Scarla

by BC Furtney

  Ding. Out on the gym floor, someone rang the timekeeper’s bell. He thought the place was empty. He grabbed his keys and went to the door, eye-to-eye with Scarla’s 8x10. He opened it and looked out. A man in a suit was standing in the ring, his back turned. Under the hard ring light, it looked like he was about to be beamed-up by the mothership. “We’re closed, man,” H called. The guy didn’t respond. He cut the office lights, headed to the ring. “Hey, you hear me? I said we’re closed.”

  Ray Smith turned. Both his eyes were blackened, swollen, bloodshot. His broken nose was bandaged, nostrils stuffed with cotton. His split lips were stitched shut with absorbable sutures. His hair was perfect. He sized-up Harold Fields in his uniquely queer manner.

  Big H reached the apron, wincing at the damage up close. “Ho. What’s the other guy look like?”

  Smith was deadpan. “He doesn’t have a scratch on him … yet.”

  “So, I guess you wanna learn how to fight. Well, I got some bad news for ya. I’m outta business.”

  Smith cocked his head, staring a hole through Big H. “Are you Harold Fields?”

  “That’s right.”

  Smith just stared.

  “Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you. We might’ve been able to work with you on some things if you’da come by a couple days ago, but today’s our last day. Door’s closed.”

  “Pity. I came straight from the hospital.”

  H’s patience, never his strong suit, wore thin fast. “Yeah, well. Maybe just don’t get in any more fistfights, alright? Best advice I got.” He pounded the canvas with an open palm. “C’mon, get outta there, I’m lockin’ up.”

  Smith disregarded the order. “Mr. Fields, you’re an acquaintance of Scarla Fragran, correct?”

  H paused, wondered if he was talking to a good guy or a bad guy. He was careful with his reply. “Scarla trained here, long time ago.”

  Smith’s brow arched. “Long time ago. Have you spoken with her lately, by any chance?”

  H shook his head. “Nope.”

  Smith smiled. His front teeth were gone.

  14

  * * *

  Facil swung futilely at the side of beef called Pirado, and might’ve had a chance, if not for the fists and feet that blitzed him from all sides. He hit the cell floor and covered up, absorbing blows everywhere they could hit him. Shouts of “Puto!” echoed off the concrete walls. He hoped for a guard, but none appeared. A boot to the temple flipped his channel to static. He went numb. The night had just begun.

  * * * *

  Scarla sat on the toilet, legs open wide, still dripping wet from the shower. She grabbed her prescription bottle, popped another pill, swallowed. She’d found herself really liking—sometimes craving—the feeling the pills gave her. She wiped between her legs, paused. She had a knee-shaking, light-fantastic orgasm just minutes ago, but the feeling was back with a vengeance. Insistent. Her fingers slid to her clit and she closed her eyes.

  * * * *

  Morning came prematurely on the city, a big orange burning sun hanging low over the rooftops just before six. Downtown was quiet. A feral cat slunk across Allums Avenue, pausing to sniff a dead pigeon at the curb. Someone had beaten it to breakfast and chewed the bird’s fatty chest to the bone. A distant rumble scared the cat and it slipped under a parked car’s back tire, drawing his tail close. The noise grew louder and a city garbage truck rounded 2nd, brakes screeeee-ing to a stop alongside a heaping pile of trash that stretched half the block. Flies were buzzing everywhere. Two surly black guys dropped off the back of the truck and started chucking bags into the compactor’s maw. The driver sat texting on his phone, waiting for them to signal finish. And signal they did. One shrieked and the other suddenly bolted, wide-eyed, into the street. The driver lowered his phone, checked the rearviews, stuck his head out the window. “What?” The first worker stood frozen on the yellow line, like he was about to be sick. “What?” the driver repeated. The guy pointed at the trash.

  The other worker suddenly appeared in the passenger window, squeamish. “Man, there’s a dead chick back here.”

  “What?!” the driver exclaimed. His co-worker fell off the door, staggered up the sidewalk, doubled-over and puked. The driver jumped out, circled around back, froze.

