Scavenger Hunt

by Michaelbrent Collings

  The lucky ones would end up in porno. Maybe a few would even break free of the prisons created in their minds long enough to kill themselves.

  That was the lucky ones.

  The unlucky ones would be sold for more personal encounters. Some would end up on the street, discarded when their looks or their willingness dried up and their money-making potential disappeared along with them. Others… unmarked graves, bodies dumped off boats a few miles off the coast.

  He looked at the girl. At the face of diversification. And he was back on the cliff’s edge again. Staring into darkness, understanding for the first time that that darkness was staring back at him.

  At the thought, the girl moved. She sighed, and her eyes opened, and Big Wise had a moment of sheerest horror when it felt like she was looking at him, into him, into his soul. But her eyes were glazed, her pupils almost nonexistent in the blue field of her irises.

  She closed her eyes. She moaned a bit.

  Diversification.

  Big Wise picked her up. She was light in his arms. How young was she? How young could people want them to be?

  He closed his own eyes for a moment. Then opened them and looked at whitey and said, “You got something to carry her in?” The man looked surprised. That look drove a bit of anger into Big Wise’s brain. He was glad. Better that than the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him.

  On a cliff. But not jumping. No, I’m being pushed. Falling in.

  “Did I stutter, asshole?” he asked. “Or you want me to just carry this little girl out in my arms so the whole world sees?”

  Whitey blanched. He left for a moment, and when he came back Big Wise almost wished he hadn’t said anything. The old dude was trundling a bag – a piece of luggage, for shit’s sake! The kind of thing you’d see at an airport or on a bus, if the person taking the trip had blown all their money on the ticket and had little left over for a suitcase. Ratty, soft sides that looked old and pretty beat-up. But it had two wheels on the bottom, and a handle that extended out of the top.

  “Someone left this behind a while ago. I kept forgetting to get it back to her or throw it away.” The white dude smirked like he knew a funny joke – but one he’d never tell to someone like Big Wise – and added, “Glad I did.”

  He laid the bag on its side. Unzipped it to show the dark space inside. He gestured. “She should fit in here just fine.”

  Big Wise hesitated.

  He thought about the money he had. The nice shoes and nice clothes and bling. The car he was saving up for. His mom was gone – died last year – so she wouldn’t care, but….

  For some reason, that last actually made him hesitate. What would mom think? She’d been fine with him in the 52s – proud, too, that he’d risen so far and so fast.

  But would she stand for this?

  He saw Two-Teeth, handing him a joint. Saw the big man laughing, and saw the lack of laughter in his eyes. “Big Wise,” said the man in his head.

  Then he heard one more voice. His dad. Zeke “Face” Washington saying, “Gotta live the dream, boy.”

  Big Wise put the girl in the bag. She was young –

  (so young so young nah man don’t think of that don’t think of nothing just do what you gotta do live the dream live the DREAM)

  – and small. Big Wise folded her in on herself, crossed her arms and legs and then tucked it all together into something that looked like the pictures of fetuses he saw in eighth grade health class on one of the rare days he actually showed up.

  He zipped her in.

  He trundled her out of the building.

  He realized when he was out that he had no idea where to go. He just started walking, trying to ignore how the suitcase bumped over each rut in the worn sidewalk. Trying to think of anything but what it held.

  The darkness stared into him. Then it wasn’t just looking at him, it was leaking into him. And then it was him. Jumped over the cliff’s edge, pushed off it – it didn’t make no difference. Only thing that mattered was that for the first time in his life he couldn’t see anything of what waited ahead, or even what he himself was.

  7

  Two-Teeth must have had people watching for him, because a black van pulled up beside Big Wise before he made it a block away from the place where the girl had been sleeping.

  He jerked as the van pulled up beside him, so lost in the darkness that he hadn’t heard the van approach. Hadn’t even heard the door slide open. But he did hear the scratchy voice that said, “Put it in here.”

  There was no question what the dude was talking about.

