by Unknown
“Sit where you want,” said the waitress. “Anywhere’s free—”
McKinley took a booth. He caught his reflection in the glass – the rain had smudged him, like mascara streaking down his forehead and cheeks. Twenty-nine years old and he looked fifty, or sixty. His reflection depressed him. He’d declined so swiftly, so suddenly. He unrolled his napkin and wiped the smudges from his prominent forehead, inspecting his receded hairline. His eyes were cloaked in shadows from the overhead lights and the acne craters covering his cheeks cast shadows as well. Unlike the rest of his face, however, his nose was still elegant, like a raptor’s beak. McKinley turned three-quarters profile and admired his nose in the window reflection. The rest might look like shit, he thought, but I’ll always have my nose. McKinley slid the envelope to the table. He pulled a pack of Kools from his pocket and hung his coat on the back booth hook.
A few moments later, the waitress poured him a glass of water and a cup of coffee.
“Cream and sugar’s over there,” she said. “You wanted pie?”
“Yeah,” said McKinley. “Yeah, I do—”
“Chocolate, chocolate cream, strawberry, key lime, rhubarb, pecan, pecan walnut, pecan supreme—”
“Apple?” asked McKinley. “How about Dutch Apple?”
“Dutch apple,” she said. “A la mode?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means with ice cream—”
“Why not?” said McKinley. “A la mode—”
“I’m Jaime,” said the waitress. “Give a holler if you need anything—”
“Will do—”
At the far end of the bar a middle-aged man sat with a newspaper. A traveling salesman, McKinley thought. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie loosened. He sat without moving, almost without blinking. He stared at the newspaper to distant thoughts. Smoke curled up from the cigarette in the tray and disappeared into the lights. His hair was sandy blonde, cut short. His lips were plump and pouting. After a moment, he languidly picked up the cigarette and took a drag. He replaced it in the tray. Nearer to McKinley was the drunk he’d seen from outside, slumped over, probably asleep, a plate of hotcakes half eaten and probably cold on the counter near his elbow.
McKinley unsealed the manila envelope – two pairs of latex gloves, a tri-fold brochure, several pills, a wad of cotton, and an 8 x 10 glossy of his mark: an older man, white hair shaved close to his skull, vivid blue eyes. Fielding had written Councilman Rutherford Ockley in Sharpie beneath the man’s face, but McKinley already recognized the man. Local news broadcasts, the immigration debate, the Public Trust. What have I gotten myself into? Even seeing Ockley’s photograph, knowing he would kill the man, triggered nausea and McKinley chewed and dry-swallowed two of the white pills. The nausea abated.
McKinley slid the photograph back into the envelope and pocketed the rest of the pills, in case he needed them during the kill. He hadn’t seen Rutherford Ockley in the diner. McKinley took the envelope with him but left the brochure on the table. He took a quick walk around Ritter’s, scrutinizing the two men’s faces as he passed them. The drunk was an older man with white hair, but nothing like the man in the photograph. The traveling salesman was decades too young. McKinley checked all the booths, but found them empty.
“Fuck,” he said, making his way back to his booth. “Fuck me—”
He glanced again at the Empire’s Forge clock: 3:32.
“Happy Birthday, McKinley,” said Jaime, plopping down a steaming slice of Dutch apple heaped with vanilla ice cream. The ice cream had already started to melt, running like cream in rivulets between the apple chunks. She’d put a candle in the ice cream, pink and blue stripes.
“Make a wish,” she said.
McKinley wished. He blew. The candlelight disappeared in a puff of fragrant smoke, but sparked and flickered back into light.
“Got ya,” said Jaime.
McKinley snorted a laugh. He plucked out the candle and dropped it in his water glass.
“Very funny,” he said.
“You know, I dated a McKinley once,” said Jaime. “The Protocol Board made me break it off—”
“Everyone slums with McKinleys—”
“It wasn’t slumming,” said Jaime. “I really liked him—”
“How old are you?” asked McKinley.
