We Live Inside You (27 page)

You sold the rest of your stolen swag, which meant going to about every pawn shop in Portland. Moving one item seemed reasonable. Offering a box of Blackberries put you on a suspect list.

You were back out on 82
^nd
hustling your wares and you recognized strip clubs that Ava said were closer to brothels. She said twenty extra bucks turned a lap dance to a backseat blowjob, maybe more depending on the club and the girl. They’re whores, she said, not dancers. You contemplated buying a prostitute so you wouldn’t be a virgin when you were finally with Ava, but what would happen if you got burnt? Giving Ava herpes wasn’t part of the master plan.

You liquidated your trust and cashed out your swollen checking account. Ava had found a great place in the Caymans online, and you’d always wanted to see the islands. You knew you’d miss your Uncle, but you had no other ties and figured that Ava’s legs wrapped around your back could ease pretty much any type of pain.

Ava told you she’d already bought the tickets.

She also confirmed she’d found a buyer for Friday night—she knew plenty of dealers who liked to show off their cash in the clubs—so now it was just a matter of making sure that you acquired the blow.

Stump Lo was going to be kicking off a show for Keak da Sneak that night. It was a small opening, maybe a few hours, but after you made the acquisition all that was left was a short shot up the interstate to meet with Ava’s connection, then on to PDX airport and to paradise.

You met up with Ava after her shift on Wednesday night to give her a surprise. You wanted her to have your best diamond ring. It was from your first big break-in, and you couldn’t bring yourself to hock it. You waited near her car, not wanting to risk any of Stump Lo’s friends seeing you in the club.

She ate it up. Even got a little teary-eyed—no one had ever given her anything that nice before. She put her hands on your hips and pressed her cheek against yours and said, quietly, “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

She smelled like sweat and cigarettes and too much perfume and you loved it. As she pulled away from you she had a look on her face that read, “Can something this great really be happening to us?”

You wanted to lean in and kiss her but she was already gesturing you towards her car. You got in the passenger side, thinking that now was your time, that she couldn’t contain her need for you anymore and was going to fuck you right here in the parking lot.

Instead she wanted to review the details for Friday night. She would be at Stump’s place a few hours before the show, to wish him luck. She would make sure that his Rottweiler—named Scarface, of course—was kenneled. You would watch for Stump to leave and once he did you would run around back and disconnect the air conditioning unit running into his office. That was your access point. After that it was as simple as grabbing the coke and getting out. A quick quarter mile jog would take you to your meeting point with Ava. You’d roll in her car, make your quick sale, and then get into costume for the airport.

She’d been inspired by your adventures in social camouflage and figured it could work to her advantage too. You would enter PDX as proud parents-to-be and her prosthetic belly-bump and draping maternity gear would conceal your collected cash nest egg as well as a half a brick of coke.

You didn’t want to seem soft, but you had to question the wisdom of bringing the drugs. Carrying all that cash was already highly suspect, but the coke turned your trip into trafficking. Why risk it?

“The US dollar is on the decline, but coke is universal tender. We can turn it into more money, connections, favors, more coke even. I think it will help us, big time, and I’ve never seen a pregnant chick getting searched at the airport. Have you?”

You hadn’t.

“Besides, with this rock on my finger we’ll look like we’re engaged. It’s perfect.”

You considered proposing. Make it real right then and there. But it might spook her, and you knew that even better times were to come. Wouldn’t it be better to propose at sunset, in the sand, with a light buzz kicking from some tropical fruit bullshit cocktail? Yes it would.

Besides, you hadn’t even kissed yet. For all you knew, as much as you tried to exterminate the thought from your mind, she might still be fucking Stump Lo. But if she was it was just to perfect her cover and keep things smooth until you could begin your life together. Right? You squashed the question, the thought, the images. You focused on her face.

She pinned you down with her eyes and asked you if you thought you were ready for Friday night.

The version of yourself that you were selling could only answer Yes.

Getting in was simple. You saw those window-mounted A/C units as a big sign reading, “Not only do I not give a shit about the environment, I really don’t mind if you come inside my house.” You’d brought your LifeHammer as a back-up, but all you’d needed to access the Stump Lo residence was a small screwdriver and the ability to disconnect a plug. Easy peasy.

You were halfway up the stairs to the upper bathroom where the stash was supposed to be hidden, and feeling like the air had been replaced with a Dexedrine mist. Your mouth was dry but your face was a constant cooling sheet of sweat.

You noticed a drop of sweat fall from the tip of your nose to the carpeted stair underfoot, and you were wondering if anyone would be able to detect that or use it as evidence.

You were bent over using your runner’s glove to try and swab up the sweat droplet, thinking of yourself as a thorough criminal mastermind, when Scarface caught your left calf in his jaws.

For a split second you thought it was a severe and sudden cramp. Maybe you’d been favoring your left leg to go easy on your fragile right and the imbalance caught up with you.

