by Barr, Jeff
Sugar felt coolness wash over her. Sonch hefted the gun, making sure the light hit it, displaying it to her like a dark jewel.
"Listen, asshole," she said. She scratched at a sudden burst of itching under the flesh of her arm. "Maas is going to cram that thing up your ass sideways if you don't leave me alone. You know that, right?"
"It turns me on when you talk all dirty like that. Tell you what, honey. I'm going to let you off with a warning." Sonch's eyes twinkled in the dim light of the bedroom. "The warning is this: if you don't get on your knees and swoggle my hoggle, I'm going to bend you over that bed and gun-fuck you until you rupture an ovary. You hear me, mamacita?" He stepped toward her, eyes sparkling with Satanic glee. She tensed, readying erself. Her entire body blazed with itching.
She heard a whisper, like tall grass in a breeze, a thud, and Sonch dropped to the carpet like a sack of dirty laundry. He thumped to the floor, eyes rolled back in his head. Behind him stood Arneson, eyes as bleak as ever. He tucked a flat black club into the front of his jeans and shook his head at Sonch's crumpled form.
"Fucking asshole," they said in unison. She quirked a smile, and he returned it. He reached down to take the gun, and made it disappear.
"Would you be a good boy and take care of this for me?" She said, nudging Sonch's arm with her toe. "I've got a bath running." She didn't miss the not-too-quick run of his eyes up and down her body.
His voice was thick. "Yes ma'am."
She took her time strolling into the bathroom. When she looked back over her shoulder, an invitation on her lips, he was already gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
The next morning, Arneson pulled into a spot just vacated by a silver Honda, lit a cigarette, and checked his mirrors. He hummed along under his breath with the mindless pop on the radio. He watched out the windshield, fiddling with the radio, tapping the wheel with his fingers. Tension burned in his gut like a hot wire. Brightly-lit tourist birds flocked the sidewalks, cawing at the kitschy quaintness of Santa Colima's downtown. Bookshops, windows displaying homely unglazed pottery, restaurants with one-word, abstract names like BONHOMIE, KANG, CUCINA.
He checked his watch again. At a few minutes past eight, a guy in a navy-blue t-shirt and khakis walked past. Arneson got out and followed him into a nearby coffee shop. Everything inside was muted earth tones: green or brown or beige, as if the shop had grown up out of the ground, ready to make coffee and accept credit cards.
Arneson ordered a black coffee and leaned against a shelf stacked with whimsically-painted mugs. When they called his name, he got his coffee and walked into the men's bathroom.
He stood at the urinal. Within thirty seconds, he heard the door open behind him. The other man spoke while washing his hands.
"When I leave here, there's going to be a phone on the counter. Disposable and untraceable. It's going to ring in two days. You're going to pick up and ask if Victor is calling. If you get any answer other than 'Extension Three', destroy the phone and scramble. Otherwise, you'll get your instructions. Got all that?" The man sounded vaguely amused.
Arneson watched the other man's movements reflected in the chrome fittings on the next urinal. "Yeah, I got it."
"Enjoy your coffee." The man dried his hands and left the bathroom. Arneson washed his hands, staring into the mirror.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Arneson's phone buzzed. Maas, sounding unusually jolly for so early in the morning. Not a good sign.
"So. The wind speaks. It whispers in my ear. Do you have any idea why it whispers in my ear?"
"Sonch."
"Sonch." Maas sighed, and Arneson felt the wind whisper in his own ear. "I need you to deal with him. Immediately. I'm getting some, uh…push-back about that whole…thing the other day. I mean serious push-back. Folks are not happy, and it's affecting business. So, I need to offer assurances that the concerns are heard, and addressed. Can I count on you? Today?"
"Yes."
"I mean, I need to prove that this kind of thing won't happen again. Ever. OK?"
Even though he had been expecting it, Arneson felt his stomach drop. "Sure."
"Good." Arneson heard the clicking of Maas's computer mouse. Having put the issue of Sonch behind, the bastard was resuming his normal daily routine. Arneson felt a moment of burning hatred for Maas, sitting in his office with the northern exposure light, Journey or Night Ranger on the stereo, full and happy as a tick sucking the blood from a deer's ass. "So, what about you, Arneson? How are things?"
