Three Twisted Stories: Go Deep, Necessary Women, Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line

by Karin Slaughter

  Charlie tested his cock again. The skin stretched, but it didn’t unplug. He pulled a little harder and felt his balls move. “It’s connected.”

  “No shit.” Deacon lit a cigarette. “Lookit, I don’t want you to worry about that coon who came after you. Salmeri took him out.”

  “What?”

  “The guy who stabbed you. Salmeri blew him away with that shotgun he keeps under the counter. Blasted him right through the door. That’s why you got glass all in your hair. Cut your chin pretty bad, too.”

  Charlie touched his face. There was a bandage covering his chin. The skin felt bruised underneath his fingers.

  “They got no idea who that homeless fucker was. Had a history of mental illness or something. Cops say they seen him around before, but nobody knows his name.”

  “Melvin Finkelmeyer.”

  “Finkelmeyer?” Deacon huffed out some smoke. “You mean the vegetable in the next room?”

  Charlie tried to put the pieces together. Finkelmeyer was a patient next door to him. His doctor looked like Sammy Davis, Jr. The homeless guy who’d stabbed Charlie was dead by Salmeri’s hands. Judy hadn’t thrown him out of Davison’s. She’d tied him down to keep him from touching himself.

  Charlie asked, “Who’s Mabel?”

  “Mabel’s the nurse who works the day shift. Uptight twat. No sense of humor. Hell, Charlie, they said you couldn’t hear anything.”

  Hear anything.

  Charlie strained his ears to listen past the beeping of the monitor in the room. “ ‘Ticket to Ride.’ ”

  “Yeah, that’s the vegetable next door. Been slipping in and out of a coma for years. Docs can’t figure it out, but you ask me it’s ’cause he’s got six screaming brats always up here. His wife keeps playing Karen Carpenter over and over again. Say, have you seen her lately? She’s gettin’ kinda fat.”

  Charlie put his hand to his eyes. His head was pounding. “This is too much.”

  “I know it is, Charlie. You had us scared. That fever wasn’t anything to screw around with. You were rollin’ around, swearin’ up a storm, trying to pull out the tubes. The doc said you woulda had permanent brain damage if they hadn’t gotten your temperature down.”

  Charlie let his hands drop from his face. “I was stabbed.”

  “Right. By a homeless dude. Salmeri shot him before he could stab you again.”

  “I didn’t stab myself.”

  “Why would you stab yourself? Jesus, Charlie, you’re not a pussy.”

  Charlie laughed. It was some kind of fever dream. He was fine. None of that shit had actually happened. No, sir. If there was one thing Charlie Lam was not, it was a pussy.

  Deacon narrowed his eyes. “What’re you laughing about?”

  Charlie wiped his face. He was weeping, he was so relieved. “Where’s my family?”

  “Sadie came by the first night.”

  Their baby sister. “What’d she steal?”

  “Some cash outta your pants. I gave your wallet to Jenny to look after.” He slapped his palm to his chest. “Hand to my heart, Charlie, I didn’t take anything.”

  Charlie doubted that. This wouldn’t be the first time they’d robbed him blind. “I meant where’s my real family.”

  “Oh.” Deacon tried to look hurt. “I been spelling them some at night, let ’em take a shower, grab some sleep. And thank Christ for that. I went for a walk the first night to stretch my legs, and I come back in here and what do I see? Carla in bed with you like she’s taped to your side.”

  Carla. His girlfriend.

  Deacon said, “What was that crazy bitch thinking? Sue or Jenny coulda walked in on her. How do you explain that?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I peeled her off you, told her to get the fuck out.” He winked at Charlie. “Don’t worry. I took care of her. Gave her a twenty to keep her meter running.”

  Charlie looked up at the ceiling. “I was stabbed. By somebody else.”

  “That’s right. Stabbed in the back. You’re lucky the guy didn’t get your kidneys.” He lifted a bag off the bed railing. It was filled with yellow fluid. “Just started running clear this afternoon. You were pissing blood like a motherfucker.”

  “Pissing blood,” Charlie echoed. It was all making sense now. The memories were coming into focus. The fight with the homeless man. The struggle for the knife. Charlie fell to the ground.

