by Mike Miner
Hardy laughed. "Pay off my debt and hit the track with the rest."
He began to think something wasn't right when they passed the entrance to the beachside mansion and continued out into the swampy coastal forest.
"I thought we were going back to…" Before Hardy could finish, Pinky hit him in the jaw with a set of brass knuckles. As everything went black, he could swear he heard her laughing.
Hardy came to as briny marsh water crept into his left ear. His hands were tied behind his back with what felt like tape and he was lying on his side, half in tall swamp grass, half on what felt like the side of a road. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight that he could see two figures standing over him. He was certain that the curvy silhouette was Pinky.
"The alligators will finish him off Hank, I don't wanna risk firing a gun out here," Pinky said.
"Well, after all we've gone through to get to this point, we can't have him turning up later," Hank said. "I got an old pillow in the trunk. We muffle the shot, and roll the fat bastard down the embankment into the swamp."
"I don't know. I knocked the fuck out of him. He hasn't moved since. Hell maybe he's dead already. He didn't look in that great of shape to start with. It won't take the gators long to find him. Let's get out of here. You've got some splooge to sell baby."
"I don't have time for this, Pinky. We need to get the car back to the rental place and move the crew out of the house. If that Saudi prick catches us in his crib, he's gonna go jihad on our asses."
While they argued, Hardy slowly shifted his weight toward the downslope of the embankment. Then gravity took over, and he let it tumble him through the grass towards the marsh. Hardy said a silent prayer that he didn't roll over anything sharp.
"Shit!" Pinky yelled. "Grab him!"
"I'm not going down there," Hank said. "Alligators, remember?" Hank fired blindly in Hardy's direction. One bullet smacked off a dead tree, two more splattered in the muck not a foot away from where Hardy had come to a stop.
"Stop shooting, you asshole," Pinky whispered harshly. "There are houses just behind that stand of mangroves. Shit…somebody just turned the porch lights on."
"Let's go, let's go," Hank said. "If I didn't hit him, a gator will."
Hardy remained perfectly still as the pair stomped off. After the sounds of their footfalls trailed off to silence, He slowly rolled over onto his back. A chorus of chirping insect noises rose up around him.
It had been a set-up. The whole fucking thing. He could have kicked himself for falling for it. He sighed and started flexing his forearms. He knew he wasn't the smartest guy, but at least he did have one thing going for him. Not only did he have the best grip in town, he had strong wrists too. With some effort, he twisted the tape back and forth until it snapped.
Hardy pulled himself to his feet and tried to wipe the muck off his trousers. He was disoriented, and his jaw hurt like hell.
Something splashed in the swamp behind him, something big that had probably been disturbed by Hank's wild shooting. Hardy quickly scrambled his way back up the embankment. As he reached the broken-down access road, he hoped that Pinky and Hank were already gone. Either way, he'd rather take his chances with those two than a possible gator any day.
As he made his way toward the lights in the distance, he realized that Pinky had dropped him off somewhere north of the beach. It was only a couple of miles to the main road from where he stood.
After some hard slogging, Hardy finally reached the shoulder of the asphalt highway. He stopped under a lone streetlight and unzipped his fly. He let his pants fall around his ankles—a comical scene in the lonesome night air, if anyone happened to see it.
He untied the latex glove full of horse sperm from the band of his underwear and held it up to the light. It had a pale glow in the sodium arc lamp. It was unbroken, even after his half-assed escape into the swamp.
Hank and Pinky were going to have a hard time making million-dollar horses with that cup of Hardy's man gravy, but with this liquid gold he would be able to pay off Sid and be back at the track in no time.
Momma's Boy
by Mike Miner
Here I go again on my own. I hummed the Whitesnake lyrics under my breath. Going down the only road I've ever known.
A familiar dark street in the middle of the night. A neighborhood of vices. Whatever you needed. Looked the same, maybe a little worse. I'd forgotten about the smell, wasn't ready for how the smell hit me. A combination of bad habits, it almost gave me a contact high.
I noticed that I was salivating.
