"The girls aren’t here. You are."
"You can try the phonebook."
"That never works.”
"Sure it does,” he said. “Eddie’s in the yellow pages.”
4
I took Terry’s .22 and heaved it towards the river from the porch. The gun didn’t make the target; instead it landed in the thin line of bushes and trees along the water’s edge where some kids were playing.
A drug dealer in the phonebook? Meant one thing. Eddie was running a front. My old boss did the same thing, calling himself a consultant. The phonebook was on the kitchen counter, and Eddie’s yellow page ad had been circled in red pen. I didn’t bother writing down the address. I knew the area.
A cat carrier was in a corner of the bedroom, and I grabbed Van Gogh from lolling on the sheets and put him inside. He stuck his face into the bars and started giving off angry, short squeaks.
"Why you taking Vincent?" Terry said from the floor. He hadn’t moved since I had put him there.
"The girls miss the little guy."
"Aren’t they coming back here?"
"Terry, you’re giving me a serious headache. You remind of my accountant."
"I’m sorry. But don’t forget his cat food and Yummy-In- The-Tummy snacks."
"First smart thing you said to me."
I left Terry with a warning not to go to the police or I’d be paying him a visit. Then I raised my boot and knocked him out cold.
I looked down at the cat. "Let’s go, Van Gogh."
I got back on 84, and further East 384 broke to the right. Terry was wrong; I needed the third exit, and a left put me on Main Street. A car dealership led the way into North Chester just as the road widened to four lanes, leaving plenty of horizontal parking slots for the businesses that lined downtown. Mostly old buildings, all constructed out of different materials. Eddie had settled in a stone one, the upper stories sat above a grinder shop and a liquor store with the usual crowd of losers glued out front. I parked nearby thinking a sandwich and a beer sounded real good right about now.
I told Van Gogh to sit tight, I’d be right back, but he was more interested in licking his golf ball-sized nuts. I locked the car, leaving the windows cracked. A cheap board with crooked white letters informed all that Edward’s Direct Marketing and Data was located in 2B. I took the stairs, the steps had those plastic coverings where your heel hits, to the second floor and the office was at the top of the landing. The door was thick misty glass, and the lettering painted in fancy black script. I tried the handle. Locked. No one answered when I knocked.
I couldn’t kick in a glass door. Too much noise, too much mess. The hallway branched in both directions and looped around the stairs, but I saw only one other door, belonging to a fucking CPA no less, and the stain was in there. Either that or he had left his lights on. No. Accountants don’t waste money like that.
I got out a loop pick, very handy for getting in doors people don’t want you getting in. I put it in the keyhole, jingling until the spring released. I twisted the handle real slow, checking around the door and frame for any wires or buttons hooked to an alarm system. There were none and in I went, locking the door behind me.
The office was dark and so were the curtains that covered the windows, removing any trace of daylight. I didn’t want to turn on the overheads, as they would throw a sheen on the glass door. The air smelt a little like mothballs, or was it chemicals running up my nose? I lit my lighter and did a blind man’s walk, small steps, arms out in front of me, and soon enough I banged into something, which reverberated. Metal. My hands found it next, a flat surface covered in paper and writing instruments. My fingers went up and over a phone and then felt a brass base, and I reached along the grooved shaft until I found a knob. Click. A low watt reading lamp on the desk.
I stood in a reception area, plastic chairs along the wall, end tables holding outdated magazines. Eddie liked plastic plants too, dust covered ones, situated in the corners. Between the faux ferns, a door was ajar. I opened it all the way and moved down a long hall, the light fading the further I went, but not enough so I couldn’t make out two more doors standing opposite each other. The first room was long and narrow and with filled with cabinets and countertops. This was where the chemical smell hid out, but there were no beakers or pans filled with liquid. Had Eddie been making crystal meth in here? I didn’t know enough about the process to be sure. Most of the drawers and cabinets were locked and I didn’t bother with them because the odor was pounding on my temples. I walked out, going across the hall and through the second door.