“Twenty-one—”
“Don’t take it so hard. Your boyfriend’s probably already starting to look like me—”
“He already was looking like you,” she said. “Just a younger you—”
“Thanks for the pie—”
“It’s on the house,” said Jaime. “Thirty’s a big year—”
“That’s mighty swell,” said McKinley. “Thanks a lot—”
“So, how long do you have? To live, I mean—”
“Depends,” said McKinley. “I’m healthy, I work out. I might get a week, a week and a half at the outside – unless something miraculous happens. Unless I get the right kind of medication—”
“They don’t have anything to help you,” said Jaime. “It would be banned, anyway—”
“They have it,” said McKinley. “And it is banned. That’s why I need a miracle—”
“Yeah, well, like I said. Happy Birthday—”
“You never know,” said McKinley as she walked away. “Maybe my birthday wish will come true —”
McKinley scooped a bite of pie and a bit of ice cream. The Dutch apple was good – cinnamon and brown sugar, a crisp crust. The apple filling wasn’t fresh, but what could you hope for? Fresh apples would bankrupt a place like this. He ran his hand through his hair and saw black, curly strands flutter down onto the white ice cream. Fuck, he thought, picking out the hair. The hair’s the first thing to go.
Headlights pierced the window and McKinley looked outside. The gunmetal Lexus had turned from Baum and pulled into Ritter’s lot. McKinley went tingly. His heart fluttered. Keep it together, McKinley, just calm the fuck down. His hands shook, but he slid on a pair of the gloves, snapping the latex over his wrists. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat, as did his armpits and back, but he was careful not to wipe his forehead with his gloves. Keep the gun dry.
The Lexus doors opened and two figures hurried across the gravel lot, sharing an umbrella. McKinley only saw their legs – a man’s in dark trousers, the other’s a woman’s, in heels. He watched them hurry up the walk then lost them around the front corner of the building. A moment later, he heard the front bells ring.
“The two of you?” asked Jaime. “Sit anywhere you want—”
“Thank you,” said the man, his voice graced with a lilting Welsh accent.
McKinley swiveled in his seat and saw the man from the photograph: Rutherford Ockley. He was taller than McKinley would have guessed, and much thicker, more muscular. His eyes were even more piercing than the blues in the photograph. When he and McKinley’s eyes met, McKinley felt pinned to his seat, exposed.
“Good morning,” said Ockley as he passed. “How’s the pie?”
McKinley grunted, clutching his gloved hands beneath the table. Ockley wore a charcoal-colored suit and an overcoat, a brimmed hat clutched in his hand. He exuded charismatic plasticity. Snuggled beside him was a lean blonde, a quarter of his age if not younger. Her hair was curled, parted over the left eye in a tight zigzag. She wore a crimson dress that clung to her, a modest neckline in front but cut low enough behind to expose her pale back all the way to the shapely curve at the base of her spine. Rutherford Ockley’s hand was inside the dress, around her bare waist. She wore crimson pumps at the end of her milky, long legs, her calf muscles shapely and defined. The drunk lifted his head as if he could sense her presence and stared at the woman as she passed. Even the traveling salesman broke his pose, ogling the woman’s legs until she’d tucked herself out of sight into the far corner of her booth.
McKinley slid a cigarette from his pack. He lit up with a stray match left over in the porcelain ashtray. Ockley and his girlfriend laughed ov
er some joke Jaime made. They ordered pie. Jaime went to the kitchen and Ockley’s girl slid from the table. McKinley sucked his cigarette and watched her. She made her way to the jukebox, slipping between the empty tables. She leaned over its glass to see the selections. She’s posing, thought McKinley. Bending over like that on purpose. The salesman couldn’t keep his eyes off her. McKinley wondered if she was a hooker, or a dancer from one of the clubs. He wondered if he could find her picture on a handbill if he asked on enough street corners, or peeked into enough dives. She heightened the tension in the room, but McKinley’s lust was dull – had he not been impotent from a lifetime’s worth of Sterilites in his mashed potatoes, she might have done something for him. As it was, he watched her like a butcher, wondering if he’d have to kill her.
“You don’t mind if I play a song, do you?” she asked the salesman.
“Lady, you can do whatever you want—”
McKinley’s stomach spewed acid up his throat and into his mouth. Eckstein’s Mr. Saturday Night sounded from the jukebox and the woman started dancing, just enough motion of her hips to suggest something, just enough movement to let the men know. Her eyes were almond-shaped, emerald green. She locked eyes with the salesman and laughed.
“Come on over here and sit down,” said Ockley. “Come on, baby—”
“Why don’t you dance with me?” she asked the councilman.