  But then he saw the truth of what happened.

  Charlie tried to crawl away. He felt like a bolt of lightning shot into his back. He heard the explosion of Salmeri’s shotgun. Saw the broken glass rain down like a sudden shower. And then the homeless man collapsed on top of him.

  “Charlie,” Salmeri had screamed. “Charlie, stay with me, buddy.”

  Charlie felt the world go wonky. His eyes rolled back in his head. Salmeri forced open his mouth. He pressed his lips to Charlie’s.

  Charlie put his hand to his mouth. What the hell was Salmeri doing putting his mouth on Charlie’s? Jesus Christ, what if Thevis found out?

  Thevis.

  Charlie tried to sit up in bed. The pain was too much. His back was killing him like he’d lain on a bed of nails.

  Deacon guided him back down. “Calm down, Charlie.”

  “You don’t understand. I gotta get to work.” Three days Charlie had been lying in this hospital. Three days while Thevis waited for him to deliver that Cadillac.

  “It’s all right,” Deacon told him. “I took care of the suit in the back of your car.”

  Charlie wasn’t relieved. “You didn’t talk to—”

  “No, Salmeri handled it.” He dropped his cigarette into a Coke can. “Lookit, I can take care of things while you’re gone, all right? Don’t sweat it.”

  “I’m gonna sweat it.” Charlie grabbed the front of Deacon’s shirt and pulled him down to the bed. “You listen to me, little brother. I’m still in charge of that place. I find one fucking thing ain’t where it’s supposed to be, I’ll roast your cock on a spit and serve it up at Sunday school. You hear me?”

  A familiar fear flashed in Deacon’s eyes. “Yeah, Charlie. I hear you.”

  “And you park your car in my fucking spot again, I’ll slit your throat.”

  “Okay, Charlie.” Deacon tried to stand. Charlie slowly let go, making it clear that he was in charge. “I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. Promise.”

  “Damn straight.” Charlie put his hand to his chest. His heartbeat was back to normal. He was sweating like a man again.

  “Hey, the game is on.” Deacon picked up the remote control for the television. The tube popped on. He saw the NBC peacock, then the Fulton County Stadium. “Check out that crowd. The whole place is full.”

  Charlie didn’t give a shit about the crowd. All he wanted was for Aaron to hit the ball tonight so that tomorrow, people would be in the dealership buying cars again. “Turn it off.”

  “Turn it off? Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking around?” Charlie tried to shift in the bed. Between the IV in his arm and the leads going up to the heart monitor, he felt like a fish caught in a net. “Go watch it somewhere else.”

  Deacon’s bottom lip went out the way it always did when he didn’t get his way. His feet shuffled across the floor as he walked out of the room.

  Charlie let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He reached under the sheet again just to make sure everything was connected the way it should be. He followed the IV tube going out of his arm to the clear liquid in the bottle above his head. What the hell kind of shit were they pumping into him? LSD? Peyote?

  He turned the TV back on and put the sound down low. The stadium wasn’t just full; it was packed to the rafters. The camera panned across the Aaron family. Tommie Aaron, Hank’s brother, was a ballplayer, too. The Deacon to Hank’s Charlie.

  Charlie chuckled. Fucking Salmeri kissing him on the lips. That greaseball had it wrong. The world was not going to change because some black guy hi
t a white ball with a brown bat. Charlie Lam was going to be A-O-fucking-K.

  “Mr. Lam?”

  Charlie startled at the nurse who walked into the room. His heart flipped in his chest. His lungs seized. He gripped the railings on the side of the bed.

  It was Jo.

  She said, “The doctor told me to take out your catheter.”

  Charlie was breathing so hard that he couldn’t make words.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Lam. It won’t hurt. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Jo,” he said. “I know you. You—”

  “Tried to buy that Mustang off the floor.” She snapped on a pair of gloves. “Your brother said he could give me a deal, but I don’t trade in that kind of currency.”

  “You’re the blonde?” Charlie hadn’t looked at her face, just her eyes, lips, and tits. Now that he had her right in front of him, it was the voice that jogged his memory. “I remember you.”

