“You don’t gotta be a bitch about it.”
“Don’t call me a bitch.”
“Oh, the lady’s sensitive.” Deacon put his feet up on Charlie’s desk. The wood was already scuffed where he’d done this a thousand times before. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you hate me.”
Charlie did hate him. He knew this now. He genuinely despised his brother. He didn’t want him around. He didn’t want to hear his voice or see his stupid grin or watch the way he chased all the women around the dealership like they were prime meat.
But what would that say about Charlie—that he didn’t love his own brother? That he threw him out onto the street? People would think he was a monster.
“You in there, buddy?”
Charlie cleared his throat. He couldn’t speak his mind, but he had to say something. “I wish you wouldn’t treat people the way you do.”
“How do I treat them?” Deacon pushed himself up from the chair. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Charlie felt the words start to flow before he could stop them. “How about how you don’t treat me with respect?”
“Don’t treat—”
“You parked in my space last week.”
“And?” Deacon shrugged, like he hadn’t been told a thousand times not to park in Charlie’s space. Like the fucking space didn’t have a sign on it that said Charlie’s name.
“You took out my car two months ago. I didn’t give you permission. You left cigarettes overflowing in the ashtray. Who do you think had to clean that out?”
“I told you I’d do it.”
“When?” Charlie demanded. “You said you’d do it, but three days went by and I had to do it myself.”
“Get a fucking porter.” Deacon threw his hands into the air. “What the fuck are you paying them for?”
“That’s not the point and you know it. You made the mess. You should clean it up.”
“Oh, fuck that, Charlie. It’s not about the mess.”
“Of course it’s about the mess. I had to clean it up. Do you know how many things I could’ve been doing instead of cleaning up after you? Things that make money. Things that keep this business open. Things that keep your paycheck rolling in.”
“Oh, that’s what this is about. You pay me, so you own me.”
Charlie shook his head. Deacon always managed to turn it back around.
“What else, brother? Bring it on. You obviously got a list somewhere of all the horrible shit I’ve done to you. Come on. Whip it out.”
Charlie kept shaking his head. He should whip it out. Unplug his cock and balls and beat his brother in the head until blood came out of his ears.
Deacon said, “I can’t believe you got your panties in a wad over a fucking hat I put on a chicken.”
It seemed stupid when he said it, but Charlie countered, “It’s not the chicken, Deacon. Or the hat. It’s that I told you not to and you keep doing it. Why? Why do you keep doing it when you know that I don’t want you to?”
“You’re just crazy-talking now.”
“Crazy?” Charlie asked. “You know what’s crazy? That I work my ass to the bone and you, and every worthless piece of shit in our family, expect me to keep doing it while you sit around smoking dope and fucking around and chasing tail and going through money like it’s water. What about me, Deacon? When am I allowed to have fun? When in my fucking life am I ever going to be able to just sit back and let one of you useless, blood-sucking jackasses take care of me?”
Deacon said nothing. They both listened to the echo of Charlie’s voice. He hadn’t spoken these words to his brother. He’d screeched them like a jazz trombone.
“Fuck this. And fuck you.” Deacon slapped the pencil cup off Charlie’s desk. Projectiles flew across the room. He slammed the door so hard the framed photographs banged against the wall.
Charlie took a deep breath. He held it to the count of ten before letting it go. The office felt stifling. Deacon had sucked all of the energy out of the room. Charlie couldn’t be here anymore.
Charlie stood up and collected all the pens off the floor. He arranged them back in the cup. He walked out of his office. He crossed the showroom floor.
Deacon was standing by the chicken. The Braves hat was back on its head.
Charlie rolled his eyes as he walked out the door.
Chapter Eight
Charlie drove through downtown Atlanta. The city had changed so much since the first time he’d stepped foot on the streets. All the roads were paved. There were streetlights. Tall buildings reached up to the sky. As Charlie drove, all the memories came flooding back: the first time he’d ever ridden up in an elevator was in that building; the first time he’d ever had sex with a woman was in that basement; the first time he’d ever sold anything was in that back alley.