“Let’s have some pie instead—”
The show was over. The woman pouted, but returned to the booth. McKinley lowered his eyes, inspecting the brochure from the envelope. It was a travel brochure for the Kingfisher resort in Haiti – the cover photograph showing a beach at sunset with two silhouettes jogging together, hand in hand beneath palm trees. Haiti by morning, Flights and Hotels starting at £499. Inside the brochure, the pictures showed the Kingfisher’s interior – a deluxe bedroom with an ocean vista, two women sharing drinks at a bar near the fireside, one a brunette, the other a Haitian, her skin a rich mahogany. The opposite page showed the same women wearing bikinis in an outdoor Jacuzzi, palm trees ringing the outer dark. We’re waiting for you, it read. The idea of Haiti calmed McKinley. He’d always wanted to go to Haiti. In Pittsburgh, he’d never been able to truly see the sun. Whenever he looked at the sky, even on the brightest afternoons, he could stare at the sun and it was only a pale white disc because of the soot and ash. In Haiti, he’d be able to see the sun, to squint at it, to feel its light burning his skin.
McKinley pulled the cotton wad from the envelope, glancing at the others in the diner, wondering if they’d turn towards him, if they’d somehow sense what he was doing, but no one looked his way. He unwrapped the gun. It came in two shrink-wrapped pieces, the gun itself and a magazine pre-filled with bullets. The gun was compact, blunt, and both it and the magazine looked like beige plastic, Braddock Firearms embossed on the grip. McKinley cut into the shrink-wrap with his car key and opened the package, carefully removing each piece. The world was receding from him. His ears were ringing, they couldn’t hear quite right – like they were stuffed up with wax. He checked the clock: 3:45. The magazine slid into the grip with startling ease and clicked into place. He held the gun beneath the table, wondering if anyone had heard the click of the magazine, but no one had noticed, no one had heard. McKinley chambered a round. There was no safety on the Braddock.
He lowered his head and stared dumbly at his melting ice cream, wanting to pray for strength, but there was nothing and no one he could pray to. He pulled the white pills from his pocket and ate a few more with another bite of pie.
McKinley slid from his booth, the Braddock semi-automatic at his side. Eckstein switched to Como’s Some Enchanted Evening on the jukebox. McKinley stopped at Ockley’s booth. McKinley’s tongue felt too swollen to speak. He breathed heavily, inhaling, exhaling, feeling flush, and nearly hyperventilating. Spittle frothed at the corners of his lips and mucous dripped from the tip of his elegant nose.
“Well, what is it?” said Ockley, his Welch accent curling around the words.
“Are you Rutherford Ockley?” McKinley managed to say.
“Councilman,” said the woman.
McKinley raised the gun, a thin stream of blood trickling from his nostril.
“Calm down,” said the salesman. “Hey, we’re ok. It’s all right, calm down—”
“Waitress?” shouted Ockley. “Waitress? Get this McKinley away from me. He’s malfunctioning—”
McKinley fired. The sound was a sharp clack and Ockley’s forehead exploded into blood, his vivid blue eyes rising confusedly to the ceiling. The woman squealed. McKinley took a step forward and grabbed the councilman’s throat, steadying him. He put the barrel of the gun against Ockley’s temple and fired again. Ockley’s brains sprayed the window and the woman. She screamed and McKinley panicked. He raised the gun to her.
“No, no,” she said, “You don’t understand who I am—”
He shot her in the chest to quiet her. The woman slumped forward and slid from the leather booth to beneath the table, her dress hiked up past her thighs. Empty the clip, Fielding had told him. Be sure to empty the fucking clip. The air smelled sharp.
The traveling salesman was on his knees, hands raised. The drunk was passed out cold. Jaime cried from behind the bar, “Don’t shoot me, oh please God, don’t shoot me, don’t kill me, oh God—”
“I’m sorry,” said McKinley. “Fucking Christ—”
Time was like syrup. McKinley’s ears rang. His head pounded. He felt like he was choking. McKinley turned back to Ockley’s corpse and raised the gun with both hands, targeting the councilman’s face. McKinley emptied the clip – clack, clack, clack – until Rutherford Ockley was an unrecognizable slur of cartilage, bone, brains and blood. Even over the waitress’s screams, McKinley heard the corpses bubble and suck, the blood plashing beneath the table in a pool, running into the aisle. McKinley dropped the gun and nearly fainted, his vision dimming. He breathed. His head cleared and his senses returned to him. He picked up the gun.