This looked like Eddie’s personal office, a big desk with a PC monitor on it. He had papers and books strew about, too. I went through things and found nothing that would tell me where he lived or liked to hang out. The PC was password protected, and I was stumped. Maybe Terry could have helped me bypass the system.
I thought about strolling across the room to take a nap. Yeah, there was a big bed there decorated with all sorts of State University crapola anyone could buy at the campus bookstore. Sports banners and tapestries were tacked to the walls. A blanket and pillow showing the doggy mascot were resting against the headboard. Eddie had left behind a university coffee mug, too. Was Eddie a proud alumni? Did he like to take a lot of naps after concocting in his drug factory?
Or did he fuck his mules in more ways than one?
I guessed Eddie liked his ladies barely legal, too.
I left Eddie’s place like I had found it. I ordered a low-fat turkey sub on wheat bread at the grinder shop and then bought a tall boy at the liquor store. Now that he smelt food, Van Gogh forgot about cleaning his testicles and started squeaking for a treat.
I popped the beer and had a taste. It wasn’t as cold as the beer I sold, but package stores do a minimum amount of refrigeration to keep costs down. Since my bar was losing money to begin with, I kept my booze real close to the freezing point. I unwrapped the eight layers of plastic and paper around my lunch and tore off some meat for the cat, dropping a piece in his carrier. Then I had a bite. The sandwich tasted like I was eating air. My body craved fat. It always did after a heavy night of drinking. I threw the sub down and I worked on the beer before it got piss warm.
I thought about getting a six-pack and staking out Eddie’s place, but I didn’t want Van Gogh peeing and shitting in my classic wheels. I’d come back around eight when Eddie might have set up his meeting with Mona and Lisa.
I got back on the highway, heading west for the capital. I stuffed the turkey sub down my throat, just to put something that could be construed as solid in my gut, wishing the whole time I had another brew to wash the useless mush down. Not far from my bar, there was a ghetto plaza; dinghy storefronts, signs with burnout letters, all faced by a filthy, cracked parking lot. I pulled in, stopping pretty close to the front doors of a Pet-Point. Near a sign touting an approaching blood drive, there was another, bigger sign that said, PETS WELCOME, and I thought, Why the fuck not, Nick?
I grabbed the cat carrier, Van Gogh squeaking his approval, and we walked inside. We weren’t two steps through the door when my nose was accosted by an overwhelming odor of dog crap. I nearly tossed my lunch, but it had been so light, it didn’t want to come up. Them canines were barking, too, a whiny chorus that ricocheted off the high ceiling and revved my headache into the red zone.
Aquariums, some for sale, others loaded with all sorts of colorful fish, were just past the registers. The bird supplies came next and as we went through, a green parrot cuffed to a fake tree branch squawked at us. Van Gogh chirped right back at him. The cat didn’t take any shit. I liked that.
They had snakes in big glass cases that looked like the fancy aquariums. I just hoped the glass was thicker than the fish tanks. I don’t trust snakes. Never have. The thought of a black coiled bastard, much like the one I was staring at, left my pits damp. I relaxed a little, feeling the familiar weight of the .45 in my waistband. Even Van Gogh had some fear of snakes. Maybe he smelt somethi
ng primal coming off me—or, worse, off that big black snake. The cat had moved to the rear of his carrier, perched down in a defensive stance, eyes wide and alert.
I went through that cold-blooded area quick, hitting the canine aisles with stuff stacked right up to the girders. I was wandering around there, looking for where the cat supplies began, when a man and his leashed dog crossed my path. Dog ain’t quite fitting. It was a monster mix, though mostly the German shepherd had come through the genie pool; in particular, the bad attitude.
"Good morning," the dog owner said.
I never got a chance to reply to the guy’s greeting. It happened about as fast as a bullet flies, the dog barking and leaping at the same time.
