Michele’s wearing shorts and a bikini top and mutters to the valet as Chase pulls up to the Palace in the Mustang. She says nothing when she gets in the car so Chase just sits there with the engine idling.
“Go,” she finally says.
“Where am I taking you?” he asks.
“I’ll show you.”
Chase is staring at her and soon she’s staring back. Her brown eyes seem darker and she’s pale; white flakes of dry skin ring her nostrils and scale her chin.
“Do you want to help me or not?” she’s asking.
“I don’t know that this is helping anybody.”
“I need you with me. I’d like you with me.”
“For what?”
“I’m not doing this alone.”
“Doing what?”
“Does it matter?”
Chase drives to Tropicana Gardens where Rachel lives. There is a deserted security booth at the entrance that he doesn’t remember from the last time they were here. The asphalt in the parking lot is sticky and soft from the heat and the tires make a tacky sound as the car slows in front of the building. Chase tells Michele that he’ll meet her upstairs but she tells him to just park the car. When he hesitates, Michele glares and says, “It’s all about you, Chase. Right? It’s always about you, isn’t it?” After Chase parks the Mustang Michele gets out and slams the door and he follows her up three flights of exposed stairs to apartment 317.
Michele keeps knocking on the pale blue door where the 7 is scratched off—there’s just the outline of where it used to be.
“I can hear the TV,” Michele says, knocking again. “She’s in there.”
From inside, barely audible: “Who is it?”
“It’s me, sweetie. That’s me knocking.”
The door opens a crack. Rachel peers out.
“What do you want?”
“Hey there,” Michele says cheerfully. “Is Bailey around?”
“Later, okay?” Rachel starts closing the door.
Michele blocks it with her foot.
“You said Tuesday, Rachel, and now it’s Saturday.” Michele’s tone is no longer falsely sweet. “We made a deal and we’ve been very patient.”
“It’s actually Sunday,” Chase corrects Michele but she ignores him.
“Can we do this tomorrow?” Rachel asks.
Michele stares at her through the crack in the door and after a long silence Michele says, “Open the fucking door, Rachel.”
* * *
The apartment is dark and messy. There are three people in the living room slouching on the leather couch: Rachel’s brother, Ronnie, another kid about his age, and a heavy older guy. Wrestling is on the gigantic flat-screen television. There are bottles everywhere: Corona, Courvoisier, Bacardi. The room feels like the third day of a three-day party. Michele leads Rachel down a hallway to a bedroom and the door closes behind them and Chase hears it lock. “That’s the move I’m talking about!” the heavy guy wearing a black Raiders jersey yells and grabs Ronnie and pulls him to the floor where they start to wrestle. Bottles are knocked from the glass coffee table.
Suddenly light floods the room. Then a door slams and the room is dark again.
“Oh Jesus, fuck, dude, are you ever fucking leaving?”
This is the first thing Bailey says when he lets himself into Rachel and Ronnie’s apartment. He’s talking to Chase and instead of responding Chase is and is not wondering exactly how and when Bailey got himself a key to Rachel and Ronnie’s apartment. The fat dude stands and leaves Ronnie gagging on the floor.
“Is Michele here?” Bailey asks.
The fat dude points in the direction of the hallway.
Bailey nods and surveys the apartment. His eyes fall to Ronnie. “Are you ready?”
Distracted, Ronnie pulls himself up from the floor. Ronnie isn’t wearing a shirt and is too skinny.
Bailey stares at Ronnie. “You want to put something on?”
Ronnie digs a red tank top out from behind a couch cushion and pulls it over his head and his arm gets caught in the wrong hole. Bailey sighs. The fat dude is standing now, too, and suddenly everything centers on Ronnie and his struggle with the shirt. Bailey reaches out, pulls the shirt from Ronnie, turns it inside out, then back again, and tells Ronnie to put his arms up over his head and Bailey puts the shirt on for him.