  The girl was lying naked on the curb, eyes open, trash bags covering what was left of her legs. She was a teenaged waif with braided hair and a spider tattoo behind her left ear. He noticed the tattoo because her head was severed just beneath it, still attached to her shoulders by the flimsiest glistening red tendons. She was ravaged with bite marks over every inch of her body and her ribcage had been busted open, revealing a gutted shell of a torso. He dialed 911, hands shaking so badly he had to try a couple times before getting it right. He turned away to stop himself from puking, too.

  * * * *

  At the end of the block, Clay Marvins approached Big H’s Fighting Gym and found it odd that the padlocked gate was open. Did H forget to lock it when he closed up? No, H had a mind like a steel trap, forgetting wasn’t his style. Clay tried the door. Locked. If he’d come in early, why lock the door behind him? Clay had been H’s right hand man for over ten years, but it didn’t dissuade him from suspecting he’d be let go every now and then. They all knew the gym was doing worse each month. It was only a matter of time before the big KO. Maybe the day had finally come. He dug his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door, strolled in.

  At first, he thought Big H was just standing ringside, lost in thought. He called out as he crossed the floor, passing the silent heavy bags. “Wake up, ol’ boy! What you doin’ here so early, H?” It wasn’t until he was closer that he saw the jump rope wrapped around his friend’s neck, stretched taut over the top turnbuckle. “No,” he rasped, springing forward to grab H around the waist, vainly trying to hoist his dead weight. “H? Talk to me, H! H?! No, man! No!” But Clay Marvins’ efforts didn’t matter. A black tongue protruded from Big H’s foaming mouth, eyes rolled back, body cold. Harold Fields had been dead for hours. Clay lifted him off the ground with all his might, growling under the strain. “Help!” he screamed to no one. And no one came.

  15

  * * *

  Scarla stood barefoot at the floor-to-ceiling windows of a posh office suite, looking out at downtown’s business district from the 23rd floor. Banking headquarters. Grocery headquarters. Auto headquarters. Federal buildings. All the power players were there, lined up in their respective reflective skyscrapers. Like ducks in a row. She flipped open her lighter and lit a cigarette without asking permission, imagining herself lighting a wick on vanloads of explosives and taking those buildings down.

  Across the spacious, warmly-lit, beige-carpeted room, behind a wide mahogany desk, sat a silver-haired man, fit and tan, in a shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up. He was renowned police psychologist, Marx Crane. He watched as she took a long drag and exhaled, then turned to him. “Mind if I smoke?”

  He shook his head. “Go right ahead.”

  She trailed smoke back to the leather sofa she’d been on, plopped down next to her shoes, held the cigarette in her teeth and reached under her shirt to remove her bra. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get comfortable. Where were we?” she asked, dropping the bra on her shoes and taking another drag.

  Crane ignored the theatrics and spoke coolly, with patience. “We were discussing whether or not you wrestle with any feelings of objectification on the job.”

  She winked. “I wrestle with scarier things than objectification, doctor.” Pause. “You’re really far away, it’s like—” She waved her hand, making an inadvertent smoke ring. “—I feel like I have to project here.”

  He smiled, casually rounded his desk, sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “How’s this?”

  “Better. Feels like we’re in the same room now.”

  “Good.” He eyed her cigarette. “I’m afraid my resolve isn’t what it used to be. Mind if I steal one?”

  She smirked, tossed him the pack. “Sou
nds like you’ve got self-control issues.”

  He smiled, drew a Red and handed the pack back, leaning right into her waiting lighter. She lit him up, watched as he sat back and savored it.

  “We’re here today to talk about you. You can cross examine me next time.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Ooh, I’ll remember that.”

  He took a deep breath, looked at his cigarette. “I should’ve just asked for a hit. I really shouldn’t finish this.”

  “Aw, c’mon. This room’s confidential. My lips are sealed.”

  He eyed her. “Cross your heart?”

  She eyed the bra on the floor. “Racerback.”

  He laughed. They both took long drags. A cloud hung over their heads.

  “Objectification, you say?” She studied the ceiling. “I don’t know that that’s the word. Compromised, maybe.”

  “You feel compromised?”

  She shrugged, looked for an ashtray. “It’s easy to do when you’ve got a strange dick in your mouth every night.”

  Crane’s brow raised. She sauntered to the coffeemaker to grab a styrofoam cup, returned to perch on the sofa like a cat ready to pounce. She flicked ashes into the cup, held it out so he could do the same.