My body's involuntary response to being that close to a score.
It made me pause. Take a breath. Maybe this was a mistake.
The whores on the corner misunderstood my intentions. They bloomed like orchids in the sun, opened their coats, revealed the bright colors underneath, the dark skin, their come-hither chatter, their siren calls sounded like snakes hissing.
Eyes as empty as their purses, the same question on each pair of painted lips.
"How about a date?"
I looked at their stiletto heels. "Sorry. No. I'm looking for Benny the Jet."
They scattered like birds. Except one. Older than the rest. Rheumy eyes narrowed behind absurdly long lashes. Skintight clothes wrapped around a curvy body fighting gravity with everything it had. A fantasy turned old.
"You a cop?"
"Nope."
"Whatchoo want with Benny?"
"Same thing everybody wants. Smack."
She giggled. An ugly noise delivered by a crooked smile. She seemed to have more teeth than she should, like a shark. "Heroin? You don't seem like the type."
"I'll take that as a compliment. Where's Benny?"
"What's that old expression? Ain't nothing in this world free."
"That's the truth." A twenty in my hand.
Her eyes went wide, those lashes opened like Venus flytraps. If I had the money to spare, I would have had her give me butterfly kisses all over my body.
She snatched the bill. "You know for thirty more bucks..."
"Thanks, darlin', but no thanks." My throat was dry. I imagined the flutter of those lashes on my neck.
She shrugged and tucked Andrew Jackson into her cleavage. "Keep walking until you hit 6th. Cross the street and it's the big building on the right. Toy factory. Go around back. You see a skinny dude with long dreads by the door, that's Bob. Tell him you're looking for Benny."
"Thanks, lady."
That shark grin. "Name's Candy. Maybe later, when you feelin' different, you come get some sugar."
She batted her eyes, like she could read my mind.
"I think you might be too much woman for me."
She laughed until she coughed. "You not as dumb as you look."
"Sure I am."
Now that I knew where I was going, it seemed obvious. I saw the junkies in need heading there. Others leaving, all fixed up, their steps light, eyes unfocused, numb to their problems, their worlds briefly rose-colored, that high feeling like a suit of armor.
I knew that feeling.
There was the skinny dude Candy mentioned. Bob. A dancing ragamuffin in an orange sweatsuit two sizes too big. His face was skeleton thin. You could see the hinges on his jawbone.
I thought of my mother. So skinny now a strong breeze would lift her away. Pancreatic cancer. Terminal. She hung tough for a few months. Talked about beating it. She'd already lasted months longer than they'd given her. But the cancer had eaten away at her. I had a dream the other day of tying a string to her ankle and flying her like a kite. A sudden gust ripped the string out of my hands and took her. I woke gasping, the sound of her laughter rang in my ears.
Any day now, the doctors said.
Bob had been clocking me. I stuck out in this crowd. Too healthy-looking. My forearms tingled. Those track marks, long since healed, stung like a sunburn after dark.
"I'm looking for Benny." I looked at Bob's wasted face, a map of mistakes, the first one was ever
being born. I wondered what I always wondered; How'd you wind up here? What ill wind dragged you to this circle of Hell?
"You a cop?"
"Nope."
He chewed on a cigarette. He smelled like smoke and sweat. Finally, he nodded. "Around the corner. Blue door."
If Bob hadn't liked what he'd seen, he would have raised the alarm. The dealers would have vanished. The desperate look in my eyes must have done the trick.
Last time I scored, a few years back, I hadn't been able to afford Benny's prices. I found a guy who knew a guy. Cheap smack. Never a good idea. Who knew what else it was cut with? My veins full of junk, Mom found me in my childhood bedroom, breathing so shallow she thought I was dead. But like the Man in Black in The Princess Bride, I was only mostly dead.
That was bottom.
Shivering in a hospital bed with withdrawals.
My mother watching.
Worse than my reflection, the look in her eyes. A million times worse. What have you done to yourself? those eyes asked. My beautiful boy. Why?
Why indeed.
