Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3)

by Greg Barth

  My arms and legs shook, my skin itched, and I kept trying to vomit even though my stomach was empty. My heart rate was uneven.

  The worst side effect was, with my opiate receptors turned off, there was no buffer left to pain. Every part of me hurt. My side burned, my head throbbed. Parts of me I didn’t know I had screamed out in pain.

  Headlights appeared from the corner of the building. The Explorer pulled to a stop beside me. Enola got out and picked up my cane from the parking lot. She brought it over to me.

  “Let’s get you up,” she said.

  She pulled, I pushed, and together we somehow managed to get me upright. I held onto her shoulder and we hobbled over to the truck.

  It was difficult to get me up into the passenger seat, but we managed.

  As we pulled away, Enola gave one last look at the burning club through the rearview mirror. She didn’t shed a tear, but I knew everything she had was inside, burning. Her nice, classy apartment. Her place of business. Her means of supporting herself. It was all gone.

  I took her hand and squeezed it.

  “It’s alright,” she said. “They didn’t get us.”

  “They came damned close. For some reason they tried to make it look like some freak murder suicide.”

  “Who did this?” she said.

  “Bob Crowe. Him and some guy from Mozingo’s outfit. You know that tall, nasty looking fucker? Deke.”

  Enola shook her head. “Ragus...”

  The advantage of being way out in the sticks was nobody seemed to notice the fire. The disadvantage was, we had this long, country road to drive down before getting to a highway. All along that dark drive, I was paranoid that the police would come our way any second.

  It didn’t happen.

  We made it to the main road. She turned to take us closer to the city. I looked out the side window, saw the orange glow of the flames in the distance.

  Enola picked up speed on the highway. We didn’t see any other traffic for several miles.

  “Okay, so what do you think we should do now?” Enola said.

  I looked her over. She was wearing a dark t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I was dressed similarly, but we had no changes of clothing. “We need supplies, and a place to hole up so we can think. I have to get over this...shit I’m going through. Let my chemistry settle. We need time to figure out our next steps.”

  “What kind of supplies?”

  “Cigarettes for one,” I said.

  She handed me a pack of Virginia Slims. I took one. My hand shook, but I got the butt between my lips. I fumbled with the Explorer’s cigarette lighter. After a couple of misses, I managed to hold the cherry-red coil against the tip of the cigarette until I could draw smoke.

  “Bourbon. Fresh underwear. Something to eat.”

  “You’ve taken up eating?” she said.

  “It’s something I do on occasion.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  I took a long draw on the cigarette. The nicotine helped me feel better. “Aspirin. A heating pad.”

  “Okay, so it sounds like I’m heading to an overnight drug store.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “We need a box of shotgun shells.”

  PART FOUR

  LADIES NIGHT

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sloane

  SLOANE SAT ON the bed, legs folded under her Indian style, smoking a cigarette and reading a science fiction novel. A glass of wine was on the table next to her.

  She heard footsteps in the hallway outside. She looked up from her book. A second later the door opened and Deke stepped inside.

  He unclipped his pistol holster from the small of his back as he crossed the room. He placed the gun next to the glass of wine on the nightstand. He leaned in and kissed Sloane on the lips.

  “Ew,” she said.

  “What? Too slobbery?”

  “No. You smell like gas. Like smoke. What have you been doing?” She marked her place in the book and put it to the side.

  Deke stood. “It’s over,” he said.

  “What? What’s over? You mean—”

  “I mean it’s over. It’s done. We’ve taken this territory.” He went over to the mini-fridge and opened the bottle of scotch that sat on top of it. He poured some into a glass.

  “Wow. I thought maybe you guys were taking some kind of break or something.”

  “Mozingo hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “On a down cycle…” Sloane said.

  Deke nodded. “I guess. Anyway, we got it done without him.”

  “Wait a minute. What about—”

  “What about your good friend Amanda? I took care of that too, just like I told you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Trust me, honey, there wasn’t no other way.”