Who would’ve thought that twenty years later, he’d be driving a convertible down the streets with money in his pocket and credit cards in his wallet that had Charlie’s actual name on them?
He wiped his eyes. He was crying again. This was getting ridiculous. He reached down between his legs to make sure his cock was still plugged in.
Did it make a difference? Charlie didn’t know. He had to think something was keeping him from turning into an all-out woman. Or maybe it just took time. He was already crying at the drop of a hat. He was talking to Darla like he was her girlfriend instead of her boss. And he was letting Deacon get to him when his worthless brother should be the last thing on his mind.
Why hadn’t Charlie just beaten the shit out of him? That’s what he used to do. It was a Lam family tradition. The only way to shut up any of them was with a fist.
Charlie turned on the radio.
“Crap,” he whispered. Karen Carpenter. How many times could they play that chick? More importantly, how much more money did the Beatles need? They’d be living off their royalties forever.
Charlie punched the AM button. The Braves game. Tomorrow night was the night. Hank Aaron was on the precipice of making history. Salmeri was right about one thing. It wasn’t just about baseball. It was about the world changing.
“Yeah, this is George from Techwood,” a caller said.
Techwood. That was over by Colored Town. Charlie knew what the man was going to say before the words came out of his mouth.
“I think it’s wonderful news that a brother’s gonna make this historic home run. Gives my kids hope that there’s something more in the future.”
Charlie rested his finger on the dial, but he didn’t turn off the radio.
The DJ said, “Caller number two from Ansley Park, what do you have to say?”
Ansley Park. That was a toss-up. The caller would be white, but there were a handful of liberals over there. Charlie could’ve pretty much painted a map of the city blocking out who was happy for Aaron and who wanted to kill him. His own neighborhood was firmly in the kill zone, but what did he care? Live and let live.
“Yes,” the white caller said. “I’ve long been a baseball fan. I remember as a child when my father took me to Spiller Field.…”
Charlie smiled. One of the first baseball games Charlie had ever seen was at Spiller Field. The Atlanta Crackers used to play there. He was eighteen years old and had just found a job that would put a roof over his head. He’d sat in the nosebleed section and eaten so many bags of boiled peanuts that he’d made himself sick.
“Jesus!” He jerked the wheel hard, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a homeless man. Charlie slammed on the brakes. He looked in his rearview mirror, checked his side mirror.
There was no homeless man.
Charlie got out of the car. He stood in the middle of the street. This was the same place he’d first seen Finkelmeyer. The black skid marks were still burned into the asphalt where Charlie had hit the brakes. The man’s shopping cart was still overturned on the sidewalk. Charlie walked toward it. The cart had been picked clean. All that was
left was a piece of white cardboard stuck to the bottom of the wire rack. The edges were curled, like it had been rained on, then dried out, many times over.
Charlie used the toe of his shoe to unfold the cardboard. The poster fell open. It was an Alka-Seltzer ad from last Christmas. Sammy Davis, Jr., was holding a red stocking with white fur around the top. He was laughing. The words beside him read, “Falalalala … lalala … Ahhh!”
“Whatchu doin’, bitch?”
Charlie looked up. There were two men walking toward him. He saw his car in the distance. The door was still open. He’d left the keys in the ignition.
“I asked you a question, mama.”
Charlie took a step back. His heart was in his throat. He scanned the buildings. Checked the street. They were alone. Just him and two black men who looked like they had trouble on their minds.
“Comin’ into our neighborhood,” one of them said. “Whatchu want here, bitch?”
Charlie said, “I just … I was …”
The other man hissed to shut him up. He had gold front teeth. They both wore black leather jackets, dark sunglasses, and black berets.
“I’m sorry.” Charlie did the calculations, wondering if he could run past them and get to the car. He wasn’t a fast runner. The extra weight wasn’t helping him. “Gentlemen, please, I don’t want trouble.”