"Good."
Maas paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was veined with something green and poisonous. "Seriously: what have you been doing? Anything you need to tell me?"
Arneson felt the ice under his feet crack. Step carefully. You are in a delicate spot here. "Doing my job," Arneson said. Maas didn't miss much; a man in his position, it didn't pay to do so.
Another pause, longer. Then Maas snorted into the phone. "Christ, dude, lighten up a bit, would you? You're so humorless." If Arneson could have traveled over the airwaves and popped through Maas' phone, he could have cheerfully throttled him. "It's OK to pretend to be human every once in a while."
Arneson said nothing.
"Alright then. See you soon. Don't forget: make sure Sonch knows why."
"Will do."
Arneson hung up, his mind ticking over. Doing this to Sonch would be hard. Up until the killing in the trailer, and the attack on Sugar, Arneson would have said he liked Sonch. That had changed, but still: you didn't work cheek-by-jowl with someone for this long, then just turn around and shoot him in the face. He tried on plans, and threw them away when they didn't fit. Maas hadn't given him any room to maneuver—only rope to hang himself.
He hung a hard right and stepped on the gas, heading back into town, toward Sonch's place.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
He awoke slowly, groaning and blinking, lifting one hand to block the morning sun streaming in through the grimy windows. He hocked and spat a wad of phlegm, but it only dribbled down the side of his face. "Shee-it." He swabbed his face with the first thing he could pick up; his own underwear. His hand roamed the floor next to his grungy mattress, looking for cigarettes. He knocked over a half bottle of Jack Daniels and cursed when his hand dragged through the wet patch. He licked the brown liquid off his tobacco-stained fingers.
"You always were a class act, Sonch," Arneson's voice rasped from beside him.
His eyes popped open, bloodshot as two egg yolks in tomato juice. "Jesus, Arneson, you scared the fuck outta me. Please let this be a nightmare, 'cuz it's way too early to get up." His head flopped back onto the mattress.
"No such luck."
The place was a shambles: food lay rotting on plates, dirty clothing pilled everywhere, squadrons of flies buzzing like a somnolent choir. The place was as hot and fetid as a Florida swamp.
"Shit, last night must have been something. My head's aching fit to split. Did you bring me home?" Sonch fumbled around the floor again, looking for his cigarettes. This time he was lucky, and dug up a crumpled pack with one bent nail sticking out. "I don't remember shit, but my Christ, the bean-pounder I've got. If it's all the same to you, I'll just lie here and—"
Arneson drew his pistol, bringing it to bear on the spot between Sonch's eyes. Sonch stared into the black mouth of the barrel, and something clicked in his throat when he swallowed.
"Hey, what the fuck, man! Get that thing out of my f—"
Arneson's slap echoed in the reeking confines of the apartment like a small caliber pistol. Sonch held a hand to his face, shocked.
Arneson tapped him on the cheek with the barrel of the gun. "Get up."
"Shit, man!" Sonch's eyes blazed with sudden recall. "It was you. You cold-cocked me."
Arneson stared down at him. "I did. You were out of line. But I'm here now because Maas sent me."
"What?" Sonch had sweated through his shirt, leaving a damp upside-down half moon like a sickle blade. "No. No way."
"The man's get
ting pressure from your little escapade at jolly old Meth-Head Acres, and he threw you under the bus. Tough old world."
"But—"
"But, I am giving you a get out of jail free card."
"What? You're kidding me." Sonch sat up. "You wouldn't go against Maas."
"No, you wouldn't go against Maas. I'm not you." Arneson lowered himself onto a nearby chair, the barrel still pointing at Sonch. "Get cracking."
Sonch snorted. "Right. Just going to let me walk away, huh?" His eyes darted to something on the floor. Arneson had already clocked it: one of Sonch's swords, unsheathed and half-buried under a pile of stained clothes. "At least let me get some clothes on. Something I want to be buried in, you know?"
"Spare me the theatrical lunge for your pigsticker. I'm serious, I'm letting you go. I'm making you go."
"Shit, man, I don't about this."