  “Did you…”

  “I made it as humane as possible. It was…fitting. I almost think she enjoyed it.”

  Sloane closed her eyes and shook her head. “She was an odd one.”

  “I believe she was the main instigator, believe it or not. We’d never have peace with her around.”

  “Any others left?”

  “None that matter.”

  Sloane took her glasses off, folded them, and placed them on the bed next to her on top of the paperback. “But won’t Mozingo be…”

  “Won’t Mozingo be what?”

  “I don’t know. Is he okay with the way you handled it, I guess.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’ll holler about it some, I expect, but he’ll see the wisdom of it in the end.”

  “You guys were close in prison, weren’t you?”

  Deke sat on the edge of the bed. “We shared a cell for years, honey. Close is not the way to put it. We were…I don’t know. Something more than close.”

  “Are you now?”

  “What?”

  “Something more than close? Like you were then. Are you now?”

  Deke peeled off his shirt. “I need a drink,” he said. “And I need a shower.”

  “Brush your teeth too.”

  Deke had been in the shower a few minutes when Sloane got up and went into the bathroom. The room was filled with hot steam and the smell of Ivory soap.

  “I’d like to hear about it sometime, you know?” she said.

  “Hear about what,” Deke said over the sound of the water running.

  “About you guys. What it was like. All those years in prison together.”

  “You think you want to know. If you knew, you’d wish you didn’t.”

  Sloane looked down at the tiles on the floor. She traced the square of one with her big toe. “Were you guys…?”

  “I done told you we were close.”

  “No, I mean…”

  Deke turned the shower off. He pushed the curtain to the side. Sloane liked what she saw. The man standing in front of her was all she’d ever want. Some would say he was too old for her. Some would say he was a bad pick, and she could do better. She sized him up, naked in the shower. He had short, light colored hair that was turning white. She liked the way the water beaded on his short hair. He had a scruffy face. His shoulders, biceps, and forearms were strong. His fingers thick. His middle wasn’t fat but not a six pack either. His legs were just right. And his cock was all a woman could ask for.

  “I don’t know what you want to hear,” he said. “He and I were close. But you and me? We’re much closer.” He stepped out of the tub.

  “Take me to bed,” she said. “God, take me to bed now.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders, bent, and put his other arm behind her knees. He scooped her up off the floor and carefully carried her out of the bathroom and across the room. He dropped her on the bed and she bounced against the mattress.

  Sloane looked up at her man. He was stiffening as he stood next to her.

  She reached down and unsnapped her jeans. She slid the zipper down. She had a feeling she was about to be well fucked.

  Deke grabbed his glass of scotch and drained it in two swallows. He plac
ed the glass on the table.

  Sloane pushed her jeans down a little, exposed her panties.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Deke looked puzzled.

  “What the…?” Sloane said.

  Deke put a finger against his lips and looked at her. He walked back to the bathroom and put a towel around his waist.

  He went up to the door and looked through the peephole. He turned back to Sloane. “Sorry. I gotta take this.” He shrugged.

  “Who—”

  Deke twisted the deadbolt and opened the door. “Hey, Boss. I’m kinda in the middle of—”

  “You goddamned cocksucker,” Mozingo said. He put a hand against Deke’s chest and shoved him into the room. Deke stumbled and fell backward to the floor. Mozingo walked in and closed the door behind him.

  Sloane put a hand over her mouth. She reached down, pulled up her pants, and zipped them.

  “What is it, Boss?” Deke said from the floor.

  “You motherfucking, cocksucking…”

  “Now, Boss.” Deke stood. The towel fell away and he was naked. “Mozingo.” He put up a hand. “John. Please. Just listen.”

  “I couldn’t have been clearer.”

  “Listen, man. It’s better this way. You’ve just gotta think it through.”

