Bad Citizen Corporation

by S. W. Lauden

  All the information that Officer Bob gave him was swirling around in his head, filling him with doubt. Greg wanted to believe that Marco would never do anything to harm him or Ricky. But he also knew that you could only count on a drug addict for one thing; to absolutely destroy the lives of the people who loved them the most.

  Greg needed to go for a drive. Just some time alone to get his thoughts straight and plan his next move. He climbed into the El Camino and cruised along the coast. Jimmy Cliff was singing “The Harder They Come” as he wound his way through Malibu and kept going north.

  Chapter Ten

  Twice in one week is aggressive, but you can’t always rely on your partner to get the job done right.

  The dog kept barking and charging along the length of the white picket fence. Then the sedatives from the tainted piece of rawhide finally kicked in. It was laying on its side panting when the front gate swung open. It was just a few steps along the flagstone path that wound through the wildflowers. This house had real curb appeal, which is why it got moved up the list.

  The front door was always propped open during the day so that the dog could easily get in and out. The caregiver came daily, but made frequent trips to the pharmacy during lunch.

  The old man’s bald head was poking up just above the top of the leather reclining chair. Wisps of grey hair were combed up the sides in a vain attempt to cover the brown sunspots on top. Right wing talking heads were shouting from the flat screen television mounted on the far wall. It was loud enough that he didn’t hear the screen door squeak open. It wasn’t anything that a few drops of oil couldn’t fix, but enough to put a potential buyer off. First impressions are so important.

  The old man was wheezing despite the oxygen tubes that ran under his nose. Two more steps across the hardwood floor and just turn the knob on the oxygen tank. He was already semiconscious to begin with, so this shouldn’t take long. His body eventually stiffened and his legs flailed a little. Just a few more seconds now until the oxygen ran out. It was beautiful the way his eyes rolled back in his head as he reached for the tank in vain. And then a final gasp and shudder.

  The lug nut on the tank’s valve eventually came loose. The gauge showed the tank was a little more than half full. It was just a matter of turning the knob full blast and letting the oxygen rush out until it was all gone. It was a shame that the caregiver would be blamed for the death, but that’s what insurance was for.

  Tighten the lug nut back down. Check the pulse for good measure. The doggy sedatives would be wearing off any minute now, if the dose was right. Soon none of this will be necessary.

  Chapter Eleven

  Greg almost made it all the way to Santa Barbara before he turned around. He watched the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean through the passenger window on the way home. His mind was much clearer now, but he wasn’t any closer to figuring out who killed Ricky. It was starting to eat him alive.

  He was heading down Bay Cities Boulevard an hour later with Lagwagon belting out “Violins” on the stereo. Eddie’s was still open as he passed the half empty parking lot. Flowers and candles were piling up just outside the front door where many of the locals had come to pay their respects. He considered stopping in to see if any of his friends were there, but knew it wouldn’t help him find the murderer.

  The boulevard wound its way to the beach. Greg hit red light after red light, giving him time to indulge in memories of Ricky at every intersection. He passed the coffee shop where the two of them used to hang out late into the night all throughout high school. The sandwich place where Ricky used to work. A baseball diamond where they played little league together.

  And a liquor store on almost every block. Greg kept his eyes focused on the road in front of him while a debate raged in his head. One beer wouldn’t kill him, but it might take the edge off. And a six-pack would probably help him get to sleep. That’s all he was really after, just a good night’s sleep. One night without any nightmares. Greg gripped the steering wheel harder and stepped on the accelerator.

  It was 12:30 a.m. when he threw his car into park and made a quick dash to his apartment. The sweat on his temple was starting to build as he fumbled to get the key in the lock. There was only an hour and a half left before the liquor stores and bars would close for the night. He knew from experience that the intense urges would be gone when he woke up in the morning. Or at least he hoped so. They hadn’t been this bad in years.

  His clothes were off in a matter of seconds and he dove for the comfort of his bed. The issue of CoreNoMore was waiting for him as he pulled the covers up and gritted his teeth. He flipped to a random page and tried reading himself to sleep.

  CNM:What about your manager?

  FD: Mikey? He was some dorky guy from our high school who got a business degree in college. The next time we saw him he was telling us how he was going to make us “gazillionaires.” I think he actually used that word.

  CNM:Who hired him?

  FD: I guess I did, since everybody else was strung out.

  CNM:How did the rest of the band feel about it?

  FD:Tim was pretty pissed off. The last time we were in the studio together he swung his guitar at me and started yelling about how I was “selling out.” That was one of the last times we ever spoke.

  When that didn’t work he flipped the TV on. The first thing he found was a rebroadcast of the local news. They showed a picture of Greg before he could hit the power button on the remote. The screen went black, but not nearly as black as the thoughts in his head. Maybe a midnight run on the beach would do the trick.

  Or maybe he could still make it to the liquor store before they closed.

  ›

  Somebody was snoring loudly nearby. Greg tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. And the throbbing in his temples made it impossible to force them open. His tongue was bone dry, the tip of a Saharan thirst that made his entire body pucker.

