Wolfkind

by Stephen Melling

  Joshua, feeling absurdly like he had perhaps wandered onto a film set, reacted to the switchblade’s wicked glint. Moving far more quickly that his adversary, he sidestepped again and grabbed Earl’s knife hand at the wrist; gave it a hard squeeze. Something in there broke like a dry stick. Earl sucked in air and he stiffened. The knife slipped through his fingers and with a plop, vanished beneath the oily surface of a puddle.

  A scant second later, Joshua let him go. Earl did a fair impression of Oliver Hardy falling onto his backside, staring in disbelief at his wrist, which now boasted an extra joint. He retched twice before regurgitating a sticky glut of French fries into his lap.

  His girlfriend followed his gaze and mirrored his expression.

  Other diners spilled out onto the lot. Someone yelled: ‘Call the cops.’

  Joshua looked at his own hands. “I’m sorry…”

  “Get out of here,” the girl yelled from her boyfriend’s side, the knees of her jeans underwater, her make-up distinctly separate from her pallor. She reached into the puddle, retrieved the switchblade, and threw it into the rough grass. “Just go.”

  Heavy rain began to fall; no one ran for shelter. Joshua turned, hurriedly got into his car and rejoined the highway, racing through the gears. In the rearview mirror he saw the short-order cook leaning over Earl. The waitress joined them, her pale oval face angled at the highway, watching Joshua leave.

  Fearing she was perhaps taking down his license plate, he shifted down to third and tramped the pedal. The Camaro bucked and screamed over the tarmac, happy to oblige, kicking up road spray. Within a minute the dim orange glow of neon dwindled with distance. When the light winked out altogether, Joshua shifted his focus to stare at his reflection. For a moment, the eyes of a stranger stared back. A touch of fear pricked the nape of his neck.

  “Shit,” he said quietly.

  A long sigh whistled through his pursed lips. If finding a bite to eat proved such hard work, how would he find a place to sleep? Barlow should never have burdened him with this responsibility. But of course Joshua was the only one left capable. Now Nathanial was gone it wasn’t so much a matter of choice. It was a lack of options.

  Los Angeles

  At eleven thirty pm the temperature in LA hovered at seventy degrees, and owing to substandard air-conditioning, the Peppermint Palace sweltered. But this hardly discouraged the clientele. At eleven-thirty-five the doormen refused further admission to the crowded basement. Though built to hold three hundred and fifty, tonight the glitzy nightspot played host to nearly five hundred people.

  Beyond the queues a black limousine pulled in at the curb and a tall, pony-tailed man got out, his gold jewelry reflecting glints of neon. Divo Serefini quietly surveyed the bustling entrance like a general might survey a captured land. He stood tall as he could for a minute, swaying his arms and rolling his shoulders, like a boxer preparing to fight.

  “Keep it running,” he said to the driver and stepped up grandly to the entrance. Like Moses’ parting of the Red Sea the crowd miraculously made way, as though he were an irresistible force pushing at their opposite poles. This suited him. Nobody got in his way. Nobody touched his cloth.

  An obese man wearing a purple suit with the word MANAGER embroidered on the lapel greeted him with the offer of a sweaty hand. Serefini ignored it and looked past him, down the short corridor where strobe-lights from the dance hall reflected in his inky pupils. “They here?”

  The manager mopped his brow with a cotton handkerchief. “In the Booth at the far side of the floor,” he said. “Want a few of my boys to go with you?”

  “Only if I want a door holding open.”

  Serefini skirted the floor toward the rear of the club. His expression a stark contrast to the smiles and pouts of dancers. At the far side of the dance floor he spotted the snot-nosed little pricks. Alone and silhouetted against the far wall, motionless as gargoyles, watching him approach.

  It was the pick-up team all right. He recognized their manner as much as their appearance. Slouched low in their seats like piss-bored teenagers, while the strawberry tart lay across the table showing half of her ass.

  Before going any further, Serefini took several deep and calming breaths. Swallowing the insults of others - no matter how hard he tried - was an art he could not master; particularly when dealing with those clearly unfit to tie his shoelaces. He sorely wished Durant had given this job one of the others. Divo’s specialty was dishing the shit – not eating it.

