There was no way Henry was going to let this slanty-eyed scumbag take what was his.
Henry stuck the knife into the side of the man’s neck. The man grimaced, but still held on. The guy didn’t know what had happened. Henry pulled the blade out and sunk it in again and again and again, ferociously stabbing the Asian man.
Before Henry knew it, he was on the ground, briefcase in one hand, the other holding the knife, stabbing the man’s sliced-up, bloody neck and throat. Blood gushed everywhere, spreading out around the body.
Henry finally stopped. The Asian man wasn’t moving. He had the same expressionless appearance as the dead man in the suit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Henry stood, his body saturated in red. He’d never killed anyone before. Panic seized him, but then he looked at the briefcase in his hand. He felt better. He’d done what he had to do.
He glanced right, and then left, looking for witnesses. Then he looked up at the apartments above the row of stores. The windows were black, impossible to see in. Someone could be watching, recording him.
Henry wiped the blade off on the man’s apron and then took off running. His mouth tasted awful, coppery. Some of the Asian man’s blood must have gotten into his mouth, or maybe it was his own. Maybe he’d bitten his lip. It was possible, but he didn’t think so, because his mouth didn’t hurt.
He spit as he ran, and ran quickly, knowing he was covered in blood, looking like an extra in a horror movie.
Staying off the main streets, he darted along alleys and side streets, keeping his back to passing cars. Finally, he came upon a narrow alleyway set between two tall buildings. There were no windows, making it the perfect place to lay low. There was a door at the end, but it didn’t look like it had been used in some time. Large shipping crates were stacked against and alongside it.
Winded and tired, Henry positioned the crates, forming a makeshift barrier, and crawled behind it. If anyone looked into the alley, he wouldn’t be seen.
Using a handkerchief he carried in one of his pockets, he wiped off as much of the Asian man’s blood as possible, leaving his skin tinted a faint red, as if it had been scalded by hot water. His fingers were sticky.
He opened the briefcase, feeling secure in his windowless hideout, then placed his knife next to him, blade out, in case someone came from the door. He placed a small portion of the heroin onto a spoon, and then cooked the smack, using the lighter. The white powder sizzled and bubbled, turning to liquid form. He gave it a minute to cool, and then sucked the clear liquid into a syringe.
Henry rolled up his sleeve, revealing an arm decorated with numerous track marks. He picked up the syringe and tapped on the underside of his forearm just below the elbow, wanting a nice-sized vein to reveal itself. Seeing the blue-colored passageway, he plunged the needle in and injected the heroin.
The rush was immediate, filling his every cell with euphoria. He lay back, the smack sending him to the Dragon Realm. The real world faded, but not completely, leaving him half in it and half someplace else, someplace better. The Dragon world was beautiful, had no problems, and everyone was happy there, especially Henry.
After some time, he packed up his stuff, closed the briefcase and ambled down the alley, forgetting all about his blood-covered attire. His body was relaxed. He swayed to the right and left, barely missing the walls. The only tense part of him was his hand, the digits securely gripping the briefcase’s handle, as if it wasn’t affected by the drug, and on guard.
Exiting the alley, bright sunshine blasted Henry’s sensitive eyes, the gloomy day having turned luminous. He reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses and slipped on the stolen dollar-store item.
Better.
The Dragon World was wonderful, a place he wished he could remain indefinitely. It was secure, safe, welcoming, where nothing mattered except an individual’s happiness.
Caught in a daze, wandering aimlessly, half-awake, half-asleep, Henry didn’t notice the DO NOT WALK sign, and stepped into oncoming traffic.
The Poor Woman
1
Sandra Braverman made her way down the crowded Brooklyn sidewalk, looking for HELP WANTED signs in store windows. She had been unemployed for two weeks, resorting to collecting beverage cans and bottles to put food in her belly.