  He could tell that they were inside, he and whoever was making all the unbearable fucking noise. But where? It wasn’t his apartment, the odor just wasn’t right. The air was too musty and without the comforting undercurrent of ocean air. He tried to sit up to see where he was and immediately vomited onto the multicolored bedspread.

  The tears in his eyes were giving him a kaleidoscopic view of the room. It wasn’t helping his dizziness. A second wave of nausea produced toxic yellow bile that spilled from his slack jaw and dribbled down his chin. He tried to breathe through his nose to fight back the convulsions, but couldn’t catch his breath. His ribs ached and an acrid odor was wafting up into his nostrils. He slumped forward to rest his forehead on shaky knees. His brain was throbbing rhythmically in his shattered skull.

  Minutes passed before he attempted to move again. He leaned back and lifted his hands to gently rub the tears from his eyes. It took a couple of seconds to focus after he brought his hands down onto his lap. His knuckles were swollen and covered in jagged little cuts. The sight of his own blood filled him with enough adrenaline to overcome the pain. He gave the landscape a quick scan, but his misery was the only familiar thing.

  He was in a queen-sized bed that occupied most of a small hotel room. He jumped back a little when he realized that the snoring was coming from right beside him. This mystery person was turned away from him under the same comforter he had just destroyed. Long blonde hair was flowing out from under a stained pillow.

  Early afternoon sunlight was fighting its way into the room through several cigarette burns in the blackout curtain. The tiny dots were like cockroach spotlights on the threadbare carpet. Next to the window he could see that the front door was dead bolted, locked with a chain and secured for good measure with a chair jammed up under the knob. A small round table was upended and laying on the floor amid a sea of empty bottles and aluminum cans.

  His jacket was draped over a tall floor lamp across from the bed. A bulky TV from
another era was mounted precariously on top of a tattered dresser. The screen was bashed in and crumpled. His eyes followed the wall into the darkness where a small closet butted up against the bathroom.

  He looked down at his hands again and tried to piece the previous night together. The unmistakable whirring sound of midweek freeway traffic was constant in the background. Everything after he left the liquor store was a total blank.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” Marco’s normally raspy voice was more of a croak as he sat up next to Greg in the bed. “Seems like you’re a little out of practice when it comes to partying.”

  “What the fuck is happening here?”

  Marco cackled maniacally as he slid from the covers and headed toward the bathroom. He nearly tripped over an unconscious figure propped up against the wall. Greg listened as Marco pissed in complete darkness. It sounded like he had pretty impressive aim for an addict. He stumbled back to the bed with a half empty bottle of cheap vodka in his hand.

  “Jesus, Marco. Do you keep booze hidden in the bathroom?”

  “Yep. In the tank. What?” He seemed genuinely offended by the look of horror on Greg’s puffy face. “It’s clean water, and none of these losers ever think to look in there.”

  Marco popped a few pills into his mouth and tilted the bottle up with purpose. Greg watched as the clear liquid drained out. He was disgusted at first, and then a little amazed at how much abuse one body could take.

  “Was that aspirin?”

  Marco brought the bottle down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Way stronger than that. You interested?”

  Greg wasn’t interested in the pills, but he was gripped by a wave of panic when he saw that the bottle was almost empty. It was a familiar feeling, although he hadn’t felt it this acutely since he first got sober. That’s when the horrible realization sank in. He had let a decade of sobriety slip through his fingers. The worst part was that he didn’t remember any of it.

  Now he was salivating as he watched Marco guzzling vodka first thing in the morning.

  “Dude, save some for me!”

  The bottle came down slowly. There was a still a few ounces left as Greg yanked it from the hands of his old band mate. Marco smirked proudly.

  “Not so high and mighty now, huh? Go ahead and polish it off. We can always get more.”

  Greg forced down a couple of shots worth of vodka in a single gulp. He let the bottle roll from his hand. It came to rest in his puddle of vomit on the bedspread. The spreading warmth calmed his nerves enough so that he could ask Marco a question that was worrying him.

  “Please tell me that isn’t a dead body over there.”

  He pointed in the direction of the bathroom with his thumb.

  “No, but he might be if I hadn’t pulled you off of him last night. You went from zero to ape shit when he accused you of being a cop, which you fucking are. Do you think my room looked like this before you showed up?!”

  “How did I end up here last night?”

  Greg fell back. His head hit the pillow with a thud.

  “I can’t really help you there. You just came barreling through the door out of nowhere.” He cackled in fits and starts trying to get his next sentence out. “Fucking freaked everybody in the whole place out. They scattered like roaches when you ripped this place up!”

  “Was I alone?”

  “Alone like Jekyll and Hyde. Dude, you were shitfaced and looking for a fight. First thing you did was threaten to kick my ass if I had anything to do with Ricky getting shot. Then you kept asking me ‘who the guy in the picture’ was. I’m still not sure what the fuck you were talking about.”

  “This is a fucking nightmare. I need something else to drink.”