“Now you go and don’t come back until tomorrow,” Bailey says and hands Ronnie a key card. “It’s the twenty-second floor and do not order any fucking porn or room service. Just chill. There’s some weed in a blue Tumi bag.”
“What are you going to do to her?” Ronnie asks.
“What makes you think we’re going to do something?” Bailey asks, cocking his head like the curious monster in a horror movie.
“Dude, I know she fucked up.”
“Did she?” Bailey asks, mock-mystified. “Did your sister fuck up?”
“She’s been stealing from you guys.” Ronnie’s now actively whining.
“Go, Ronnie,” Bailey says.
“She’s just a kid,” Ronnie says in protest.
“She’s your sister, Ronnie,” Bailey explains. “And you were the one who sold her out.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You sound like a bitch when you talk like that. Go.”
Before Ronnie leaves he looks over at Chase standing away from it all.
Ronnie could stay, Chase thinks. He should but won’t because it’s easier to leave. Chase turns away. The door closes. Ronnie and his friend are gone.
“Everyone’s taking advantage of me,” Bailey says to the fat guy in the Raiders jersey. “I mean: what the fuck?”
Bailey wears cargo shorts and a charcoal tank top, and puka shells are strapped around his neck. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks at Chase head-on. Chase notices this because it’s something Bailey used to struggle with: those years when he was unable to meet Chase’s eyes after what happened.
“Hungry?” Bailey asks.
The kitchen is too bright and Bailey puts four Eggos in a toaster oven. The timer makes a ticking sound as they stand across the room from each other.
“Hunter has this thing for Brandi. It’s like a compulsion or something. And I think he’s feeling just a little bit guilty that she’s, well, not of legal age. Yet. Keep an eye out on that one. Right, matey?” Bailey winks like a cartoon pirate. “He’s starting to freak her out a little. All the money he’s throwing at her— Jesus, what a tool.”
A long silence: the toaster oven keeps ticking.
Bailey stares into the middle distance of the kitchen. Chase wonders what Michele is doing and tries to think of something to say to Bailey, who takes a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and pours Chase a glass, then drinks from the container. The timer makes a buzzing sound and Bailey removes the Eggos and Chase realizes how hungry he is. Bailey says, “Crispy” and smiles but then he’s opening and closing cabinets and he can’t find any maple syrup and he curses as he slams a cupboard door. Bailey stands perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen.
“I can’t eat this shit without syrup. These fucking kids. Want them?”
Before Chase can answer Bailey tosses the Eggos into the sink, then leans against the counter, seemingly dazed with disappointment. Bailey scans the floor and finally mutters that he’s tired, something about too much blow. Chase is gripping the edge of the counter tightly. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again.
“What’s she doing in there?” Chase asks.
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Rachel needed a little pep talk from someone she trusts.” Bailey shrugs. “I tried but no go.”
“About what?”
“Stick around.”
Bailey’s cell rings. He checks the number and leaves Chase alone in the kitchen. The smell of the waffles triggers a wave of nausea. He tries to hear what Bailey is saying and it sounds like he’s giving directions because he mentions I-15 and Tr
opicana and Chase keeps wondering what Michele is telling Rachel. But the fat guy in the Raiders jersey comes into the kitchen, blocking Chase’s exit, and hacks up a mouthful of mucus and spits it in the sink. The fat guy stares at Chase. Chase doesn’t look away. The fat guy asks, “What’s your fucking problem?”
A stupid grin appears on the fat guy’s face.
Chase notices the USMC tattoo on his forearm.
“Wait a minute,” the fat guy says. “You’re here for the show, right?”
* * *
“Dad’s such a tightwad,” Bailey says. He’s back in the kitchen, holding the container of orange juice again and offers Chase a sip even though he never drank from the glass Bailey poured him. “He says nothing good ever happens on East Charleston. He says that no one goes there. Just white trash and wetbacks for dollar drafts. He says opening a club there would be a moronic decision. I wish he was dead.” Bailey shrugs his shoulders. “Fuck him.” Bailey belches, then dumps the last of the orange juice into the sink and tosses the carton into the trash. “You still painting?”