Arneson actually laughed. "Are you serious? Here I am, offering you a get-out-of-shallow-desert-grave-free card, and you're having trouble making up your mind?" Arneson nudged a crumpled duffel bag with his boot. "Hustle up."
"I need to stop at a couple places, pick up some cash and—"
Arneson leaned forward, pushing the gun into Sonch's face. "You need to leave town, now, or you can go with option B. Your choice."
Sonch actually appeared to be thinking it over. "I don't get it. Why are you letting me go? Why not kill me?"
Arneson kicked the bag at him. "The only thing you need to know is get moving. Pack up your shit and get going. Now."
Sonch began stuffing dirty clothes into the bag, cutting his eyes to the gun and away. "I never took you for a softy, Arneson."
"And one more thing, Sonch. Sorry about this, nothing personal." Arneson brought one big boot down, pinning Sonch's arm to the floor. Arneson knelt and picked up Sonch's sword, then swung it down and chopped off Sonch's little finger. The blade cut through flesh and bone as easily as a Ginsu blade through a tomato.
"FUCK!" Sonch shrieked, thrashing in his bed. He lifted his injured hand, waving it in front of his face as if in amazement. Blood pattered down on the filthy sheet. He cradled his hand to his chest like a bird with a broken wing. He carried on until his screeching quieted to a sobbing mewl, and then to mumbling as he rocked in his bed, wrapping his bleeding hand in a dirty t-shirt. He glared at Arneson with tears swimming in his eyes. "You muscle-bound asshole. If my hand wasn't fucked up, I would show you some shit, man."
Arneson grabbed the front of Sonch's shirt and dragged him, protesting, to his feet. "If you're feeling froggy, go ahead and jump."
"Yeah, yeah, big man, hit a guy while he's down, while he's hungover." Sonch grinned at him like a rotten jack-o-lantern. "Is this because I tried to pick up on that cunt?" He barked laughter. "You poor, dumb sonofabitch, don't you know that Maas is fucking that sweet pie every which way but loose every damn night?"
Sonch had just enough time to yelp as the wall approached his face at roughly Mach 5. The landlord had painted over a cockroach, now forever frozen to the wall like Han Solo in carbonite. His face slammed into the bug, cracking the drywall and sending up a puff of dust. Sonch sneezed, howling in pain at his broken nose.
"Fuck!" he barked. Blood sheeted down his top lip, pasting down his mustache.
"I said, nothing personal. Now you got five minutes to get your shit and get out, or I really start hurting you."
Sonch moved like his ass was on fire, and was out the door and in his ratty Chevy before five minutes was up.
"You're welcome." Arneson surveyed the apartment, shaking his head. "Asshole." He would find a public phone and put out a call, but he didn't expect them to pick up Sonch right away; guys like him had a way of disappearing into the muck and mire of the underworld quickly and without a ripple. But he would bubble up again, and by then Arneson would be done with this whole mess and be down the road. Another place, another name, another job.
He pocketed the finger before stepping out into the hall. In this part of town, the sounds coming out of Sonch's apartment didn't rate even a flicker of interest. He left through the front doors of the building and drove away without looking back.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Sugar scratched her arm, digging her nails into the tender itch. A long itching line of red ran along her ulnar vein. She scrubbed at it with a sea-sponge loofa, the rainfall shower head belting down scalding water. The shower was lined with dark limestone, and compared to her shower back in LA, looked big enough to play a game of racquetball. It was even bigger than the shower in her casita.
"Goddamn dirty bastard." She scrubbed ferociously at another red spot on her leg. This wasn't the Skunge, she was sure of it. There had been no sign of it. She was clean--except for the bad dreams. Nightmares of The Skunge suddenly squirming its way from her eyes, her mouth. Terrifying images of Palmetto stalking toward her with his surgical tools and his bottles of vinegar and salt. Worst of all, visions of Jynx, dead and rotting, dragging herself down long, moonlight highways, lost forever: but searching for Sugar to take her revenge. Sugar had been convinced that she would suffer the nightmares forever, the sweat-soaked horror movies that plagued her every night. Then, things had changed and the nightmare blew away like mist. It hadn't come back yet, not for the past two weeks.