  It. Not her. It.

  Big Wise looked at the dude who’d spoken, surprised to see a brown face looking at him. Not a brother, certainly not a 52. This was a Mexican dude. Tats on face and arms, but they didn’t look like any gang tags that Big Wise had ever seen. He didn’t know what they looked like, and he didn’t care.

  Diversification. Two-Teeth’s got new partners.

  Big Wise thought about refusing. But saw, too, that the Mexican was packing: a pair of shoulder holsters worn over his white t-shirt, the dark butts of two handguns sticking out. Just like he saw the driver – not a Mexican, but a white dude – staring back at him with eyes so dead that Big Wise figured the dude could give crazy lessons even to someone like Two-Teeth.

  He held out the handle. Waited. The Mexican didn’t move. “Inside the van, pendejo.”

  For a second Big Wise balked, thinking the guy wanted him to get in the van. No way he was going to do that. Turned out there were things Big Wise wouldn’t do, after all, and he knew he would die rather than get into the vehicle with the tattooed man and the dead-eyed man wearing a live man’s skin. “Come on, Zonker,” said the man.

  “Shut up, Mako,” said the Mexican before turning to Big Wise and grabbing at him – only no, that was wrong. He was grabbing the handle of the bag. The man wrested the cheap metal out of Big Wise’s hands, then yanked the suitcase up into the van. It banged against the lip of the cargo area as he wrestled it in, and Big Wise nearly groaned.

  Then the side door of the van slid shut. The van disappeared. Nothing was left. The girl was gone, and Big Wise stood alone in darkness.

  Two-Teeth paid him. Two-Teeth was good to him; he always reminded Big Wise of that fact when handing over clothes or dope or cold, hard cash. “Two-Teeth takes care of his bruthahs,” he said every time. “I got your back, Big Wise.”

  He said it now, handing over a fistful of cash. It was a lot – more than Big Wise had ever gotten as “thanks” for any of the jobs he did for Two-Teeth. He shoved it in his pocket without counting it. Two-Teeth smiled and clapped Big Wise on the shoulder. “Good job tonight. We on the move, boy. On the move.” He nodded at Big Wise’s pocket, which bulged with the wad of cash. “Go find yourself a party. Get laid. Take a personal day.” He winked. “On the move.”

  The personal day lasted about twelve hours. Then Big Wise got a call. Two-Teeth was on the other line – himself, not one of the underlings he got to deliver most messages. “Bro, gotta deal with something.”

  “What is it?” asked Solomon.

  Solomon? Wasn’t I something else? Wasn’t I Big Wise?

  “Gotta feed a pig.”

  “Which one?”

  “The albino.”

  Big Wise – Solomon? – sighed and kneaded his forehead. He hadn’t done any drugs last night, but he’d downed enough booze to float a ship in. He hoped that would drive away thoughts of that little blue-eyed girl in the suitcase, and what would happen to her in the coming days and weeks and years.

  It didn’t, but at least now he had a big mother of a hangover to divert his thoughts from the girl’s future.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Now good for you?” asked Two-Teeth. But it wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t wait for an answer before adding, “Be at 6th Street in fifteen.”

  Big Wise went. He waited on the corner – it was a spot he often waited, when Two-Teeth had something for h
im to do. Another layer of care, because Two-Teeth almost never phoned in his instructions – they always came in person, usually delivered through someone else.

  Solomon had always admired this. It was part of what made Two-Teeth such a great leader, and such legit street royalty. But suddenly he realized another thing: it also meant that anything Solomon or any of the other lower-ranking dudes did, they’d be doing on their own. Solomon and the others would know who gave them the orders, of course, but would they be able to prove it? No. And would anyone other than the homie who got pinched dare to name Two-Teeth? Not a chance. In fact, now Solomon thought of it he remembered numerous times when Two-Teeth sidled up to him at the crib, then said nonchalantly, “Anyone asks, I was with you last night, all night.”

