I didn’t run, but I certainly didn’t stroll after her either.
61
Angela dozed on my chest after sex. I couldn’t sleep. I was preoccupied with how I was going to tell her about the money. I was also thinking about the DVD out there, sitting atop my TV as though it could have been any number of DVDs I owned. She’d brought it, just as she’d promised, but it was still there—in one piece. I likened it to the survivor of a horrific attack, the aftermath a constant state of insecurity despite knowing their attacker was behind bars. Only when that assailant was in the ground would they truly feel safe. I had that DVD behind bars, but wouldn’t feel truly safe until it was dead and buried. This I knew. I had to destroy it now.
Aftermath.
My analogy had stirred a deeper, more troublesome realization. Its impact jerked me, and Angela stirred.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Aftermath,” I said.
She rolled off my chest and propped herself onto one side. “What do you mean?”
“The aftermath. We discussed it prior, but we haven’t discussed it since.”
“What’s to discuss?”
“Leaving a trail? My blood, my ear at the scene? Christ, why am I only realizing this now?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Uh, maybe because you’ve experienced more trauma in the past twenty-four hours than most would in twenty-four lifetimes? I’m impressed you remember your name.”
“No, no—this is bad…”
“Calvin, stop it. The police think it was a robbery gone wrong. They even think it may be drug-related.”
I spun on my side and faced her. “What? How do you know that?”
“It was on the news.”
“When? I never saw anything.”
“You were in the hospital.”
“Yeah but there was a TV in the room. The news was on. I didn’t see anything about a robbery gone bad.”
She shrugged. “You were probably stoned on painkillers and missed it.” She yawned and curled back into me. “You’re in the clear.”
“I don’t believe it.”
She shrugged again and closed her eyes. “You can read about it tomorrow. I’m sure it’s somewhere on the internet.”
“It can’t be that easy, can it?”
Her eyes were still closed, she looked close to drifting. “I told you, they said it was—”
“I know, I just—you see all those crime shows like CSI where they talk about DNA and fibers and every other little goddamn thing you’d never consider…”
“That’s TV.”
Her words and blasé manner helped some, but I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that my fucking ear could be at a crime scene and somehow not come back to haunt me. Christ, why hadn’t I picked the damn thing up and taken it with me? Fine, with Paul dying and all I didn’t have time to get down and scrub away my blood and vomit, but at least pick up the goddamn ear!
“I don’t see how it can’t come back to me,” I said.
Angela sighed and opened her eyes. “Give me one—one—reason why the police would ever consider you a suspect?”
“My ear!”
“Is your DNA on file?”
“How should I know?”
“Have you ever committed a felony?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not on file. Even if for some inexplicable reason it is, the government is so backlogged, there’s a good chance it’s not even in the system. You’re in the clear, Calvin. Go to sleep.”
My mind was racing now. “Okay, forget the police—what if one of Mr. John’s people puts the pieces together?”
She groaned. “You know, after what you’ve accomplished you wouldn’t think you were such a pussy.” She rolled out of bed, went to my dresser, and snatched the bottle of Oxycontin the doctor had prescribed me for my pain. She then left the room, and I soon heard the water running in the kitchen. She returned with a glass of water and a palm offering two pills.
“Here. It’ll help you relax.”
I was to only take one pill every four to six hours. “That’s gonna knock me the fuck out.”
“That’s the idea.”
Was it any different than drowning my anxieties with booze, which I could really go for right now by the way? I took the pills from her and chased them down with the glass of water.
She smiled and got back into bed, curling into me once more and then stroking my chest. “Relax, baby—everything’s okay now.”
I fell into a deep sleep soon after.
62
Angela was gone when I woke up. I rolled over and checked the clock. Eleven a.m. I certainly had a good excuse for sleeping late, but she probably got restless.
“Angela?”
No reply. No sounds of the shower going, no sounds in the kitchen, no TV.
I sat up. “Angela?” Still nothing.
I made my way out of bed, wincing and groaning every inch of the way. My body felt as if I’d survived a stoning. I threw on an undershirt and a pair of boxers and wandered into my living room.
“Hello?”
The bathroom door was closed. Maybe she was, you know, what we guys call: in the office? I waited a couple of minutes, using the time to check my face in the living room mirror. I certainly hadn’t gotten any prettier while I slept. My eyes seemed blacker, and when I peeled off the dressing, my nose bigger, even more crooked.
I peeled off the dressing over my ear. At least that didn’t look any worse. There was still a fucked-up-looking hole where my left ear used to be of course, but at least it hadn’t shed its vanity overnight like my nose seemed to be doing.
I tossed the dressings into the trash and went to the bathroom door again. I’d heard no flush or anything. Maybe she was reading on the John? I know I did. Jesus, I’d never scrutinized a woman’s toilet habits so much in my life.
Ah, fuck it; we were past modesty here, weren’t we? After all we’ve been through? I knocked on the bathroom door. “You in there?”
Nothing. I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I opened the door and entered my bathroom. No one. I touched my shower floor. It was dry. The sink was dry. My towels were dry. The toilet seat was up. She’d never been, at least not since last night.