  Safely in character, Serefini stepped up to the booth.

  The principal wiseass who called himself Nathan swigged whiskey straight from the bottle; a longhaired freak who looked like he’d missed the bus to a heavy metal concert. He wore flashy leather pants, a clinging white tea-shirt and a leather waistcoat. But the look in this kid’s eyes. Anyone would think he had Jesus on his left and the archangel Gabriel on his right.

  In the flashing strobes and colored lights the kid rocked his head to the booming beat. Not a care in the world. On his left, also moving his body to the music was a guy of similar appearance whom the other two called Blayne – long-haired, suntanned, same style in clothes. The strawberry tart – Melissa or Melinda – a girl so built-for-comfort she might have been manufactured, was gazing up at him. Serefini knew the type – wore beauty like a pair of torn Levis; a natural born slut.

  Three young people. Two wiseass guys, one floozy.

  This information encapsulated the whole of what the Durant syndicate knew about who they were hiring. An enigmatic hitman no one ever saw – or had even heard of six months ago – and used cocky youngsters to pick up contracts and collect payments. What was the underworld coming to?

  Serefini reached into his jacket and produced a bulky manila envelope, which he dumped unceremoniously on the table. A corner of the packet burst open, revealing stacks of bundled bank notes. “Count it.”

  Eyes never leaving Serefini, Nathan picked up the envelope and tossed it over to Blayne, who caught it deftly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I’m sure it’s all there, messenger boy – only a fool would short-change my capo. You’re not a fool are you?”

  Serefini found he was rocking left and right, swapping his weight from foot to foot like a teenager spoiling for a fight. He tried very hard to remain still, but felt his skull vibrated, and he realized he was grinding his teeth. Aware that he was close to snapping, he took a long, slow breath. “Wiseass punk,” he heard himself say. “You make me laugh-”

  “I make you angry,” The younger man corrected. “You want to kill me so bad your hands are shaking.”

  “You are one puzzled little boy,” Serefini said.

  “Riddle me this,” Nathan said. “The job’s done; you’ve delivered the green; yet you’re still standing here. Afraid of turning your back?”

  “Maybe you forgot to tip the guy,” Blayne said, punching his palm. “Goddam if he isn’t sticking around for his gratuity.”

  Melissa leaned across the table and whispered something in Nathan’s ear. Without breaking eye contact with Serefini, he nudged Blayne toward the girl. “She wants to dance.”

  Serefini blinked rapidly and felt blood rush to his face. When Divo Serefini entered a room, he remained the focus of fearful attention until he left. Not so on this occasion. Instead of sitting back open-mouthed at his dark magnificence, the young tart had grown bored and wanted to dance.

  The kid was no longer smiling. “What’s on your mind, messenger boy?”

  “The contract was for Regan.”

  “He pull through or something?”

  Serefini straightened. “Oh he’s dead, all right, along with his guards, his security workers, his surveillance team, even his dogs.”

  “So?”

  “So, people are talking. The Darvelly family back east has been asking who called in the hit. Maybe you’ve heard of Carmine Darvelly. His business interests affect the value of the dollar.”

  Nathan shrugged one shoulder. “Fuck him.”
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  Serefini’s forehead glistened under the lights. “You are way too cocky for this trade, sonny. This is a man’s world, not a club house. I’m cutting you slack because you don’t know who you’re fucking with.” Saliva gathered at the corner of his mouth; he swallowed.

  The longhaired youngster held his gaze. “You got that backwards: I know who you are, I know your address, I know your strengths, and I know your weaknesses. For all you know I could be the Silver Surfer.”

  Serefini leaned forward. “Let’s not pull on each other’s dicks. This arrangement stinks. Unless I meet face to face with your boss, we’re through – get the picture?”

  “My Capo meets only his, er… victims.” Nathan let his tongue loll and rolled his eyes. “Get the picture?”

  A thoroughly unpleasant thrill of fear rippled through Serefini. George Decarius once confessed that being near the Assassin’s pick-up men reminded him of being around the Dobermans. You were always wary of making any sudden movement. Twice now in the last minute Serefini had felt himself flinch.