Us junkies. We all think we're the exception to the rule. At first. We've got it under control. We can take it or leave it, we think. At first. Life without drugs? That's like a black-and-white television set. We want life in color, in high def, man. Drugs are like a superpower. If you squares had the guts to try it, you'd be in line with us.
I walked down an alley to the back of the building. I wasn't alone. A steady march of zombie junkies led the way. My brain couldn't resist imagining Michael Jackson's "Thriller" playing in the background.
An older woman in a white dress—maybe fifty, maybe a hundred fifty—stood howling Shakespeare in front of a brick wall. Macbeth. The witches. "Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air." A failed actress no doubt, reciting lines she memorized in a previous life.
Next to her, a steel door, blue paint flaking off it like someone or something had tried to claw its way inside. I pushed the door open, stepped into the shooting gallery. Déjà vu. Even though I'd never been here before. Felt like going to see an old flame. The ceiling was two stories high, most of the lights had been smashed or just gone out. It was slasher-film dark.
Sudden flames lit the way, like will-o'-the-wisps, faces inhaling appeared out of the gloom then disappeared in a puff of crack smoke. Some of those eyes landed on me, like dogs that didn't want to share their food—but most of them were lost in a brief, intense state of bliss, far away from this awful place. They reminded me why I was here.
A madhouse soundtrack; screams, tears, and laughter accompanied me as I used my sixth sense to find my destination. I knew it would be in the recesses of this building, the inner circle.
I still could have turned around. Walked out of there forever. I pictured myself getting back in my car, empty handed. The drive back to my mother's house. Saw myself sitting by her bedside. The pain in her hazel eyes.
No.
I kept walking.
There. Up on the right. A heavy man in a gold sweatsuit. Cee Lo sunglasses. He took them off and squinted his big eyes at me. "No way. I must be seeing ghosts."
"Hey, Herbie. Some things never change, huh?"
"More they change, more they stay the same."
"You can say that again."
"I'm sure I will."
"What happened to the old place?"
"Burned down, man. Bad scene."
"I'm lookin' for Benny."
A strange expression on Herbie's face. Regret? He put his shades back on, put his poker face back on. "You sure, brother? You lookin' healthy." He patted his stomach. "You put on some weight. Looks good on you."
"Is he around?"
Herbie sighed. "He's always around, man. C'mon."
If the devil had an office in hell it probably looked like this.
We stepped into a massive loft. Three or four thousand square feet. Stylishly decorated. Benny had prospered. A kitchen in the center with a long, tall table. A few women of the night, younger and cleaner and prettier than the ones out on the streets, lingered on high stools chatting and smoking.
"You lookin' for company?" Herbie asked.
"Not tonight."
He motioned to a corner. Brown leather couches made a square. Smoke like a low fog billowed around the lamps. On the coffee table in the middle of the couches, a few bongs, some bags of weed, ashtrays, some handguns and an AK-47.
Benny sat in a loveseat, two young hookers on either side of him, their eyes dull, bodies slack, floating on a chemical cloud nine. Benny was inhaling a joint when he saw me and Herbie approach. He started to cough.
Two men occupied two of the other couches. Henchmen. They gave me hard, suspicious looks.
Benny finally caught his breath. "Well, well, well. A blast from the past." He stood up, offered his hand. We shook. "Back from the dead, huh? Take a seat, son. Take a seat."
I took the open couch. My heart fluttered, my hands shook. The craving hit me hard. A cold sweat made me shiver.
The Jet was a big bear of a guy. Fat jowly head, slight afro hairdo, skin as smooth and dark as a Hershey bar, a tree trunk neck and a sumo belly stuffed into a purple silk button-down shirt. Black jeans and black cowboy boots with snakeskin toes.
I once saw those toes kick a man to death down by the L.A. river. Can't remember what it was over.
"You look good, son. Don't he, Herbie?"
"He do, boss."
"Put on some weight. Heard you found yourself in a hospital bed. Fucked up good. Thought that might've scared you straight." He sang, "But the cat came back. We thought he was a goner but the cat came back. He just couldn't stay away."