  “Better for who? Better for me? The fuck. How is it better for me? It’s better for her! And better for you. And I FUCKING WARNED YOU!”

  Sloane drew her knees up in front of her chin. “Oh god.”

  Deke took a deep breath. “Boss, I know you’re angry—”

  “Angry? Angry? You think I’m fucking angry?”

  “Just please listen. Please.”

  Mozingo drew his knife. He lashed out with the long blade at Deke’s face.

  Deke raised his arm to block the cut. The Bowie’s blade sliced through the skin and muscle of Deke’s forearm.

  “Boss…” Deke said.

  The blade flashed again. This time the cut drew a thick, red line across Deke’s cheek. Deke fell on his ass.

  Sloane gasped. With jerky, adrenaline-filled moves, she grabbed Deke’s pistol from the nightstand. She fumbled around with it and tugged at the butt of the pistol, tried to free it from the holster. She found the strap that secured it, pulled at it and the pistol came free. She pointed the gun one-handed at Mozingo. “Stop,” she said.

  Mozingo stepped forward and brought the blade of his knife down hard. The edge of the heavy blade cleaved through Deke’s hair, scalp, and skull, burying itself a half inch into the top of his head with a sickening crunch.

  “Uuunnhhhhhh,” Deke said.

  “John, stop, stop, STOP!” Sloane said.

  Mozingo looked up at her.

  The pistol wobbled in her trembling hand.

  Mozingo pulled the knife free from Deke’s head. He stood looking at Sloane.

  Sloane jerked the trigger with her finger. Nothing happened. She looked down at the pistol in her shaking hand. She turned it to one side. She pushed her thumb against what she thought was the safety. It clicked. She pushed her arm out straight again, pointed the pistol at Mozingo. She pulled the trigger again. Nothing.

  Mozingo took a step toward her.

  She took her other hand and racked the slide of the pistol. She leveled it at him again, and pulled the trigger. The gun leaped in her hand—an ear-splitting explosion.

  Mozingo jumped, but he appeared uninjured.

  “Stop. Stop right there, John.” Sloane breathed hard, her voice frantic and choked. “Don’t you fucking move.”

  “Now what?” Mozingo said.

  Sloane held the gun on Mozingo with one hand. With the other she fumbled for the phone on the nightstand. She got the receiver up to her ear and clamped it down between her cheek and shoulder. She punched three buttons on the phone. “Don’t you fucking move!”

  “What are you doing?” Mozingo said.

  “I need an ambulance. There’s a guy, he cut my boyfriend, cut his head, he has a knife, oh god, please, please hurry. Yes, he’s still here. Yes he’s armed. I need the cops. Oh god, I need the cops. Please, please, please….”

  Mozingo backed away.

  “You stay where you are, motherfucker!” Sloane pulled the trigger. The gun fired, but the shot missed.

  Mozingo sheathed his knife and backed out the door.

  “I’ll tell them,” Sloane shouted after him. “I’ll tell them where you live, motherfucker. I’ll tell them who you are. They’ll find you! I know where you’re fucking staying!”

  And then he was gone.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god, get here fast pleeeeaaaase. He’s…bleeding so bad.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Selena

  IT WAS THE worst hangover ever.

  The motel blinds kept the sunlight out. The air conditioner ran full blast. My head throbbed from too much bourbon and too little hydration. My chest burned from the cigarettes I smoked the night before. My mouth was parched and tasted of whiskey and ashes.

  I rolled off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. I stood over the toilet, pushed a finger down my throat, and vomited into the bowl. I’d been up to vomit several times over the course of the night.

  I could smell the egg, grease, and cheese from whatever hideous breakfast concoction Enola had brought in from the McDonalds next door.

  Madonna’s “Ray of Light” played on the clock radio.

  I slipped off my t-shirt and put on the bikini Enola bought for me at the dollar store and slipped on a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses with white frames.