  “I bet you do.”

  The sheet flew back. Charlie watched her hands work. She was gentle. There was no pain when she pulled out the catheter. Just a trickle of urine and a twinge in his bladder.

  She said, “You’re the only patient I’ve ever had who tried to fight me during an alcohol rub.”

  “You rubbed me down?”

  “Tried to. You kept telling me no and pushing me away.” She squeezed some ointment onto a long Q-tip, then dabbed it on his penis. “This will keep out any bacteria.”

  Charlie didn’t care about bacteria. He couldn’t understand why in the hell he’d tried to fight off this chick. She was gorgeous, even in the nurse’s getup. Especially in the nurse’s getup.

  He asked, “This is your job?”

  “Yep. Been doing it for five years. Went to school for it and everything.” She tucked the sheet back around his waist. “And I have no plans to give it up, no matter what lucky fella comes along.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, but he wasn’t really listening. The top two buttons of her dress were undone. He could see the edge of her bra when she leaned over to check the monitor and adjust his IV.

  God help him, he could barely move in the bed, but Charlie was getting hard just looking at her. He asked, “You gotta guy, baby?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pretty thing like you? I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.” She crossed her arms as she looked down at him. “Are you comfortable, Mr. Lam?”

  “Not as comfortable as I’d be if you climbed in here beside me.”

  She laughed. “Mr. Lam, remember what I told you at the dealership?”

  Charlie smiled as he shook his head. He couldn’t recall a word she’d said.

  “I’m not a whore. I have morals.”

  “ ’Course you do,” Charlie said, though there was obviously something going on here. A gal that pretty only worked a job like this for one reason. Five years in, she should be up to her tits in doctors.

  Maybe she liked them a bit more rough around the edges. He said, “You’re gorgeous. You know that?”

  “And you’re a little fat. And you’re old enough to be my father. And I think your fever’s about to spike again.”

  Charlie heard maybe every other word. He rubbed his hand up her arm. It was always better when they were a challenge. “Come on, baby. Let’s see if we can loosen those morals.”

  She gave a sigh of playful exasperation. “You didn’t learn a goddamn thing, did you?”

  Charlie let his hand slide to her hip. She didn’t stop him, so he cupped her ass cheek. Jesus, she was tight. He could feel the muscle working under his palm as she leaned over the bed. Charlie looked up at the glorious mounds of her breasts. He opened his mouth, but she pulled back before he could do anything with it.

  She had his IV tube in one hand and a syringe in the other.

  Charlie felt a flicker of panic. “What are you doing?”

  She tapped her thumb against the tip of the plunger. “Oh, you’re listening to me now, aren’t you? Not blocking out the sound of my voice. Not leering at my chest. Lucky me. I’ve got your undivided attention.”

  He stared at the pink liquid in the syringe. “What is that?”

  “It’s the curse, Charlie. It’s what sends you back.”

  His blood ran cold. “What?”

  “You assholes think you’re so fucking tough, but the minute the chips are down, you always, always, always take the easy way out.”

  “What are you—”

  “You think a woman walks around all the time with a knife in her pocket? Some guy pushes her around or makes her feel threatened or tries to rape her and all she has to do is whip out that knife to stop it?” She answered her own question. “No, asshole. She takes whatever the guy forces on her. She takes the pain and the humiliation and then she gets up for work the next morning. Or she goes to school. She takes care of her business. But she can’t look her father in the eye. She can’t tell her friends about it. She can’t explain how she got caught up in the situation or why she was there in the first place or why she didn’t fight more or why she fought too much.” She shook her head. “Sweet Jesus, if only she’d had a handy-dandy knife.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You think a senior-year nursing student has a knife handy when a disgusting, middle-aged slumlord with a comb-over decides he’s gonna take out the rent in pussy?”

  She went quiet so he could answer.

  Charlie didn’t have an answer. He was listening to the Carpenters. “Ticket to Ride.” The vegetable Jew in the next room. “Finkelmeyer.”

  “That asshole. I thought you were the stupid one, Chicken Man. Every time he wakes up, he’s the same jerk he was to begin with. He’s never going to learn.”