  “I know why I’m out there. I know what I’m doing. Most of the time it feels like I’m looking down at someone else, y’know? But sometimes … especially lately … it’s been a weird kind of turn-on.”

  He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Have you actually had sex on the job?”

  She eyed him, curious. “How much do you know about what I do, Dr. Crane?”

  “Well, I’ve read your file. I’m very familiar with the demands and pitfalls of your line of work. I’ve seen vice workers for years.”

  Silence. She just stared.

  “Vice.” She eyed the folder on his desk. “Is that my file?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She jumped up, snatched it. He stood, extended his hand.

  “Scarla, give that back.”

  Staredown. She flipped it open, started reading. He reached for it and she whipped it behind her back, defiant. “What?”

  Crane was calm, steady. “Put it down, Scarla. There’s nothing you don’t already know.”

  She smirked. “I think there might be some things you don’t know.”

  “Then sit down and tell me about them.”

  Her eyes narrowed, skeptical. “What can you possibly do for me if they haven’t told you the truth to begin with?”

  “That’s why we’re here. They have nothing to do with this, it’s just you and I. If you don’t trust the police file, tell me the truth. I’m listening.”

  She watched him. He held eye contact, unblinking. She raised the file, held her cigarette to its corner. It smoldered. Crane sighed. “Scarla.” Flames sprang up the edge of the pages. He eyed the smoke detector. “Security will come when that goes off.”

  She shrugged. “Shouldn’t smoke in the office.” Fire consumed the file. She held it out, let it burn.

  Crane’s face suddenly dropped. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  She followed his eyes to her arm. It was sliced from wristto-elbow, blood pouring onto the carpet. How’d that happen?

  Crane leaned closer, eyes glaring. “Ich bin der Geber des Todes.”

  “Ich bin der Geber des Todes.” Ray Smith’s battered face hovered inches from her own. Her heart jumped in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he’d just said something, or if he was even real. Her eyes focused, filling in the hospital room around him. He smiled slowly. “If I frightened you … I’m sorry.” Both her arms were bandaged like a mummy from wrist-to-elbow. She was hooked to an IV drip and vitals machine, oxygen tubes in her nostrils. She pulled the IV out of her hand, yanked the oxygen tube and sticky pads off, dragged herself along the safety bars to the foot of the bed. The room spun and she fell off the edge, slamming her cheek on the cold white floor. Smith stepped back. Two masked riot officers rushed in, hooked her arms, hauled her to her feet.

  “No! No!” she screamed, elbowing one in the mouth and hurling the other into the wall. An urgent voice came over the intercom. Code grey, sixth floor. Code grey, sixth floor. Scarla bolted. Smith let her go, looked down. One nurse was out cold, the other slumped semiconscious against the wall. He smiled. They’d have their dance soon.

  * * * *

  The nurse’s station was frozen like deer in headlights. Scarla’s bare feet slapped the floor as she charged past, mooning them in her hospital gown. The intercom sounded again. Code grey, sixth floor, code grey. She saw the elevator doors opening ahead. Two white-clad hospital security guys stepped out, both well over six feet. She slid to a stop, looked right. An elderly woman eating soup in bed. She frowned, looked left. The exit stairwell. Sometimes it’s the little things. The security guys charged her.

  She blew through the door and bounded down the concrete stairs, jumping the last six and hitting the landing wall, wincing as pain shot through her heels. They were fast on her. “Stop before you hurt yourself, ma’am!” She grabbed the handrail and vaulted another ten feet down, stubbing her toes badly and tumbling the remainder of the flight. She landed flat on her stomach, looked up. The guys stopped, one calling out. “Ok, ok, we’re not chasing you! We’re not chasing! Please don’t hurt yourself!” She grimaced, jumped up, took the rest of the stairs at top speed until she reached ground level and ran through the door into the emergency room waiting area. Dull-eyed patrons stared as she made for the exit. The front desk interns sat speechless. A little boy playing with toys on the floor smiled as she streaked him. A cop appeared out of nowhere, blocking the doors. She didn’t even break stride as she buckled him with a thrust-kick to the leg, dropped him with an elbow to the face. “Nice!” yelled a guy sitting nearby with paper towels pressed to a bloodied eye.