After losing her job at the local department store—the assistant manager accusing her of stealing after she wouldn’t sleep with him—Sandra got a job at a small photo-framing shop a few blocks from her apartment. The pay was a buck below minimum wage, but it was off the books. It was only temporary until she found something better.
The boss turned out to be a real slime ball. Most of the time it was just her and him at the store, his wife only coming in two days a week. The area behind the counter was narrow, not leaving much room for two people to move without rubbing up against each other. Her boss did this often, and she’d feel him push up against her as her ass ran across his crotch. “Oops, sorry,” he’d say, or “Tight squeeze.”
Sandra knew what the guy was up to, but needed the money. As long as that was all that happened, she’d deal with it until she quit. But then one day just after closing, he called her into the supply room. His pants were down around his ankles, penis erect and pointing at her.
“What do you say, give daddy a little loving?” he said. Sandra couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her mouth opened to say something, but nothing came out. He said he’d keep her on and give her a raise if she blew him a few times a week.
Wanting to kick him in his saggy balls, she instead acted cordial and said, “I don’t do that sort of work. How about we keep this professional and forget all about it?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. He bent and pulled up his pants. “You little tease. Do you think I hired you for your framing skills? Stupid bitch. I hired you for that tight little mouth and round ass.”
Sandra was speechless.
“Get out,” the man screamed. “You’re fired.”
Sandra held back tears and stormed out of the store. About halfway up the block she realized she hadn’t been paid for the three days she worked this week and returned to the store.
The door was locked.
She knocked feverishly, feeling too angry to cry.
Her former boss opened the door, smiling. “Change your mind?” he said.
“No, you pig. I want my money.”
“It’s in my pants, bitch,” he said, and went to shut the door.
Sandra stuck her foot inside and leaned against the door. “Pay me what you owe me, plus an extra day’s pay, or I’ll call my friend who works at the New York Post and tell him all about your operation.”
Sandra made sure to look the man in his eyes. She had to sell her lie, and guessed she did a good job because the man paid her, along with an extra day’s pay.
The money was used up in three days between food and paying a portion of the electric bill. Penniless with only noodles, crackers, and tuna fish in her kitchen, she had hit the streets looking for work. She was already a month behind on her rent, and if she didn’t get the money by the end of this month, she was going to wind up on the streets, living out of a cardboard box.
Sandra had a younger sister, Joan, and an aunt Linda who lived in Florida, but she couldn’t count on either for any help.
For the past six years, Joan had been residing in a state run mental facility after having a psychotic breakdown. She had killed their mother, Ava, stabbing her over a hundred times in the kitchen. She then cooked and ate the woman’s organs, believing it was the only way to save her mother’s soul.
Sandra’s aunt Linda wanted nothing to do with Sandra or her sister after their mother’s murder. But the truth was Aunt Linda had never wanted anything to do with either of them, and only put up with them for their mother’s sake. With Aunt Linda’s only sister Ava gone, she moved to Florida and never spoke to Sandra or Joan again.
After Sandra’s father passed away from cancer at the young age of thirty-e
ight, life seemed to remain in a gloomy, depressed state, where prosperity and luck just didn’t come her way.
Now, jobless, with the prospect of being homeless looming closer each minute, she pushed on regardless of the despair enveloping her heart, a glimmer of hope still aflame within her soul. She saw a HOSTESS WANTED sign in an Italian restaurant window. She glanced down at herself, wanting to make sure she was presentable and noticed a huge stain in the center of her chest. It was from the tuna she’d had for lunch. Besides that she looked okay. It might do her some good to head home, fix her hair and change her clothes, but she was tired and with her luck, the job would be filled as soon as she walked away. Straightening her shirt, fluffing her hair, she was about to head in when she saw a man holding a briefcase step in front of a city bus.
The bus’s brakes screeched, but it was too late. The man was already in the air, bouncing off the front end like a piece of human rubber. The thud of impact echoed in Sandra’s ears. She’d cringed as the man was hurled into the back of a Volkswagen Jetta, crushing the trunk and shattering the rear window. But the man’s briefcase had separated from him midflight, spinning away like a square-shaped flying saucer. It was heading toward Sandra.