"Sheridan, no!" the guy said, yanking at his leash as momentum carried him forward.
Van Gogh’s carrier got knocked from my hand. I tackled the dog before he reached his downward spiral, driving him back and into his master. The three of us fell against a stack of rice and lamb dinners. The guy screamed. His dog was stunned and shut its mouth for a second. The bags ripped open, chunks of food, which looked nothing like rice and lamb, spewed onto the floor.
I held onto the dog and he started howling, his teeth as sharp as fishhooks, his nails digging into my skin. We rolled around some, the dog’s fur smelling like dirty old carpet, and I got my hands around the beast’s neck so he couldn’t bite me. I had him like that, but he was strong and seemed to have an unending reserve, and it took everything I had to contain his thrashing. He was acting like a strung out teenager, and I did what I always do in a tough scrap; I put a knee between the legs, I wasn’t sure which set in this instance, but the fight went right out of the dog.
The guy had crawled from our hot skirmish, slipping on the spilled food, trying to drag his whipped and crying dog away from me. The cat carrier had landed on its top and when I looked inside, Van Gogh was purring, not in the least bit hurt. I stuck a finger through the grate, and the little fella licked it.
"That was totally uncalled for!" the guy said. His hair went in every direction and his shirt was torn and hanging out of his pants.
"You’re damn right, buddy," I said.
"I can’t believe what you just did!"
"What kind of pet owner are you, can’t control your dog?"
"You tried to strangle my Sheridan."
"He attacked my fucking cat," I said.
"I’m going to contact the manager."
"If I don’t beat you to it."
Sheridan was lying on all fours, whimpering and panting. The guy was trying to calm him down, petting him with tiny taps on his fur. "I think you might have hurt him."
"He might have hurt me."
"Look at him!" the guy said.
"Looks all right to me."
"He’s not eating any of the food on the floor."
"So what?" I said.
"Sheridan is always hungry."
"You know what, buddy?"
"I think Sheridan has been stressed."
"I bet you’re the kind of guy who lets his dog take a dump in here."
"I can’t believe you would say such a...." He stopped talking, looking past me at the floor.
"Don’t clean up after your dog, either," I said. "And then let’s him loose on defenseless little kittens like mine."
The guy’s face had turned from bright red to white.
"What’s the matter?" I said. "Are you okay?" He was looking like he might faint, or worse, have a stroke.
"Really, I couldn’t stop him," he said.
"That much is obvious."
"He’s tough to control sometimes," the guy said, not making eye contact. "He’s so large. I’m sorry."
"Take your dog and get lost fast."
"Come on, Sheridan," he said, pulling on the leash.
I turned to go.
"Mister?" he said to my back.
"You’re still here?"
"Your gun is on the floor."
The .45 was covered in some dog food, the barrel poking out. I put it back under my shirt.
"Thanks," I said and then added, "It’s registered."
I picked up Van Gogh’s carrier and took him around the corner. I got a cigarette into my mouth just as I bumped into an employee decked out in an orange shirt. She had a tag pinned above her breasts, informing customers her name was Becky.
"There’s no smoking in here, sir," she said.
Becky wasn’t much older than Mona and Lisa, though a scum like Eddie would never dupe her into bed. She didn’t have the bod or the looks. But at least she was alive.
"You let dogs take gigantic poops all over the place," I said.
"It’s our policy to allow pets in the store, but there’s no smoking."
"What’s one cigarette gonna do?"
"A lot."
"It may actually purify the air some."
"Second hand smoke is especially bad for cats and dogs," she said, sounding like she meant it.
"The crap all over the place ain’t doing my headache any good."
"I’m sorry about that, sir."
"Doesn’t it bother you?"
"I’m used to it."
"Is there a manager on duty?"
"He knows all about the smell, sir."
"Well isn’t somebody supposed to clean it up?" I asked. "Spray some air fresher around or something?"