  The talking was over.

  “The Oast house on Salerno in two days.” Serefini said. “Be there.”

  “Oooo. Then we still have a job?” said Nathan.

  “The contract will be performed as written.”

  “Relax, baby,” Nathan said. “Go have yourself a drink and a dance, or go lay one of the table-dancers they have here. They’re something else. I’ve ruined a couple myself, and Blayne, the horny little toad, has fucked ‘em all.”

  “I stick to my own kind.”

  “Your own kind?” Nathan said. “What are you, some kind of Husky?”

  Grunting, Serefini turned and strode away. Only on this occasion the throng did not magically part like the Red Sea to allow him through. Random drunks and dancers bumped into him; a Hispanic girl fell into his arms, laughed the smell of Martini in his face, and then boogied away, still laughing.

  On the Road

  The Camaro screamed over the blacktop at eighty miles per hour. Roadside scenery whizzed by in a blur. When Joshua eased his foot off the gas, a hundred miles of road separated him from the incident at Mel’s Diner.

  Radio stations faded in with a particular brand of music and stayed a while before fading out. While re-tuning the frequency a third time, Joshua yawned strenuously, causing the Camaro to drift over the white line. He straightened the wheel and gave a brisk shake of his head. Since fleeing the diner he had driven well into Iowa, making very good time. But now he needed rest.

  Roadside motels were as frequent a feature of the landscape as trees and hills, but after the trouble at the diner he found he couldn’t pull in at any of them – nor leave the relative sanctity of his car, for that matter. The next one, he kept promising himself. I’ll stop at the next one. But whenever an oasis of neon brightness appeared on the horizon, he remembered the confrontation, and he kept his foot to the pedal.

  After cruising several more miles of open road, Joshua saw a flickering neon sign: The Calypso Inn, which hovered above another sign which spelled part of the word Vacancy. A motel much like the dozens he had already given the go by. He slowed, took in the façade before tramping the gas. It was just too…it was just not…

  It was just right Joshua insisted as he cranked the steering, spinning onto the parking lot’s west ramp. The tires kicked up a dust cloud, which drifted across the deserted lot and into the cold night air.

  Through the Camaro’s wiper-arced windshield he watched moths circle the stuttering red neon. Soft light from reception spilled across the porch. He switched off the ignition and stole a moment to gather himself, alone with the ticking and pinging from the cooling engine. He heard his rhythmic breathing. Felt his heart beating.

  Only one other car occupied the lot; an old Dodge van covered in faded bumper stickers. If the Dodge belonged to the manager, then the motel could well be deserted. This suited Joshua fine.

  He took a final deep breath, grabbed his bag, and climbed out of the car. The night was cold and fresh and aromatic, the air windless and after the perpetual droning of the engine, strangely tranquil. All he heard was the soft hum of neon. He took a moment to breathe the cool air before stepping onto the porch. A red sticker on the window read: - don’t ask for credit, as a kick in the pants is apt to offend.

  A bell tinkled overhead when he entered. Warmth, subdued jazz music from an unseen source, and the smell of sweet tobacco enveloped him. He closed the door behind him and the bell tinkled again. Green linoleum, threadbare to the wood in places, covered the floor. The painted walls exhibited a collection of black and white photographs of football stars. On a shelf behind the front desk stood several trophies which gleamed in the soft light. Engraved on the largest trophy was the name Benjamin Lincoln Jefferson.

  Unsure of the exact mechanics of booking a room, Joshua approached the desk blinking like a barn owl. A plaque by a brass bell read: Ring for Service. He placed his bag by his feet and tapped the bell. Pingggg. The manager, who remained seated for reasons soon obvious, cleared his throat.

  A small, bald-headed black man of about sixty or seventy was saddled, almost out of sight, in a leather easy-chair behind the desk. He observed Joshua at length over the top of his spectacles before folding his newspaper and hobbling to the counter.

  Joshua lowered his gaze. In place of the man’s left leg was a lusterless aluminum support, an old Nike training shoe scotch-taped to the base. Joshua craned his neck for a better look when it occurred to him this ham-handed curiosity might cause offense. He quickly straightened.