  And Solomon had always nodded. Always agreed. And never thought once about the why. He assumed it was because Two-Teeth had been involved in something deep and dark. But now he wondered: had it been because someone else was up to something – at Two-Teeth’s request – and now the man with the easy smile was preparing to deny any knowledge or blame?

  A day ago, Solomon wouldn’t have believed that Two-Teeth would do such a thing. Would leave a homie out to dry. But then, would someone who had sold a little girl into prostitution think twice of just leaving a man – even a “brother” – out in the cold?

  Nah. Solomon didn’t think so.

  So every passing moment that he waited got worse. Every second on the street he felt more exposed.

  A car pulled up. SFD rolled down his window and said, “Big Wise.”

  “What?” he managed.

  SFD handed a bundle to him. It was wrapped in tin foil and could have been a sandwich or some leftovers or anything at all. But it wasn’t. It was money. Probably a lot. Two-Teeth knew when Pattinson got paid, and today wasn’t that day. Which meant that the bent cop had either performed extra services for the Five-Deuce, or he had gotten wind of something, and was shaking down the boss for extra hush money.

  “Pattinson’s on a stakeout,” SFD said. “Go find him and give him this.”

  “Where?”

  SFD told him, then rolled up his window and left a trail of rubber a quarter-mile long as he peeled away from the curb.

  Solomon stared blankly at the money. A lot of money.

  Enough to buy a girl? No. But enough to buy silence if Pattinson got wind of last night’s goings-on? Probably.

  He didn’t think about what he was doing next. He just did it. He opened the package, staring with dark, haunted eyes at the two thick stacks of bills. Twenty-large. More than Solomon got for any job, that was sure. White man’s world, even when the world was a dark one.

  He moved to an alley and, after checking carefully to see if anyone was watching, he teased most of the bills from the centers of each wrapped bundle. He left a few behind, and those became the tops and bottoms of the new bundles, made of ones and fives and a few tens from the stash of cash Solomon always carried.

  He looked at the results. The bills were a little loose, the bands not as tight as they usually were. And certainly if Pattinson dug into the bills and took more than a cursory glance at them, Solomon was screwed.

  But if he was lucky…

  He didn’t deserve luck, he knew that. But he hoped for it. Even prayed a little, and that was a first. God didn’t answer, but neither did a lightning bolt come from the heavens to strike Solomon down, which he figured was a good sign and a good start.

  So he walked down the street, heading toward Pattinson and toward what he hoped would be the first step to freedom.

  8

  The closer he got to where Pattinson was waiting, the more nervous he became. Pattinson was a suspicious type. Dirty, and dirty dudes – especially dirty white dudes – always counted the money that was handed to them. Solomon thought about just taking all the money and high-tailing it, but worried that Two-Teeth would have someone watching. If that was the case, then he took a single step outta line he’d be in trouble. Taking a little side trip to an alley wouldn’t be an issue – any watchers would figure he was taking a piss, or puking up whatever alcohol remained in his system. But moving away from a straight-line path between him and Pattinson would be noticed. A call would be made. And that would be it for Solomon.

  He knew. Because he’d done it to others. Hadn’t thought twice. Hadn’t thought twice about a lot of things. But now he was thinking twice. Three times, even four. Thinking over and over, replaying the things he’d done, and coming up with a picture that had no future at all, other than eventually being dropped in a cop’s lap when it became convenient, or simply dropped in a hole if he became powerful enough that Two-Teeth felt threatened.

  That was something he’d done, too.

  But that was then. Now, he had to figure out a way to keep a suspicious, dirty, very white guy from counting the cash that Solomon would give him. Once Pattinson had pocketed it, then Solomon knew that any watchers would peel off. Their job would be done, and Solomon would be of less interest than their drugs, or their next job, or whatever woman they were seeing.

  So if Pattinson did take the money – if Solomon could figure a way to get the suspicious bastard to put it away without counting it – Solomon would have a little time. Maybe even a few hours. Enough?