"They’re on break."
"Get whoever it is off break," I said.
"He’s washing his hands."
"Oh."
"Thoroughly, I might add."
"Well, tell him there’s some spilled dog food next aisle over when he comes back on."
"Why? What happened?"
"Don’t know, really."
"Well, I’ll be sure to inform him." She leaned over and peered into Van Gogh’s carrier. "What a pretty kitty."
"Thanks."
"I have two cats myself."
"This here feline is Van Gogh, but you can call him Vincent if you want."
"I like that name. After the painter."
So Becky knew the guy that had painted Mona and Lisa. He got around.
"When did you get him?" she said.
"Today. Couple of...acquaintances of mine died recently, so I took their cat for them."
"How nice of you. Sorry to hear about your friends’ passing."
"These things...happen," I said.
She petted Van Gogh with a finger. "Anyway, most men I know don’t like cats."
"Why’s that, Becky?"
"Thinks it makes them look like a swish."
"I ain’t no swish, honey," I said.
"I could tell right off by the way you carry yourself."
I was starting to like Becky. When she smiled, shiny braces filled up her mouth. So what if her hips were too wide, her breasts were too small and her face was as long and narrow as a grandfather clock? My pendulum was about half-cocked.
"How old are you, Becky?"
"Just turned twenty-one."
"Happy Birthday."
She twittered. "Thank you."
I put the cig back in its pack. "Wanna come to my place for a celebratory drink?"
"You got a name?"
"Nick."
"Nick, I don’t drink."
"I didn’t necessarily mean alcohol."
"Oh."
"I got soda, water..."
"I’m working, Nick."
"So?"
"So I need money."
"But you look a little pale to me, Becky."
"Really?"
"Getting paler by the second."
"Oh, gosh."
"Must be the smell."
"I do have a slight headache."
"Go talk to your manager while I get some things for Van Gogh."
"I don’t know..."
She wanted to go, was just playing hard to get.
"I own that Beast out front."
"I have a hybrid."
"Great green car, Beck. Meet me out in the lot."
5
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I chose a litter box with a top that made it look like an igloo. I put a bag of litter inside the box and brought it to the registers. I hadn’t finished loading the stuff in the Beast’s trunk when Becky came out, squinting from the glare, the sun beaming off the metal in her mouth as she grinned at me.
"All set?" I asked.
"The boss was pissed," she said, "but I had some sick time coming."
"Then let’s go have a good time."
"I never did anything like this before."
"Cutting work to have some fun?"
"Yeah. I feel guilty."
"Everybody does it once in a while."
"My mother warned me about guys like you."
"What do you mean?"
"Tall, dark and handsome," she said.
Van Gogh meowed loud. "He thinks you’re talking about him," I said.
She twittered again. I guessed it was her thing. "Where do you live?"
"Northside Ave. Above the bar there."
"What bar?"
"Nick’s Place."
"You must be the Nick who owns it."
"Nothing more than a tax right off, honey."
"How does that work, anyway?"
"I have an accountant."
"And?"
"And he knows."
"Oh."
"That’s how I feel about it sometimes."
"You’re too much, Nick. Let’s do this before I change my mind."
"Follow me then."
Becky drove right on my bumper and I had visions of her plowing into my trunk if I had to stop quick. That was one problem. The other came to me about halfway home. I had forgotten about Mona and Lisa decaying in my apartment. Well, I thought, we just can’t go in the bedroom. Hopefully the AC and disinfectant had killed most of the odor.
My bar was on a busy corner of a residential neighborhood. It was mostly three-family houses bleeding bad from age and neglect. Sometimes you’d find a ranch mixed in there, the yards surrounded by rusted fencing. The driveways were narrow and parking on the street was a total bitch. People tried using my lot, but I got big signs warning parking is for costumers only, and I had to do a lot of towing before everyone got the idea that I meant it.
The Big Bad Page 3