Chase shrugs. “A little.”
“You have a show or something coming up?”
Chase nods.
“And then you leave?”
“That’s the plan.”
Bailey rubs his face with one hand, processing something. “Hey, did you see my movie?” he asks.
“When I was over at your house for that party.”
“Wasn’t much of a movie, really,” Bailey says. “Just experimenting.”
“Yeah, filming Michele?” Chase asks. “Not exactly a movie, I guess.”
“Dude, she’s a train wreck. She’s her own special effect. What else do I need?”
“She needs to be watched,” Chase says.
“I know,” Bailey says. “She’d disintegrate if people stopped paying attention to her.”
This is not what Chase meant but there’s no point in explaining it to Bailey. “What’s going on in there?” Chase motions toward the locked door in the hallway.
Bailey squints at Chase like he’s trying to figure out if Chase is serious, or if Chase really doesn’t know.
“She’s clarifying things.”
“What things?”
Bailey shrugs. “Making sure Rachel knows what bring half the money the day after you get it and not a day later and not a third of the money or twenty-five percent but half the fucking money because that’s the agreement and if you’re not comfortable with it fucking quit and we’ll find someone who is means.”
Chase can barely nod.
“Let’s just say her business model is flawed,” Bailey says. “She spends too much. But then her role model does, too.” He laughs spitefully. “That suite is fucking killing me.” Bailey lights a joint and takes a drag. He offers it to Chase. “It’s been like a month now,” Bailey says, exhaling. “But it’s all the extras that cut the profit: the room service, the movies, manicures, these idiot chicks run up all kinds of bills. That’s what’s fucking everything up. That’s what I didn’t take into account and it pisses me off. But it’s partially my fault. I need to keep a tighter rein.” Bailey manages to locate where Chase is through the haze. But then the bedroom door finally opens and Michele sticks her head out.
Chase follows Bailey into the room. Michele closes the door and then—after a beat—decides to lock it. Rachel sits on an unmade bed with pink sheets, her knees to her chest. The room is dark because the blinds are drawn. A ceiling fan slowly turns. Michele sits on a faux-leather chair in the corner of the room. She doesn’t take her eyes off Rachel. Bailey leans against a white wall with his arms crossed.
“I can get it,” Rachel says.
“But can you get it today?” Michele asks.
“I can get it in a couple of days.”
“How are you going to get that much cash in a couple of days?”
Silence from Rachel before she says, “Let me do a few more like we used to do.”
Bailey sighs. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”
Rachel doesn’t move.
Bailey snaps, “Speak, bitch.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Well, you better fucking say something,” Michele says.
Rachel chews her lower lip.
“If you’re screwing him, you’re screwing me, idiot.”
Michele glances over her shoulder at Bailey.
“I can’t do it,” Rachel says.
“You don’t have a choice,” Bailey says.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Then pay us back the money you owe.”
“But I can’t now.”
“Round and round we go,” Bailey says.
“Look, what I’ve been trying to propose to you, Rachel, for the last fucking hour, is that our idea is easier,” Michele says. “A couple of these and you’re free.”
“But I don’t want to do it like that. I thought you knew me. You know I tried that one night with those guys and …” Rachel starts breaking down. “You were so fucking cool, Michele. You told me—”
“That’s your big mistake right there, bitch,” Bailey shouts. “Michele’s fucking nuts.”
“You lied to me,” Rachel is sobbing at Michele.
Michele sighs. “I thought you had fun that night. I thought you eventually said it was okay.”
Rachel is shaking her head back and forth like a child. “When those guys came to the room I told you and you knew I didn’t want to do it and you lied—”
Michele stands up. “You called me for a month begging me to let you hang out with us. You said you needed cash. You were the one, Rachel, who told us you were willing to do what it took for that cash. You took advantage of me.”