  But the old man only smiled. “Before you ask,” he said. “I didn’t leave it in Vietnam, Korea, or on the beach at Normandy. Lost it playing pro football back in sixty-three.” He waved off-handedly at the photographs. “That’s me, Benjamin L. Jefferson. Ah, you probably never heard a me. Anywise, got myself nuked in the first quarter, and being that the knife-happy bastard surgeon that got his dukes on me was drunk as a blind skunk, I didn’t get what you’d call,” he tapped his aluminum limb, “evenhanded treatment. ‘Nuff about me. I take it you want to bag some Z’s?”

  Joshua felt instantly at ease. “A room for one night, please.”

  The ex-footballer gave a brisk nod of approval. “Most folk who ding my bell want no more than directions. I tell ‘em if they wanna go east turn left, and if they wanna go west turn right.”

  Joshua found himself drawn by the old man’s easy personality. His experience of colorful characters began and ended with Max Barlow back in New Hampshire, his brother Nathanial, and in the early days, other members of their sequestered society. Television had been his only other stimulus – mostly episodes of Friends and reruns of The Six Million Dollar Man.

  “A room you want – and a room it is,” said the old man.

  Underneath Jefferson’s apparent friendliness, Joshua detected the vaguest implication of wariness, which he had sensed when he first entered the room. But the man’s unease soon dissipated; his instinct sharp enough for him to know Joshua meant no harm.

  “Is there a place I can get something to eat?” Joshua asked.

  “Hal’s diner’s maybe ten miles west of here,” Benjamin said. “Place ain’t what you’d call classy, but their wares’ll stop the rumbling.” He plucked a pen from behind his ear and slid it toward Joshua. “If you’ll sign your handle,” he said. “We be moving right along.”

  Joshua picked up the pen and as he signed the register, a peculiar sensation tickled his belly, as though the simple procedure marked official confirmation of his existence in society.

  Old Benjamin pulled the register toward him and read the signature. “Well, Josh, you’re officially checked in and all I need now is the first night’s rent in advance, twenty-five dollars.” He rubbed his leathery palms together.

  Joshua fumbled out a considerable wad of cash and carefully extracted three ten-dollar bills.

  Benjamin touched Joshua’s wrist. “Don’t be flashin’ cash like you some kinda Donald Tru
mp, son. Out on the street your ass will get whipped and stripped before you can yell foul.” He narrowed one eye. “You put it away, now.”

  Joshua pocketed the money. Benjamin took the three tens and in return gave him a crumpled five, together with a room key. “Third unit along. That’s two up from mine. I’d put you right next door, but I tends to snore louder than most can stand.”

  “Well, thank you,” Joshua said sincerely, and looked Benjamin up and down, right from the old Nike trainer strapped to his artificial limb to his bald head. His curiosity was pure and innocent, unsullied by haughtiness, or the clumsy indifference displayed by some able-bodied people. “You must have…seen a lot,” he said in a low voice, then dropped his gaze and turned to leave.

  “Hey,” the old man called after him.

  Joshua looked back.

  “My diabetes insists I take a break in about an hour; couple of sandwiches and a beer. If you don’t care for that drive, you’re more than welcome to pull up a chair.”

  Joshua blinked. “That’s kind of you,” he said.

  Out on the verandah Joshua counted three doors down and let himself into the unit. Inside, the tang of disinfectant and cheap air freshener failed to mask the underlying smell of mildew and bug spray. He found the light switch and flicked it. In the meager glow he saw a double bed, a lopsided chest of drawers and an old bulbous television. On a scratched and dented nightstand were a large ash tray and a reading lamp, which cast a dull glow onto a chunky black telephone. A faded painting of a bowl of citrus fruit overlooked the bed.

  He dumped his bag by the door and explored the room, opening drawers and cupboards, touching surfaces, walls, the TV. He perceived traces left by previous occupants, their faint presence clinging like finger-prints to the furniture. Someone had carved his or her initials – A.T.B, into the bathroom door. He went in and swished back the shower curtain. The white enamel had long since worn off the bottom of the tub. Above him a tarnished brass nozzle hung askew over the rail.