“Then you in the wrong street.”
“Please,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry. I just stopped here to—” He couldn’t explain it. What could he say, that he’d hit a homeless man who wasn’t really black and ended up watching him die, only to find out later that he’d passed on some kind of curse that made Charlie’s dick unplug like a table lamp?
Charlie laughed. What were they going to do to him? His dick unplugged like a table lamp. That would freak them out enough to give him time to run for his life.
“You want this?” Charlie unzipped his pants. “Come and get it.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment. They looked at Charlie. They looked at each other.
And then they laughed.
The gold-toothed man said, “Shee-it, mama, you think we can’t do no better than you? Get your skinny honky ass outta here.”
“Get on out,” his companion said.
Charlie didn’t have to be told twice. He ran toward his car. He jumped in behind the wheel. He didn’t let himself smile until he was a few blocks from the dry cleaner’s.
They had called him skinny.
Mr. Salmeri was standing behind the counter when Charlie walked in. “Mr. Lam.”
Charlie nodded. He’d seen the squad car in the parking lot. Part of him had wanted to turn around. The other part had told himself that he was being silly. He couldn’t run every time he saw a woman in uniform. Nothing had really happened between him and Jo, anyway. It wasn’t like she’d raped Charlie. She’d shoved her breasts in his face. She’d touched him in places he didn’t want her to touch him.
So what?
Looking back, he’d probably started the whole thing anyway. Charlie had been drinking. He was worked up because of the fight with his girlfriend. And being completely honest, he’d found Jo attractive in a dirty kind of way. He’d gotten a little excited thinking about her kissing her friend. It had felt a bit dangerous when she’d commented on the way his suit hugged his shoulders. Obviously, Jo had picked up on his attraction. Charlie couldn’t blame her for assuming he wanted more.
Still, he was relieved when the toilet flushed and the cop who came out wasn’t Jo, but the woman from the other day. The pretty one who would look prettier if she wore something other than a man’s uniform.
“Thank you, Mr. Salmeri.” She saw Charlie and stopped fiddling with her belt. “Mr. Lam.”
He read her name tag. “Officer Lawson.”
She stared at him. Charlie got the message. He ran over and opened the door for her. She took her time. Charlie pretended he didn’t remember what had happened the last time he’d stood at this door. The glint of the blade arcing through the air. The smell of blood.
This is how you end it.
“Nice gal,” Charlie told Salmeri. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “I heard you had a suit for me?”
Salmeri finished filling in the boxes on his crossword puzzle. He walked over to the racks and pressed the button that spun the clothes around. “You’re looking good, Charlie.”
Charlie pressed his hand to his stomach. He’d skipped breakfast this morning. It was idiotic to think he’d lost weight, but maybe. “Are you going to the game tomorrow night?”
Salmeri tossed him a glance over his shoulder. “No. You?”
Charlie didn’t know why he felt compelled to make small talk. “I’ll probably watch it on TV.”
“Paper says it’s gonna be on the national channel.”
“I heard.” Charlie looked down at his fingernails. They were finally clean. He couldn’t believe a few days ago he’d stood here waiting for a suit, not knowing that there was a crazy man out there waiting to stab him.
“You wanna go with me?” Salmeri was looking at him. “To the game?”
Charlie felt his cheeks turn red, but he had no idea why. “I was … I mean, my wife was … I mean, you know I’m married, right?”
Salmeri shrugged as he walked toward Charlie. “Doesn’t have to be a problem if you don’t want it to.”
Charlie put his hand on the door, easy, like he was just resting it there.
“You know, Charlie, I could give you a lot more money than you’re making with Thevis.”
Charlie laughed. He pressed against the door. It was locked. He twisted the thumb latch. Nothing happened.