"My ears are burning," Arneson said, stepping into the shower behind her. His erection bobbed like a dowsing rod. He leaned over her shoulder, one hand sliding over her hip, the other cupping the side of her face and guiding her mouth to his.
She sucked his tongue, feeling her teeth click against his. When she bit at his lower lip and took him in her hand, she grinned at his appreciative moan. He growled and turned her to face him, lifting her and pushing her against the tile. He pinned her there, his mouth on hers. He slid into her, one hand underneath her thigh, the other on her hip, indenting the skin. She hoped it would leave a mark. They moved together, her ass slapping against the wall, her ankles crossed behind the small of his back. When he reached underneath to stroke her, she cried out until he covered her mouth with his.
Afterward, drowsing in the fan-stirred afternoon heat, she woke him by tracing the line of his jaw with her fingernail.
"You have a cruel face." She traced his bottom lip, touching the scars, running her fingertips over the bony knot on his nose where it had been broken. She ran her finger along the scrawled white line of a scar that ran from the side of his throat almost to his cheekbone. His black stubble ran white along the scar, like a river on a map.
"Thanks." He rolled over and lit two cigarettes, placing one in her mouth before stretching out on the bed.
"It makes you look like a criminal."
"I am a criminal. Thanks again."
She snorted smoke out of her nose, her version of a laugh. She prodded at his tattoos.
"You know what I mean." She seemed to delight in poking at the muscles in his shoulders and arms, dimpling the flesh with her fingertip, watching it bounce back. "These tattoos look new."
"A couple years old maybe, most of them—I got a bunch after I got out of prison."
"How long?"
"The last time, only a year. Small-time shit."
"What does this one mean?"
He glanced at it. "It's a chick with a machete. It's from a book I read once."
"No, underneath that. The name. It looks like 'Nicole'. Old girlfriend?"
"Something like that." He sat up with a grunt and flipped on the TV. It blared into life.
"God, sometimes you're such an asshole, Arneson. You know that?"
"You keep complimenting me, it's going to go to my head."
She slapped his shoulder. "Is it so much to ask for you to talk to me sometimes?"
"I am talking," he said, squinting at the TV through the smoke of his cigarette.
"Ug ug, I talking, ug ug, me caveman, you Jane," she said. "What a bunch of bullshit. That's not talking, it's grunting."
He made a smoke ring. "Why all the questions?"
"Is that
so bad? What, do you think I'm going to write an unauthorized biography about you? There's no money in it." She sat up, throwing her arms wide. "No, wait, you're worried I'm going to make a movie about you. A caveman who travels to the future to fall for the pornstar with a heart of gold. We'll get Lucas, and Spielberg, and—"
"Funny."
"So come on. Tell me something. Anything."
He let his eyes wander over her: the halo of blond hair, eyes the color of dollar bills. "I'm a sucker for petite blonds. I like short walks on a long beach and the smooth jazz stylings of John Tesh."
She sighed and elbowed her way into the crook of his arm. On the screen, a police sketch of a suspect in an interstate kidnapping. "Ugh, why do you watch this true-crime crap?" She stretched languorously so one long tawny leg rested across his thighs. His hand began to rub and squeeze, and she gave him more leg.
"It's interesting." On the screen, a picture of a young girl flashed across the screen, followed by the text of a 911 call. "Besides, you never know when you might see one of these kids, out on the streets. Send them home, make their family's day."
"A hit man with a heart of gold, that's what you are."
The screen flashed to a picture of a kid smiling with gap-toothed geniality at the camera. Missing for 16 months, before his bones were found buried in a shallow grave near Devil's Lake in Oregon.
"Poor little bastard," Arneson said.
Sugar moved in closer to him, breathing him in. "Sad. I bet his parents wish he had never been born at all."
He looked at her. "You don't really think that."
"I do. Maybe he thought they let him die. Scared, alone, thinking they didn't care enough about him to find him. Don't you think his parents would trade in their happy times to save him that pain?"
Arneson looked at the TV, eyes far away. He shook his head. "No. If they did their job, he would have known that what happened wasn't anyone's fault except the fucker that took him. He would have been thinking about them, and it would have given him something to focus on. He would have hoped to see them again, later on. Somewhere."