“Oh my God,” someone yelled.
“You see that shit?” another person said.
“Somebody call 911,” an old man shouted.
Sandra’s eyes focused on the object coming toward her. She stepped back and the briefcase landed at her feet, stopping abruptly as if it were made of metal, the ground a giant magnet.
She stared at the case, wondering why it hadn’t hit her. Then she looked at the man lying on the back of the car. He wasn’t moving. His limbs were clearly broken, bent in places where there were no joints. A large chunk of scalp hung from the broken glass where the window met the roof. There was a lot of blood, the life fluid seeming to pour from everywhere, the vehicle’s white trunk quickly turning crimson.
Sandra shivered, and then glanced at the briefcase. A warm sensation filled her. Looking around, she saw that no one was watching her. All eyes were on the accident.
Without a second thought, Sandra picked up the briefcase, and then casually walked around the corner where she sped up her pace.
2
Sandra Braverman lived on the fourth floor of a rundown, cockroach-infested apartment building located in a watch-your-back, not-so-friendly part of Brooklyn. Muggings, unreported and reported rapes, and murders happened on a weekly basis.
With the rent overdue, she approached the building cautiously, made her way inside, saw that the super’s door was closed and hurried past, not wanting the obese, stinky creep to see her. Sandra had no idea why the guy hadn’t kicked her out or even given her a hard time, yet.
Max was a sleazy individual who made Sandra’s skin crawl. It wasn’t just his size, sweat-lined forehead, mildewlike odor, or the numerous whiteheads that were always prevalent around his nose and chin—why he didn’t pop them, Sandra couldn’t understand. It was the way he spoke to her and to others, as if they were below him. He was always eyeing the female tenants’ chests and asses without any form of tact. He made crude comments, usually whispering under his breath. He spoke overtly loud to the older residents even if their hearing was fine, and cursed at others who moved too slowly or simply annoyed him. And she hated the way he sat outside on the stoop and gawked at all the young girls, whistling at them while he rubbed his crotch.
The process of paying the rent was awful. Sandra detested visiting his apartment. Max always made her feel uncomfortable, staring at her chest the entire time, licking his lips as if she were a steak, not seeming to care if she noticed. He belched and picked his nose in front of her too, wiping the boogers on his shirt or the door frame. It seemed the man was a snot-making machine. And the odor emanating from the place was nauseating, a mixture of farts, body odor, and Chinese food.
Sandra entered her apartment, threw the locks closed and sat at her kitchen table. She stared at the briefcase, her mouth watering as if it was a piece of chocolate cake. She was giddy, which triggered her guilt complex. Looking up, she saw the cross that hung over the stove, the stove with only one working burner. Her mother had given her the cross. Sandra said a small prayer, asking for forgiveness. She’d stolen a dead man’s belongings; at least she was pretty sure he was dead.
But she was desperate—jobless, no family, very few friends. She was at a turning point in her life. Things were about to get really bad. But the way the case had landed in front of her was as if the universe was presenting her with a gift, at least she hoped so.
Sandra refocused on the briefcase, holding her breath in anticipation. Please don’t be locked. Please don’t be locked, she thought, and then thumbed the latches. The locks flipped open. Sandra exhaled; relief flooded through her.
“Come on, baby, give momma something good,” she said to the room. She wasn’t a mother, but the statement was something her mother used to say before playing scratch-off lotto cards, which the woman purchased every Friday night after work.
Sandra flung open the briefcase. Her stomach dropped at the sight. She stared, unblinking. The case was neatly packed with hundred-dollar bills.
Shaking her head, she slammed the lid shut. Excitement coursed through her veins, filling her head like a balloon. She swallowed, feeling her heart pound against her chest.