“Button under the counter,” Salmeri explained. He was standing close enough so that Charlie could smell his aftershave. He was taller than Charlie thought. When he stepped forward, his chest hair tickled Charlie’s chin. He whispered in Charlie’s ear, “You ever give a blow job?”
Charlie felt his throat start to close.
“Pretty thing like you.” Salmeri stroked the hair behind Charlie’s ear.
“Please,” Charlie said. “Please don’t do this.”
“Do what, darlin’?” Salmeri wrapped his arm around Charlie’s waist. He pulled him closer. Charlie could feel the man’s stiff cock rub against him. “You got such a nice mouth. All I been thinking about since you walked through that door is how good it’d feel to cup your head in my hands and watch you suck me.”
“No,” Charlie whispered. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be happening.
“Come on, sweetheart. You’ve been coming in here for months. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“No,” Charlie repeated. “I didn’t mean to—”
Salmeri pressed his mouth against Charlie’s. He tasted like Dentyne and gin. Charlie gripped Salmeri’s arms, trying to push him away. The guy was solid muscle. Charlie couldn’t move. He was trapped against the door. The glass was almost bowing from the pressure.
“I can’t,” he said. “Mr. Salmeri, I’m begging you.”
Salmeri grabbed Charlie’s shoulders and pushed him down. The man was so strong. There was nothing Charlie could do but kneel on the floor. Salmeri gripped Charlie’s jaw, forcing it to open.
Charlie was screaming in his head, but the sound couldn’t leave his throat. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t do this.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” Salmeri’s fingers pressed into his cheeks. Charlie’s jaw was going to break if he didn’t open his mouth. “Nice and easy,” Salmeri said. “Relax your throat.”
Charlie squeezed his eyes closed. He couldn’t watch it happen. He couldn’t be here. He had to end this.
This is how you end it.
Charlie shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. The knife was still there. He didn’t let himself think about it. He pulled out the blade. He held it a few inches away from his belly, and then shoved it in as deep as it would go.
Chapter Nine
Char
lie opened his eyes. He gasped. Salmeri was still hovering over him. He raised his arms to fight him off. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough.
“Mr. Lam,” a man said. “Mr. Lam, you’re all right.”
Charlie stopped fighting. Slowly, he lowered his arms. Salmeri was gone. Charlie was in a hospital room, lying in a hospital bed. Deacon was on one side of him. Sammy Davis, Jr., was on the other.
“You’re in Grady Hospital,” Sammy Davis, Jr., said.
Charlie stared openly at the man. “You look like—”
“Yes, I know. Skinny black man in glasses. We all look alike.” He popped a cigarette into his mouth and flicked his lighter. “Mr. Lam, do you know why you’re in the hospital?”
Charlie heard the heart monitor over his head beeping like a warning bell. He didn’t want Deacon to know he’d stabbed himself. His brother would never understand how terrified he’d been. All he would concentrate on was that Charlie had been on his knees ready to do whatever Salmeri told him to do.
Charlie asked the doctor, “Am I going to be all right?”
He blew smoke toward the wall. “Your renal artery was nicked. We managed to repair the damage in the operating theater. You subsequently developed an infection.”
“An infection?”
“Your fever spiked. We were able to get it under control with alcohol rubs and antibiotics. I’m not going to lie. The last two nights have been touch-and-go.”
“Two nights?” Charlie had been here two nights?
“And three days.” The doctor tapped some ash into his hand. “Barring another fever, you should be ready to go home by the end of the week.” He turned to leave. “I’ll get the nurse to take out the catheter now that you’re awake.”
Charlie felt his eyes go wide. Catheter? He reached down and touched his penis. It felt stiff and flaccid at the same time. He pulled at it—gently at first, then harder. “It didn’t come off.”
“Jesus,” Deacon groaned. “Give it a break, Charlie. You want Judy to restrain you again?”
“Judy?”
“The day nurse. She already had to tie you down once so you didn’t tug yourself raw.”
Three Twisted Stories: Go Deep, Necessary Women, Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line Page 7