Benny chuckled. The girls offered their own nervous laughter. His henchmen smiled, puzzled, not sure where this was going. Nobody was.
"So what can I do for you, old friend?"
"The usual."
Benny nodded. Not a yes, just a nod. "Like old times, huh? Speaking of old times, this reminds me of that dude. The hell was his name?" Benny snapped to conjure the memory. "Eddy. Eddy something. Dude was gone for a stretch. Think he did a nickel up at Wayside maybe. Comes back, just like you, old buddy. But something was off. He was all jumpy. Nervous. Sweating."
I felt the dampness on my lower back. Concentrated on making my hands still.
"Could have been DT's I suppose. But I figured, better safe than sorry. So we checked to see if he was wired." Benny smiled, showed off his gold teeth. "He ain't wearing anything but a damned coffin now."
Benny reached for a pack of Marlboros. Took one out with his lips, lit it, inhaled. Squinted at me.
"Check him out, boys."
They were not gentle. They were thorough. Soon, I was standing completely naked in the center of the couches.
"Nothing, Benny," Herbie said.
"Nothing, huh?" He stood, inspected my arms. "No track marks either. What the fuck you up to, cracker?"
I thought about telling the truth, throwing myself on Benny's mercy. But he wouldn't understand or believe me. Benny didn't know mercy. He knew greed. "I brought the money."
Benny looked at Herbie who nodded.
Benny's eyes narrowed. "Something not right here. You don't look like no junkie. You look like a narc."
"I just want my heroin."
Benny pursed his lips. "Okay, buddy. I'll get you fixed up. I'll even get you one for the road."
I closed my eyes. Goddamnit.
"How's that sound?"
I should have walked away. Forgotten about the money. Forgotten about scoring. But I couldn't lie. "That sounds fine."
"Get me some clean works."
A needle was fetched, my dose was prepared.
The smell. Dirty wet clothes drying on a heater, coffee left too long on the counter, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. It made me drool.
They let me put my pants back on. Somebody tied my arm. Veins came to the surface like worms in the rain.
"Man, look at those veins pop.
"
Just get this over with, I thought. Get out with the smack. Do what I have to do.
The needle plunged.
EUPHORIA. That sweet Jesus' son feeling. The warm fuzzies. God DAMN. Better than I remembered. How could I have given this up?
This. This sensation was why I was here. I needed to take it with me.
"You look almost like your old self now."
But I was a million miles away, light years away. I was on the nod. A helium balloon tied to my wrist pulled me up. Floating in the rafters of Benny's loft, looking down at Benny and his henchmen and his girls. Couldn't feel my legs, just saw them dangle. Out the window I drifted, into the night sky, the big dipper close enough to touch. Below me, the streets of LA were pulsing veins with glowing red and white blood. Flying. Over Sunset. Over Hollywood. Over the mountains down into the Valley, Sherman Oaks, Granada Hills. My mother's house. I came low, looked through a window to see her in bed.
Riddled with cancer. Every breath a struggle. Just let go, Mom.
I wanted to reach in and take her with me. Something had me around the arm, a cuff attached to a long chain. I pulled, it pulled me back. I looked at the cord tied tight around my bicep.
I was back in Benny's loft.
"Whoa."
"Back from the land of nod." Benny smiled his gold-toothed smile. "Well, you're welcome any time. Don't be a stranger. Here's your goody bag."
I clutched it, feeling like Gollum holding his precious ring.
In my new state of mind, the sinister hallways were Caravaggio paintings of the underworld. The derelict faces were painted by Dutch masters. Still repellent, but fascinating too. I would have liked to sit and observe. Appreciate these seamy drawings.
No.
I needed to go.
People to see.
Places to be.
One person.
One place.
I junkie-walked down Alameda, limbs loose, head on a swivel, the Twin Towers Jail on my left. Four windowless stories of dungeon mazes. I knew from experience. I said a quick prayer for the guests there. Old memories messed with my high. I hustled past.