  Maybe.

  So many maybes.

  And the closer he got, the more he knew in his gut that Pattinson would count, would know, and that would be the end of Solomon Black.

  He saw Pattinson’s car.

  The cop was sitting low in his seat, smoking a cigarette and splitting his attention between a nearby house and the street. Maybe because he was looking for crime, but more likely because he was performing guard duty for Two-Teeth. The house he was “staking out” was a crackhouse that Two-Teeth ran, and so Solomon probably was supposed to watch the area to make sure that anyone inside had plenty of warning should a cop show up who wasn’t in the pocket of the 52s.

  Watching him, Solomon realized what he could do. And it wouldn’t even be hard, or unbelievable to anyone watching.

  Clutching at his stomach, he ran suddenly to the side of a building. He’d wanted to puke all morning, but was good at forcing that kind of thing down. Now, though, he let it come. And come it did, in a huge flood of Jiffy Super Chunk, all over the side of a building. He heaved again, making sure to let himself be as loud as possible, knowing that Pattinson would see it. Would hear it. And would know that everyone else in the area had seen and heard as well.

  Solomon straightened and staggered toward the car, a dumpy, puke-green thing that no self-respecting brother –

  (Don’t think like that, you ain’t gonna be a brother to no one if this goes right, and if it goes wrong you ain’t gonna be nothing at all.)

  – would be caught dead in. As he approached, he turned away as though to puke a few more times, gagged, but continued on.

  At last he reached at the car. He leaned on the trunk, willing himself to puke, knowing that Pattinson’s eyes had to be on him. But he’d emptied his guts on the wall before, and now managed only a few heaves. Not good enough, he knew. He had to –

  He heard the sound of the car door opening. The cheap shocks bounced as Pattinson got out of the car. “What the hell are you –”

  As he spoke, Solomon turned to face him. He saw the disgust, the anger, and even the fear in the cop’s eyes. He knew then that this was about the girl. Something had happened, something had gone wrong, and the money that Two-Teeth had sent was to make sure that Pattinson stayed quiet about it, or maybe even to insure that the cop buried any further investigation into what had been done.

  That thought brought up the next round. Solomon’s mouth opened so wide it hurt, and if what had happened before was a flood, this was an ocean emptying. The emotions on Pattinson’s face all turned to disgust as he danced back, but it was too late. Vomit bounced off the cracked blacktop of the road, and more of it spattered Pattinson’s shoes and pantslegs.

  Pattinson sc
reamed wordlessly, then glared at Solomon as he said, “Sorry,” and added the last touch: wiping his dripping mouth with the back of his hand, and not-accidentally getting some of what was there all over the tinfoil bundle that he still held.

  He looked at the package, as though just now remembering it was there. “Shit, man,” he mumbled. “Sorry.” He wiped it (poorly) on his shirt, then held it out to Pattinson.

  “Two-Teeth –”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” The cop looked genuinely conflicted, and for a moment Solomon worried he’d refuse to take the foil-wrapped money at all. That would be a problem.

  But the man’s greed overwhelmed his disgust. He took the package between a thumb and forefinger, looking at it the way he might stare at a cockroach that had crawled outta his asshole. He twitched, and Solomon could practically see the guy trying to decide if he should open it and count the money or not.

  Solomon hitched. Gagged again.

  “Jesus Christ, man. Get out of here.”

  Pattinson waved him away, tossing the package through the still-open door of his car, into the footspace on the passenger’s side. Then he said the most wonderful words Solomon had ever heard: “I find any puke on the actual money when I get home and I’m going to take it out of your hide.”

  Solomon nodded. Gagged once more for good measure, then staggered away. He felt Pattinson’s eyes on him until he turned the corner.

  Once out of the cop’s sight, he kept up his lurching walk for several blocks, turning aside to dry heave every fifty or sixty feet. He got a few glares from people on the street, but not many. He was known in this area. No one would say shit to Big Wise.

  But to Solomon Black?