Even when you heard the growl and felt his teeth sinking in you couldn’t quite believe it. After all, you’d received Ava’s text: DG KNNLD, STMP LVG ½ HR.

What neither of you’d thought of was that Stump might decide to remove Scarface from the kennel prior to leaving.

Call it an oversight.

An oversight that was quickly turning your left leg into a chunk of shredded meat.

You collapsed forward on the staircase as Scarface dug in deeper and swung his head from side to side.

Agony, and you’d stopped thinking. You tried to kick out at him with your other foot but couldn’t land more than a glancing blow. You wished you’d started running in steel-shanked boots instead of lightweight sneaks.

You tried to speak, to say, “Hi doggy good doggy it’s me your friend please let go” but when you opened your mouth to assuage the hound all that came out was, “AAAAAAA! SHITSHITSHIT! OH JESUS!” It seemed to rile him up; he clamped down harder.

You found the beefy treats you always carried in your pocket for just such an occasion. You tried to extend your arms backwards with the snacks so Scarface could catch the scent.

No interest. So you did your best to wing the snacks at him.

A yelp! Sweet mother of mercy—his jaws cut loose for a second. You rotated, looking back, bracing for the next assault.

Scarface was pawing at the right side of his face, whining. One of the stale old snacks must have clipped him dead in the eye.

For one tiny moment you felt bad for him. Then you saw his head start to drop below his shoulders and you realized he was about to pounce again. You kicked out in desperation, eyes closed, and felt both of your feet make contact.

Scarface thumped to the bottom of the staircase and lay still on the floor.

Shit! You felt terrible—instantly cursed. Steal a man’s coke and his girl and he might just move on with his life. But kill his dog and he’d probably hunt you to the ends of the Earth.

Without thinking you were walking back down the stairs, towards the dog, to see if you’d actually killed it. Then you heard a growl, low but increasing in volume.

Scarface popped back up in full bristle, teeth bared and bloody.

Your blood. It took you a split second to recognize that.

You leapt up the stairs, four at a time. You had to lean more weight on your right and felt the tightness there turn to razor-wire. Then you were in the upper hallway and running, bounding, trying to remember what she’d said.

Third door on the left. Guest bathroom.

You collapsed into the third room, not caring if it was even the bathroom, just wanting to kick the door closed and shut out the beast.

You heard the door click shut and pressed your right foot against the wood, hoping to brace it, as if Scarface had become a battering ram with teeth.

You could tell he was out there, hear him gnawing at the door with the side of his mouth but finding no purchase. You reached up and locked the door. Gnashing turned to barking, furious guttural eruptions.

You worried about the neighbors being alerted but remembered what Ava had told you—the whole joint was supposed to be soundproofed since they used to get complaints about the studio bumping beats at all hours. You hoped it was true.

You flipped the light switch and caught yourself in the mirror, bloody and shaking, in track gear. The image ran surreal, like you’d been smacked down when a riot popped off in the middle of the Portland Marathon. But at least you had landed in the bathroom.

You were glad that the mirror had to come down—seeing yourself in that moment brought in a rush of feelings and questions that were better not contemplated. At this point it was action required, not thought.

You grabbed each side of the framed mirror, lifted up and pulled it back off its mounting screws.

The hole in the drywall was there, as she’d described. You reached in and found the plastic loop, pulled it off the nail in the stud. The loop was attached to a vinyl cord, and it strained your shoulders to reel in the compressed leather duffel bag at its far end.

Seeing the bag gave you new confidence. You’d found your grail, and your princess was waiting for your return. You re-mounted the mirror. You used a towel to clean your blood off the floor and then wrapped it around your leg to staunch further bleeding.

You heard Scarface’s paws thump against the door, nails scraping. He was not calming down, far from it. You scanned the bathroom for a weapon and found nothing that would allow you to confront the hound with confidence.

That left you with one point of exit—a small sliding window mounted above the shower.

You slid the window open and popped out the screen. You tied off the duffel bag to your CamelBak and used the vinyl cord to lower them both to the ground below.

The drop from the second floor was unfriendly no matter how you went about it, but you managed to hang and exit feet first. Both legs felt equally savaged so you couldn’t pick one to bear the brunt of the fall. Instead you tried to let your legs collapse and shift your weight to your back so you could somersault out of it.

This did not work.

Instead your left leg hit first and before you could shift your weight your knee was driven into your jaw. It was a world class uppercut delivered by yourself, and it had the added benefit of forcing your teeth to crunch together. A tiny piece of the side of your tongue was severed clean and before you could register what you were doing you had swallowed it. For a moment everything was fireworks and copper and dust, and then your brain cleared out and you realized that you had made it.

Your contraband was to your left, Scarface was a distant (if still voluble) threat, and you were only a quarter mile from an angel in waiting.