I headed into the den. Her duffel bag wasn’t on the sofa. Why?
“She just went home,” I said aloud. “Wanted to get more of her things.” It needed to be said aloud. Thoughts race and squirm like a tank of eels. Words are slow and plodding; once spoken they carry a stamp. This needed stamping. “Went home to get more of her things.” I nodded in affirmation to my own words. Stamp, stamp, fucking stamp.
I sat on the sofa, took the remote, and pointed it at my TV…and the canvas money belt seated atop my TV.
I leapt from the sofa. There it was, the money belt, coiled on top of my TV like the snake I’d always likened it to. Next to it was the infamous black DVD case. Next to that, an envelope with my name written on the front. I tore open the envelope. A handwritten letter was inside:
Calvin,
I don’t know why you felt the need to lie to me about the money. I truly want to believe that you intended on telling me about it eventually, but right now, after all we’ve been through, my heart is breaking that you would deceive me like this. Perhaps I was right; your trust will never be for sale.
I left you the DVD as part of our agreement. Destroy it and you’ll be free.
I doubt you’ll hear from me again.
Angela.
I dropped the letter and did a frantic search around the room, as if by some measure of insanity—to which I was more than susceptible by now—I’d been dreaming, that I’d wake, standing where I was standing, newborn and blinking away nothing but fading images of a cruel dream and a sleepwalking episode: there was no money belt on my TV; no letter telling me I was a dick and see ya when I see ya; maybe not even a fucking DVD of me killing anybody.
Oh God yes please do that please it would be so nice please yes please
. Or better yet none of it is real I’m crazy it’s all been in my head I’m crazy and I’ve got both my ears and Angela doesn’t hate me and I’m just fucking crazy and Angela doesn’t hate me and I’m somewhere locked away safe and Angela doesn’t hate me…
(No. Sorry. Nope. No.)
“FUCK!”
I don’t remember dressing. I might have left my house naked. I only know I drove to Angela’s house, rang her doorbell, banged on the door, and then waited in her driveway until nearly two in the morning. She never answered. No car ever pulled into her driveway either.
In a fit of desperation, I’d smashed one of her windows and climbed in. No alarm (curiously), but no Angela either. I checked every fucking nook of every fucking room, almost crying as I called her name.
She was gone.
The Bar
“See? I didn’t pull off shit,” I say.
The bartender pulls a face. “Are you kidding? You did pull it off!”
I laugh and sip my scotch. “Got my friend stabbed. Lost my dream girl. Got my—”
“Dream girl?”
I frown at him. “Yeah…?”
“You saying you still trust her?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I’m the one who fucked up.”
He pulls another face. “You sure, man? Maybe you did exactly what she wanted—and now she’s done with you.”
“What? You mean freeing her from Mr. John?”
“Exactly.”
“And the money?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t you tell me she was already loaded? Hell, she even left you the money belt. I assume that’s where those hundreds you keeping handing me are coming from.”
I think on this for a minute.
He interrupts with: “When you think about it, maybe your hiding the money gave her the perfect little out she was looking for.”
It’s all too much at once. His reasoning is sharp, mine pickled. Try and focus. Money. Go back to that. “Okay then…how did she find the money? Tell me that.”
“You hid it in your hamper, man.”
“So?”
“You live in a one-bedroom apartment. She drugged the hell out of you—coincidence by the way?—and therefore had ample time to turn over the three, maybe four whopping stones your tiny place has?”
Fuck, he was making sense. Wait, no. “But how would she know I was lying? What if there really was no money? What would prompt her to go looking around my place? Assume I was lying?”
The bartender shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Maybe she read something in you—knew you were lying about the money from the moment you told her.”
I shake my head adamantly. “But she didn’t care about the money. You just said it yourself.”
A sympathetic face. “But she did care about the lie. The potential behind it, I mean.”
“Why not just leave? Why all the drama with the letter and leaving the money belt on the TV and all? Why not just up and leave as soon as I was asleep?”
More sympathetic face. “Because you would have hated her for it. This way you get to hate yourself.”
I drain my scotch. “Good Christ, could she really be that cruel? Knowing me the way she does?”
He fills my glass. The Macallan is half-dead. “So where does that leave you then?”
I sip and say: “What do you mean?”
“I mean what happens now? With you?”
“I guess I don’t have to worry about killing anybody anymore.”
I laugh.
He frowns.
I frown back at him. “Well what the fuck do you want me to say, man? You want a moral or something?”
He senses my frustration and loosens his frown, takes a step back. “Sure, okay. What’s the moral?”
“There is no moral. People always want to think everything happens for a reason. Shit just fucking happens. The world doesn’t owe you a reason.” I drain my scotch. “Morality is for picture books. In life, it’s nothing but learned naiveté…keeps us from blowing our brains out if we ever saw people for who they truly are.” I hang my head. “The moral is there is no moral…I lost the girl.”
“And gained your life.”
I look away and start nodding.