She couldn’t believe what she had just seen. Her money woes had caused her brain to fuck with her. Petrified to do so, she took a deep breath and opened the briefcase again.
The cash was still there.
Stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills lay before her. Sandra squealed with delight, tapping her feet wildly on the floor and bouncing in her chair.
She reached in and touched one of the stacks, afraid it wasn’t real, then scooped up the bundle and ran it under her nose. The scent of cold hard cash was invigorating.
She quickly counted the wad of hundreds, the cash yielding $5,000. Then she counted the number of stacks. There were twenty, bringing the briefcase’s contents to the evenly sum of $100,000.
“Holy shit,” she said. “I’m rich.”
Her mind raced with thoughts. She’d be able to pay the rent. Hell, she’d be able to move. Buy new clothes. Start a new life. Put herself through college. Make something of herself.
Then her stomach dropped. What if the money was counterfeit?
She held two of the hundreds up to the light and saw the ghostly image of Ben Franklin on the right. She studied the bills closely, not really having an idea what to look for. If only she had a real hundred to compare the bills against.
An idea came to her.
She’d go down to the corner store and try to purchase something with one of the bills. If the first hundred passed, she’d head to another store and do the same with the second hundred. One store clerk might miss a good fake, but definitely not more than that. Those guys were behind the counter all day and night, handling money, becoming experts at spotting counterfeit bills, and they had those counterfeit-bill-checking pens.
Pocketing two of the hundred-dollar bills, Sandra closed the briefcase, took it to her bedroom and hid it under the bed. Not the best of hiding places, but it would do for now.
Standing at the door of her apartment, she hesitated upon opening it. She looked over her shoulder and had a direct line of sight with her bedroom door. She didn’t want to leave the briefcase.
What if someone broke in and stole it?
She shook her head, telling herself how ridiculous she was acting. Sure, it was possible someone could break in, those things happened, but not during the twenty minutes she’d be gone. Everyone she knew was aware of her financial problems. Her building, though not the worst in the neighborhood, wasn’t the best, housing poor, struggling people. Maybe the hooker in 2C had cash lying around, but she’d never been robbed. No one had had a break-in for over a year, the last being Mr. and Mrs. Lee, whose son had been the culprit.
Besides, carryin
g a briefcase around in her neighborhood was risky. Someone might come along and mug her for it. There were no briefcase-carrying businessmen in her neck of the woods; only punks with backpacks or dealers with stashes hidden on their person.
Her cash was safer in her apartment.
Feeling her gut churn at leaving the money, Sandra forced herself out of the apartment, making sure the locks were engaged.
The Peeper
1
Max Von Dekker’s apartment was a pigsty. Open Chinese food containers from Ling’s Chinese Food—the best Chinese food around—stood on his desk and the coffee and kitchen tables. Pizza boxes were piled by his door; crumbs from the crust littered the area. Dust and grime coated everything, except his keyboard, which was layered in sweat and dried seminal fluid. Empty soda cans lay throughout his apartment, on the nightstand in his bedroom, the coffee table in the living room, and on the floor around his desk. The boogers he flung were hard to see, the small, sometimes large, blood-streaked globules landing everywhere, sticking to walls, door frames, monitors and whatnot, as if they were constituted from Super Glue.
Wearing only his tighty-whities and a pair of socks, Max sat in his cracked, faux leather chair and eyed the monitors in front of him. There were ten in total, each one linked to a surveillance system that ran throughout the apartment building, the same one he managed. Max was normally a cheap prick, but when it came to his favorite pastime, he spared no expense. Since becoming the super, whenever a tenant moved out, he installed the cameras, hiding them in the various ducts or corner crevices, making sure the spy gadgets were impossible to notice. He also had copies of all the apartments’ keys, having made the copies illegally. He learned people’s schedules and installed the cameras when no one was home. And with technology always improving, he made sure to keep his equipment up-to-date, wanting the clearest visuals possible.
Relic of Death Page 4