  I found the bottle of aspirin, poured a few into my hand, popped them in my mouth and chewed them up. I unwrapped one of the plastic cups in the bathroom and drank some water.

  Across the small motel room Enola sat at the table drinking coffee and reading a magazine. “Hey, you want—”

  I held up my hand and cut her off, grabbed my cane on the way out the door.

  I didn’t want to talk to her. We fought the night before. A bunch of stupid bullshit erupted when I asked her to score some Percocets for the pain in my side. What I got instead was a lecture on how mixing opiates with cocaine is hard on your liver. How my skin and eyes were looking yellow. How I’d been pissing blood. Then it turned into her insisting I go to the hospital, how I’d been given an extreme overdose of heroin. Blah, blah, blah. She wouldn’t listen to reason. I’d been injured, that was all.

  A bump of coke—just a bump—was all I needed.

  I can’t live with this shit.

  Our room opened onto the pool landing. I walked barefoot across the sun deck, dropped my cane, and dove into the deep end headfirst. The shock of the cool water took my mind off the pain. I held the sunglasses to my face and let the water wash over me. I came up, rolled onto my back and floated. It was a gray, cloudy day. I lay floating on the water, looking up at the dark clouds through my sunglasses. A light breeze brought chill bumps up on my arms. I could smell the summer rain.

  Snippets of the night before came back piece by piece. I’d gone heavy on the bourbon. Enola was on her second bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Something by Norah Jones played on the radio. Enola was telling me she was smitten with me. I told her I seemed to draw death to anyone that cared for me. She tried to be seductive. I wasn’t in the mood and physically not up to it. But in her heart, Enola was a pleaser and I was a woman who’d never been able to say no. In the end I let her, as I always did. But I did enjoy it. The fighting came later. We’d both had too much to drink.

  I liked Enola, but she liked me in a very different way.

  My arms trembled, my body telling me it had suffered too much abuse. It needed something to eat. Needed something to drink that wasn’t distilled. And there was the niggling itch that underlay everything. The rebound effect with opiates is vicious. What starts as a ten-dollar-a-day habit can quickly turn into an all-consuming need that sucks everything into it like a sick, pus-filled black hole. I couldn’t let that happen to me. Couldn’t be one of those women w
alking the streets, desperate to cop, doing anything to get a fix.

  I considered our plight. We were farther away from being able to strike back at Mozingo than we’d ever been. My physical condition was the worst it had been since I spent time on the road as a prisoner in transit.

  Raindrops fell on my cheeks first, then my tummy and the tops of my thighs. I heard the rumble of thunder in the background. Then I felt the rain everywhere. Little plops formed on the surface of the pool where the drops fell and splashed against my face.

  Enola could probably score some weed, maybe even some dabs. The concentrated THC of the dabs, or even regular weed, would help with the pain and increase my appetite. You could go to great lengths, but sometimes you just couldn’t beat good old 420.

  As the thought passed through my mind, something about that number gave me pause. 420. What was it?

  Something recent. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but...

  Then it hit me. Phil Reagan’s phone.

  “Four twenty, sixty-nine,” he had said.

  There had to be a reason for him giving me the code to unlock his phone.

  I had the phone in my pants the night Crowbar gave me the overdose.

  Those pants were in the motel.

  “Shit,” I said, rolled over and swam for the edge of the pool. I climbed out and dripped water onto the sun deck bricks as I hobbled over to pick up my cane.

  I pushed through the door.

  “There’s mouthwash and toothpaste in there,” Enola said.

  “Yeah. Good. I need it. Have you seen the pants I was wearing the other night?”

  “What night?”

  “That night.”

  “Your jeans? There in the pile in the corner.”

  I limped over and dug through our pile of clothes. The jeans still smelled of smoke and had gray dust on them from the parking lot. I felt around and felt something hard in one pocket. I turned the pocket out. Ray Gun’s cell phone.

  I pushed the button on the front to activate the screen. Enola stood over me, looking over my shoulder.