“You took advantage of me, too,” Bailey adds.
“I am so tired of your shit,” Michele says.
Rachel clamps her hands over her ears—her face red— and screams, “I’m not ending up like you, bitch.”
Michele whips her cell at Rachel and it cracks the oval mirror over the bed. No one says anything. Michele calmly reaches into her purse and removes a cigarette and lights it with a steady hand. She takes a long drag and exhales out the side of her mouth and sits back down and crosses her legs. It’s a studied look, like she’s seen this pose recently in a movie: legs crossed, arms folded, cigarette burning. She doesn’t take her eyes off Rachel. Chase begins to think that there is nothing Rachel will be able to do or say to get out of this. But then something breaks and Michele is smiling at Rachel.
“You’re beautiful,” Michele says. “Isn’t she, Bailey?”
Bailey smiles, too. “She’s a fucking hottie.”
“I don’t feel good,” Rachel pleads.
Michele’s gaze falls on Rachel’s tan thighs. “Your legs look awesome. You’ve been doing the Pilates I told you about?”
Rachel nods.
Michele leans forward. “Don’t make this such a big deal. It’s just an hour. It’s just a couple of jobs. It means nothing. And we’re back to square one when it’s over.”
“A couple?” Rachel asks.
“A few,” Bailey corrects. Rachel looks at him. “How much is the rent here? Like a thousand? Eight hundred? That’s three nights in the suite, right Chase?” Bailey turns to Chase. Chase is clenching and unclenching his jaw. “I mean, we could clean this place up and it would be perfect. Right, Chase? Isn’t that a great idea?” The way Bailey says this—menacing, aimed at Chase—opens up something festering and alive.
Chase can barely control it. He wants to hurl himself against Michele.
Rachel looks at Chase. Chase is forced to look away first.
“Fucking psycho dick,” Rachel screams, shaking. “What the fuck are you even doing here?”
“Enough,” Bailey snaps.
“What about Cabo?” Rachel asks in a small voice.
“What about it?” Michele glances over at Bailey, who just gives a quick nod.
“We’re still going?” Rachel
asks.
“First-class tickets and your own suite,” Bailey says.
“You can even bring a friend,” Michele says.
“Can I bring Rush?”
“Of course,” Bailey says.
Chase feels himself sinking into the wall.
Michele hands Rachel a roll of toilet paper. “Clean yourself up.”
There’s a knock at the door. Bailey walks over and opens it a crack. The fat guy says something and peers inside. Bailey nods and closes the door.
“Who are they?” Rachel asks.
“It doesn’t matter.” Bailey says. “Nice guys.”
“Friends,” Michele says. “Friends of ours.”
“They’re from Riverside,” Bailey says. “They’re from nowhere.”
Rachel reaches for her cigarettes. Michele grabs her arm. “Later,” she says. “After.”
“What time do you want me there?” Rachel asks.
“Where?” Bailey asks, suddenly confused.
“The suite,” Rachel says. “What time?”
“They’re coming here,” Bailey says.
“Where? Here?” Rachel asks, her face crumpling again.
“It’ll be okay,” Michele says.
“But what about the suite?” Rachel asks, sobbing.
“Here is fine,” Michele says.
Rachel is shaking her head. “Not here. Not in my bedroom. Let’s go to the Palace.”
“But here is better,” Bailey says and looks over at Michele who nods, her eyes locked on Rachel.
“You gave them my address?” Rachel asks, choking. “You gave them my fucking address?”
Bailey looks at Michele, then at Chase. “That’s the plan. Right, Chase? Here, and we start today.”
“I’m tired,” Rachel says. “I’m tired. And I’m feeling really sick, too.”
“You’re fine,” Michele says.
Rachel is sobbing again. “I have my period.”
The Delivery Man Page 17