“You don’t care, do you?” he asks. “About your life…”
I turn back. “I guess I do. I do know that I couldn’t take another. No way…no way in hell.”
“Well that’s definitely something.”
I give a soft chuckle. “How many people utter such a thing? It’s like I’m swearing off the bottle.”
He accommodates me with a little chuckle of his own.
I drop my head for a moment. Everything’s fuzzy except Angela’s face. “I just…I kinda wish I got the girl.”
He looks apologetic now. “Hey, man, I could be all wrong you know—my theory about her motives. I mean I wasn’t there; I don’t know. Maybe it is pretty damn straightforward. She stumbled upon the money and felt betrayed. Maybe she just needs some time to cool off.”
I nod absently again.
“Seriously, man, let’s says my theory is way off. You lied about the money—fine, you’re a bad boy. Think about what you gave her. In simplest terms, you saved her life. I think a lie about money—and it wasn’t a lie rooted in greed, but in a bid for loyalty—can be forgiven for something as valuable as her life, don’t you?”
“Yeah…”
“And you said your friend is going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
He splays his hands. “You took a swan dive into a pool of shit, and while you didn’t necessarily come up a rose, at least you came up.” He points to my missing ear. “Just missing a few pieces is all.”
I laugh and start to wonder if he’s a shrink moonlighting as a bartender. He’d certainly have an eclectic pick of subjects to dissect in such a place. Yours truly included.
“Can I call you a cab, man?”
“Sell me a bottle to go first. I don’t care what.”
“Uh…kind of illegal, bud.”
I roll my eyes, thumb ten bills, and then slap them on the bar. A thousand dollars cash. “Still feel law-abiding?”
I’m handed a fresh bottle of Beam.
“Cheers,” I say. “Call me that cab.”
63
Headache. Shit in my mouth. Nausea.
Hangover.
I open my eyes and the sunlight from my window is like a laser drilling into my brain.
I just wanna sleep.
But it’s the kind of hangover that won’t let you sleep. The kind that’s like a little kid; once it knows you’re awake, it’s going to make your life hell until you get out of bed and do something about it.
Hair of the dog.
I roll out of bed.
Hair of the dog.
I stumble out of my room.
Hair of the dog.
Why not? Why the fuck not? I’m living in the moment, right?
I stumble towards my kitchen. I’m still buzzed from last night, probably still drunk. That’s good; will make my new drunk easier. I’m not sure if I have anything to drink, but I spot a full bottle of Jim Beam sitting on my counter. And then I remember the bar. More importantly, the bar-tender. What that guy must think. Well fuck him—living in the moment, me.
I find a glass and fill it with Beam, no ice. The first swig is rough; my stomach hitches. But then the burning, warming sensation follows and it’s better. I immediately take another swig. Better than the last—warmer too. I drain the glass and it feels right. A few minutes later, I’m drunk again, and that definitely feels right.
I fill the glass halfway again and head over to the sofa. “Living in the moment,” I say to no one. I grab the remote. “Not numb anymore. Not watching the movie of myself. Not—”
I stop.
Not watching the movie of myself.
The movie of myself.
It’s still there. On my TV. The movie of myself.
Angela’s words come back to me like whispers:
&
nbsp; “Wanna watch it again? Aren’t you just a tiny bit curious? I mean now that it’s all over?”
“No.” I set my drink down, stand, snatch the DVD case from my TV, open it, pop out the disc, go to snap the bastard in half—and stop.
“Aren’t you just a tiny bit curious? I mean now that it’s all over?”
“No. I want to watch Chainsaw and get drunk.”
And yet I put the disc in my DVD player. Hit play and take a seat.
Black screen and then:
An empty room. A solitary chair facing the camera. Angela enters and takes a seat in the chair. She smiles and flicks her fake teeth with her tongue. It’s recent.
“Hey, you,” she says. “I knew you’d eventually watch it. Do I know my man or what?”
For some reason, I look over my shoulder. The DVD continues.
“I need to show you something, baby,” she says. “Please watch carefully.”
The scene changes. It is an overhead view from a security camera of what I did to Mr. John at the club. It shows me cutting off his balls. It shows me cutting his throat after. And goddamnit if it doesn’t show me smiling as I’m doing it all.
A quick cut and we’re back to Angela now. “Questions, yes? Many questions. Let’s see, where to begin…well, first off, as you well know, there’s no need to edit this gem; you’re a cold-blooded killer and I love you for it.” She grins. “Oh and I’ve got plenty of copies if you’d like some. Great as stocking stuffers.” She smiles and flicks her fake teeth again. “Okay, you ready for the major newsflash? The men you killed were not Mr. John and his goons. In fact, there never was a Mr. John.” She leans in close to the camera. “Remember when I told you I had only one major competitor in the industry?” She leans back and splays her arms with a triumphant grin. “Guess who’s number one now?”
I can only blink a response.
“Unfortunately, the old saying is true,” she says. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.” She removes her teeth and flashes the gap with a big grin. “Removing my own teeth was not pleasant, but it was pretty fucking dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”
Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller Page 19