  She crossed the driveway and rushed the first car she saw, which happened to be driven by a newly-licensed teenaged girl, with grandma in the passenger seat. The girl carefully backed out of her parking spot, biting her tongue in concentration. The door opened and Scarla’s hand was around her throat before she could scream, but that didn’t stop grandma from wailing like a banshee. “Outta the car,” Scarla calmly instructed, as she unclipped the girl’s seatbelt and tossed her to the ground. She slipped behind the wheel with the car still rolling, hit the brake, reached over grandma to open the passenger door. She looked the old woman in the eyes, unclipping her belt. The screaming stopped. “Get out.” Grandma fumbled out, stunned. Scarla hit the gas. As their car peeled away, the old woman fainted, her granddaughter catching her before she hit the ground.

  * * * *

  She ditched the car at the curb with the keys still in it, drawing stares as she punched in her building’s security code and slipped inside. They’d be looking for her soon enough anyway, though exactly who and for what, she wasn’t sure. She racked her brain to fill-in the blanks, riding the traction elevator up to the top, eyeing her bandages. The last thing she recalled was talking to Crane, burning her file, then … blood, hospital, creepy German guy. What the fuck did he say? The elevator stopped and she threw the gate open. The loft was empty, windows open wide, curtains blowing in the breeze. She followed a trail of blood drops to the bathroom, found the shower drenched in blood, surgical scalpel lying near the drain. Her memory sputtered to life, returning in disjointed flashes.

  She washed down the rest of the pills with a glass of wine, studied herself in the mirror. She got into the shower, adjusted the water. She held the scalpel under the spray, saw her reflection in its blade. She extended her arm, stabbed her wrist, sliced all the way up her forearm and repeated on the other side. Blood spurted the curtain and wall, but she was too high to feel anything. That was the goal—to feel nothing, let it all float away, say goodnight. She sat down and waited to die. How she got from dead-in-the-shower to alive-in-the-hospital was a mystery. She had no idea it was a surp
rise visit from Tommy Delmones, whom she’d never formally met, although he knew her building code and loft number. He’d gone to see her after hearing Crane’s recommendation to pull her off the street for her own safety. Crane the puppet, who thought she was a cop. It was Delmones who interrupted the bid and got her to the hospital for arterial stitches and three bags of blood. Perks of working for The Man.

  She saw the pill bottle on the sink, upended, empty. You took them all? She went to the mirror, stripped the hospital gown, felt along her bicep. She knew how they were tracking her, and if she had any chance of disappearing, it had to come out. She eyed a bottle labeled Bupivacaine, a local anesthetic she’d lifted from Overlook, among other things. She jabbed it with a needle, drew a full syringe, plunged it into her arm, pressed the plunger. It would take effect shortly. She set the syringe aside, tore a new scalpel from its wrapping, cut a small incision in her arm. She felt no pain as she plied the skin with her fingers, feeling inside. Blood spritzed the sink as she dug in. Where was it? Just as she wondered, she grazed a small foreign object, pinched it between slippery fingers, pulled it out—a hermetically-sealed clear plastic device filled with coiled red wire and a computer ID chip, no bigger than a grain of rice. She threw it in the toilet. Track that, assholes. She wrapped the cut with gauze, went to the closet to rummage for an outfit. Blue jeans sans panties, black pullover sans bra, worn Docs sans socks. She went to the bed, lifted her pillow, tucked the .38 in her pants. She went back for the med bottles and syringe, grabbed her keys, jumped in the elevator and watched her place glide out of sight, maybe for the last time. Where to go? The answer was easy. She hustled through the underground parking garage, jumped behind the wheel of her ’72 Mustang Fastback and peeled out, heading for the only safe haven she knew. She didn’t see the arm hanging from the dumpster as she sped by.

  * * * *

  Facil lay flat on the metal bunk of a bright 8x6 protective custody cell, concrete on all sides, steel door with one small shatter-proof window looking at the hallway outside. He’d been extracted from his previous cell unconscious, following a nearly two-minute beating. His face was battered, one eye swollen shut, and he was pretty sure a rib or three were broken. He couldn’t sleep or take a deep breath, had no idea what time it was, or how long they’d hold him. He wondered about blood filling his lungs, as he read the various epithets carved into the walls. How the other half lives.