Ritter’s men’s room was down a narrow hall that ran alongside the kitchen. It smelled of vomit and urinal cake, the floors linoleum tile, the walls covered in graffiti. McKinley filled his palm with lilac-scented foam soap from the sink dispenser then knelt in the stall in front of the stainless-steel toilet. The walls were covered with phone numbers and names, a few detailed sketches of genitals. McKinley lathered the gun with soap then plunged his hands into the toilet water, scrubbing vigorously. Spit pooled beneath his tongue and he felt like he was going to cry or puke, or both, but he scrubbed until finally the gun started to come apart in his hands, dissolving, turning into a blackish lump, then to paper pulp floating on the surface of the water. He broke down the larger clumps with his fingers and flushed. The foamy pulp swirled to the center but went down. The water came up clean. McKinley rinsed off his gloves in the sink. He hurried back through the dining room.
Jaime and the salesman stood near the corpses, gawking at the blood.
“I called the cops,” said Jaime, almost distractedly.
McKinley shoved the Haitian Kingfisher brochure and the shrink-wrap trash back into the manila envelope before putting on his coat.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
McKinley rushed past the front register. He slipped on the handbills littering the lobby. Half his boot track was blood, the other half dirt. He looked back through the diner and saw his boot tracks stamped out in blood. McKinley ran into the night. The rain had weakened into a sooty mist. The cold spray felt fresh against his face. “Christ Jesus,” McKinley muttered. Sirens blared in the distance. McKinley sprinted to the parking lot. He knew full well the police could be responding to any number of crimes along the Baum corridor. Once in his car, he turned the ignition and for a brief, heart-sickening moment, worried that the cold engine wouldn’t turn over, but it started smoothly. McKinley backed out from the lot, speeding past the dead man’s Lexus.
“Answer, damn it. Answer—”
H
e was at an AT&T pay phone bolted to the wall of the Lawrenceville Quick Stop. McKinley stood under the awning, out of the rain, lit by shop lights and cigarette adverts, his boots in a muck of slush. The line rang. Twenty times. Twenty-one. He slammed the phone to its cradle and his £2 coin belched from the slot – a profile of Queen Elizabeth II. Headlights raked him when cars pulled into the lot. McKinley fed the coin, dialed the number a third time. Ringing. He was panicky. Beads of sweat rolled over his belly and greased his back. A minute’s worth of ringing before he gave up and picked out his coin.
“Where are you, Fielding?” McKinley muttered, pulling up his sweatshirt hood to avoid stares. When he ducked inside the Quick Stop, he cringed at the fluorescent glare of the convenience store aisles.
“Welllllllllcome to Quick Stop, pardner!!!” Okie twang from cartoon cowpokes in red, white and blue leather chaps, holo-fluttering in and out of McKinley’s sightlines as he scanned products on the aisle. Animated labels blinked 3D eye-kicks and blared tinny jingles as he passed. A bored Mex-American clerk slouched in a bulletproof cubicle, the glass pocked white with shatter patterns. The clerk watched news on the flat screen bolted above the Slushie machine. A Reagan on KDKA:
“… from earlier tonight. Police believe the suspect to be a twenty-nine year old William McKinley, serial coded R-17, delinquent from garbage 343 in Polish Hill. Others in his class have already been apprehended and questioned. Breaking news from overnight: Councilman Rutherford Ockley, pursuing antitrust legislation against the United Pittsburgh Medical Conglomerate, has been assassinated by a lone gunman in Pittsburgh’s Bloomfield neighborhood. Footage from the assassination has already become the number one download on LibertyTube, reaching three million hits faster than even Uncle Charley’s sausage-wrapped dancing cats. His legacy…”
McKinley nuked an Ugly Dog and grabbed a Big Slurp Pepsi as footage of the killing filled the screens: The woman slumping; McKinley emptying the clip; Ockley bucking from bullets like a spasmodic. McKinley dug into his pocket and pulled out more white pills. He swallowed them with the Big Slurp and the sudden nausea at the violence on TV abated.