was, Mark. Are you currently experiencing cataplexy?” He shakes his head, his faux pity the answer to his own question. “These symptoms of yours are just dreadful. I feel for you, I really do. I don’t know how you make it through the day.”

“Positive thinking,” I say. “I’m fine. I could get up and pin your nose to the back of your head if I wanted to, but it’d be rude.” The murk is still in my head and wants me to go back under, back down. It’d be so easy just to close my eyes.

He frowns and talks real quiet. He’s a dad talking to a screwup kid, the one he still loves despite everything. “From what Ellen tells me, you’ve had a real tough go of it.”

“Ellen likes to worry.” Luckily, I’m in no condition to present a state of shock or agitation at the mention of Ellen’s name.

“I’d say she has reason to. Look at the couch you’re sitting on, Mark. It’s absolutely riddled with cigarette holes. Ellen mentioned the couch to me, but I thought she was exaggerating. It’s a minor miracle you haven’t burned this place to the ground. Yet.”

I say, “Those aren’t cigarette burns. I have a moth problem.” My voice is weak, watery. It usually takes me twenty minutes to fully recover from cataplexy. I need to keep the chatter going. Despite his daddy-knows-best schtick, the gun and black gloves broadcast loud and clear what his real plan is for the evening.

The DA gets up and fishes around in my pockets. I could breathe on him real heavy, but that’s about the only resistance I can
offer. The DA takes my lighter out. No fair, I didn’t say he could have it. Then he finds my pack of smokes, pulls one out, sticks it in my mouth, and lights it. It tastes good even though I know it’s going to kill me.

Time to talk. Just talk. Talking as currency to buy me time. I hate time. I say, “Don’t know why you and the goons bothered setting the equipment back up. But who am I to critique your work?” The cigarette falls out of my mouth, rolls down my chest and onto the floor between my feet. I hope it’s on the hardwood floor, not on rug or debris.

The DA pulls out another cigarette and fills my mouth with it. He says, “Goons?”

I concentrate on the balancing act of talking and keeping the butt in my mouth. I’ll smoke this one down to the filter if I have to. “Yeah, your boys, your goons. Redhead and Baldy. I’d like to make an official complaint to their supervisor when all this is over.”

The DA leans in and hovers the gun’s snub nose between my eyes. It’s close enough that I smell the gun oil. The DA waving that thing in my face isn’t going to speed up my recovery any.

He says, “Are these the same imaginary goons you warned Ellen about in a voice mail? You said something about a red car and a crooked DA too.”

An upper cut to my glass chin. He really did talk to Ellen. I say, “If you did anything to Ellen, I’ll—”

“She called me, Mark. Tonight. She was distraught, didn’t know where you were. She said you had destroyed the shed today, emptied your bank account, and maxed out your credit cards in the last week.
She told me how strangely you’d been behaving and said your symptoms seemed to have been worsening.

“We had a nice long chat. Ellen is a wonderful and brave person. She told me everything about you and your narcolepsy, Mark. She told me that stress triggers the worst of your symptoms.” He moves the gun all around my face, tracing the damaged features but not touching me. “I told her I’d check up on you. And here I am.” He switches hands with the gun.

I can’t think about Ellen and her motivations for calling the DA despite my pointed instructions to the contrary. It would ruin what little resolve I have left.

I say, “Gee, thanks. You’re like a warm blanket and cup of hot chocolate, even if you are lying about the goons through your capped and whitened teeth.” Despite my apartment being made to appear that I didn’t break down all the film equipment before everyone showed up, I know he’s lying.

He leans in and says, “For what it’s worth, and that’s not much because it has no bearing on what will happen here tonight, I’m telling the truth. No goons. You hallucinated or dreamed them up. This is all about me and you.” His voice goes completely cold, can be measured only in the Kelvin scale.

I say, “And a woman. You know, the one who looks like your daughter? Except dead.”

The DA doesn’t say anything but leans back into his chair.

Need to keep the chatter going. I say, “What about your old pal Brendan? He’s dead too.”

The DA pushes the gun into my face again and says, “Are you
stressed, Mark?” He looks down toward the floor, to something between my feet. “That cigarette has already caught on something. Can you smell the smoke? You need to be more careful and take care of yourself. No one else will.”

He’s bluffing about a fire, I hope. The paranoid part of me feels the temperature rising around my ankles, a fledgling fire starting right under my feet, a hotfoot joke that isn’t so funny. I try to move the feet—and nothing. Might as well be trying to move the kitchen table with my mind.

I wiggle my fingers a little bit but can’t make a fist, wouldn’t even be able to hitchhike. But they’ll be back soon. My legs are another matter. Those won’t be able to hold me up for at least fifteen minutes, maybe longer. My second cigarette is burning away like lost time.

I say, “Jennifer is here.”

“Mark, I really am sorry about all of this. I know you don’t want to hear it, but at least your suffering will be over. You won’t be a burden to Ellen or yourself anymore. It’s really going to be for the best.”

Now I’m getting mad. The fucker is talking to me like I’m some drooling vegetable and should pull my own plug.

I say, “Jennifer is hiding in my bedroom. Go take a look. I apologize if my bed isn’t made. I’ve been a little busy.” My cigarette jumps up and down, performing carcinogenic calisthenics as my volume rises. This is desperation time. I need him to go into that bedroom.

He says, “Mark, enough, really.”

“Listen to me! If she isn’t in there, you win, and I’ll close my eyes and you can burn me up and stub me out like the rest of my
cigarettes. But go fucking look, right now!” My voice breaks on the last line.

The DA stands up, puts his gun down on the projector table and his hands in his pockets. Then he leans forward, sticking his face in mine, our noses a fly hair away from touching. His eyes line up with mine and I don’t see anything there that I recognize or understand. Anyone who tells you they can read someone’s eyes is lying.

I blow smoke in his face and say, “Be careful, that secondhand smoke is a killer.”

He hits me in the arms, chest, stomach, and the groin, looking for reactions, movement. I’m the dead snake and he’s poking me with a stick.

I feel it all, but I don’t move. I say, “Stop it, I’m ticklish.”