  “I’m right there with you. There’s probably beer left in some of the cans around here, or we can head over to the Lo Bar for something a little fresher. We can stick that bedspread in the washing machine on the way over.”

  Greg managed to stand up, certain that his balance would have been much worse without the vodka. He stepped over the motionless body on the floor and went into the bathroom. A shower would probably help, but the bathtub was filled half way to the ceiling with cardboard boxes. He settled for splashing some water on his face in the sink and squeezing a dab of toothpaste onto his tongue.

  Marco was sitting on a cracked and faded plastic lawn chair in the parking lot smoking a cigarette when Greg emerged. The transition from the dingy motel room to broad daylight was jarring. He squinted his eyes and scratched at his T-shirt where it clung to the dried sweat on his skin. The day was just getting started, but it already felt way too long.

  Everybody at the Laundromat seemed to know Marco, and he stopped to bump fists or chat with all of them. It took the two of them almost fifteen minutes to finally get the wretched smelling bedspread soaking in the washer. Marco made the rounds one more time on the way back out to the sidewalk.

  The front door of the Lo Bar was propped open with an unoccupied stool. A black curtain was hanging from the jamb. They pushed their way into the room and it instantly felt like the sun had set forever. The only light in the cramped space was coming from the votive candles on the tables and a few florescent bulbs down low behind the bar. A rotating fan was pushing flies around the room in currents of warm air as the two of them leaned up against the bar and ordered. They grabbed two drinks each and headed to a booth in the darkest corner of the room. Marco drained his first glass before Greg could sit down.

  “I thought you were in Baja.”

  “Dude, we went over this last night.”

  “It’s safe to assume that I’ve already forgotten anything you told me last night.”

  Greg took a pull from his drink. Amazing. He swore he had seen the bartender pour juice into the glass, but all he could taste was vodka. It was easily the best drink that he had ever had in his entire life.

  “No shit, right? I was down in Baja, but just for a day. You know, taking care of some business.”

  “You’ll do serious time if you get caught smuggling pills across the border.”

  “Dude! That is exactly what you said last night…” Greg flashed him a menacing look. “Okay, fine. Anyway, I brought my board down with me, but the shipment was bigger than I thought it was gonna be. So I decided to head back up.”

  “Is that what’s in the bathtub back at the motel?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  They both drained their glasses. Greg sent Marco back to the bar with a couple of twenties for another round. He realized his phone was missing when he went to shove his wallet back into his jeans. There was no reason to believe he would ever see that phone again. Marco returned with a tray full of drinks and a proud smile on his face.

  “I don’t want to have to get up every five minutes.”

  “Did we talk about Ricky at all last night?” His chest tightened as a he spat the words out. “I mean, about what happened to him.”

  “You kidding? That’s practically all we talked about. You had me crying like a baby. It was fucking embarrassing.”

  “Right. Well, I have to ask you a few questions about that.”

  “Okay, stop that bullshit right there. I know you want to pretend like last night didn’t happen, but don’t start acting like a fucking cop again. This is me you’re talking to, Marco, not some fucking…” His eyes rolled back in his head while he searched for the word. “Perp.”

  “Did you seriously just say ‘perp’?”

  “What, isn’t that a real thing? They say it on TV all the time. Back when I had a TV.”

  “You know I’ll replace your fucking TV. Now answer my question.”

  “For the last time, no. I didn’t have anything to do with Ricky getting shot. If you ask me, I think it had something to do with Barrett. He and Ricky had some seriously bad blood.”<
br />
  “What do you know about any of that?”

  “Just what I overheard when I was picking up odd jobs with Ricky. Barrett and a couple of his bros showed up at one of the jobs I was on and accused Ricky of raiding his job sites. They said he was breaking in at night and stealing his supplies. I guess they were both bidding on some huge job and Barrett thought Ricky was trying to trash his reputation. It was pretty gnarly.”

  “Was there truth to any of it?”

  “I never helped Ricky raid Barrett’s job sites, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Okay. What about the guy from the picture?”

  “Are you seriously gonna start that shit again?”

  “This is a fucked up situation. If Ricky really was your bro then you need to help me figure out who did this to him. The Bay Cities police showed me a picture of you and some guy that they got from his phone. I took a picture with that same guy right before the show the other night. There has to be a connection.”

  “That guy with the fucked up skin? He was just some BCC fan that heard I lived in town. He asked me for my autograph and everything. You think he had something to do with Ricky getting shot?”

  “No idea. Did he say how he found you?”

  “Somebody down at the beach told him. Not sure who.”

  “Did he say what street he was hanging out at?”

  “Uh, no…but he mentioned something about volleyball.”

  “Well, in that case I have one more question for you. Where’s my car?”

  Greg grabbed a glass from the tray. He gave Marco a little toast before sucking it down.

  ›

  There was a loud crack as somebody broke a rack of balls at one of the pool tables. A couple of regulars were playing cards at a round table, and a few others were milling around the jukebox in the corner.

  “The carpool lane is not the fast lane.”