  “Learn what?”

  “What? What?” she mocked. “What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?”

  He shook his head so furiously that saliva flew out of his mouth.

  “You say, ‘Why didn’t you listen the first time?’ ” She threw back her head and laughed. “Get it? It’s funny, right? It’s funny because it actually happens. People never learn the first time, or the second time, or on and on and on. They don’t really want to change. Especially the ones who know they need it. Am I right, sweetheart? Honey? Baby? Bitch?”

  “I did change!” Charlie screamed. “Please, you can’t do this to me. Give me a chance to prove I changed!”

  “All right.” Jo seemed open to the idea. “You think you’ve learned so much about women. Answer this question for me: A woman has a knife in her pocket. Some asshole forces her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Tell me, why doesn’t she use the knife?”

  “But I used the—” Charlie stopped talking.

  He hadn’t used the knife on Salmeri. He’d used the knife on himself.

  Why?

  All he had to do was turn the knife the other way—stab Salmeri in the balls instead of slicing the blade into his own stomach. The thought hadn’t even occurred to Charlie. The only way he’d seen out of that situation was to punish himself.

  Jo gave a slow, sad shake of her head. “It’s a puzzle, ain’t it? Treat somebody bad long enough, and guess what they start thinking they are?”

  “I don’t—” Charlie had to stop to swallow. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”

  “Poor little Charlie. I know you don’t know why. That’s the problem.” Jo nodded toward the syringe. “Maybe second time’s the charm.”

  “No!” Charlie couldn’t handle going back. Tears streamed down his face. “Lady, please, you can’t do it.”

  “Tell that to Finkelmeyer. He’s been here for five years.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Charlie was crying for real now. “I’ve got a wife! A daughter!”

  “A greedy girlfriend. A brother who’s a borderline rapist. A baby sister who got caught trying to steal drugs from a cancer patient.” Jo tapped her thumb on the plunger again. “Ready for round two?”

  “Stop!” Charlie tried to sit up, but pain k
nifed into his back. “Please!”

  “You know how to end it.”

  Charlie was sweating. His whole body started to tremble. The plunger was going down.

  Jo said, “That’s it, baby. Just relax into it.”

  His eyelids fluttered. He saw his hands on the Buick’s steering wheel. He saw the ceiling above his hospital bed. He heard the heart monitor. He heard the car wheels thrum against the road. The Carpenters on the radio. “Please,” he whispered. “Please—just tell me what to do.”

  “I’m only telling you because you won’t remember.” Jo’s mouth went at his ear. Her hot breath burned his skin. “It’s easy, Charlie. Just be one of those girls who lets him go deep.”

  Necessary Women

  I was fourteen years old when I watched my mama die. Her pale skin turned pasty as she clutched her throat, blood seeping through her fingers like she was squeezing a sponge instead of trying to hold on to her life. She was barely thirty years old when she passed, but my daddy had put age on her. Streaks of silver shot through her dark hair like lines on a blackboard, and there was a hardness about her eyes that made you look away fast, before you could be drawn into the sadness.

  I try not to think of Mama this way now. When I close my eyes, I think of Saturday nights sitting on the floor in the living room, Mama in the chair behind me, brushing my hair so it would look good for Sunday services. Mama wasn’t particularly religious herself, but we lived in a small border town, smack on the line between Georgia and Alabama, and people would have talked. I’m glad we had nights like this, because now that she is gone, I can think back on it, sometimes even feel the bristles of the brush going through my hair and the soft touch of Mama’s hand on my shoulder. It comforts me.

  Our house was a three-room rectangle made of cement block, which trapped heat like a kiln. Thankfully, pecan trees shaded the roof so most days we didn’t get the full intensity of the sun. In a county that routinely saw hundred-plus temperatures, this made a difference. Come summertime, we would pick the pecans, salt them, and sell them to vacationers on their way to the Florida Panhandle. Sometimes Daddy brought in peanuts, and Mama would boil them. I can still see her standing in front of the cauldron, stirring the peanuts with a long two-by-four, her shins bright red from the open flame beneath the pot.