Do you have any personal items?
No. No. Nothing. I don’t have anything.
Let’s go.
I follow him to the elevator. The door opens. We get in.
You doing okay, Chuck?
I guess. Feel a little dopey.
I bet.
We ride the rest of the way to the ground floor. I still feel like it’s some kind of trick. He’s whistling something I don’t recognize; it’s shrill to my sensitive ears.
The doors open, and the light of the sky hits me. Fuck, it’s bright. Psych ward is dim—fluorescent lights, and half of them are out, maybe more. It’s a dark place, full of corners and shadows and doubts. I squint, shield my eyes, but there’s not really sun out, it’s just glowing clouds. Still, a little hotter than I’d like it.
The air is amazing after being locked up in the psych ward for . . . how long was I in there? That place smelled like cleaning products and farts. Institutional food farts. The worst kind. No matter what you have to eat, it always smells like onion soup powder.
He drives a Chrysler 300. Not cop issue. Who is this guy? I hesitate.
GET. IN.
I get in. There’s a sack on the seat. I feel warm.
There’s a change of clothes in there. Plus your wallet, your phone, and your twenty-five. Oh yeah, your gun. I had the report changed to read you had a water pistol full of urine. Keeps with the whole “I’m covered in shit” motif you were rocking. No one gives a shit about your little popgun. You can keep that. You might need it.
Who are you?
I told you already. Agent Hart from the FBI. You’ve been remanded to my custody.
What do you mean, I might need this?
You do know about Liza, right? They told you? Hell, they thought it was why you had your psychotic break.
What? Liza? What happened . . . tell me.
They found her cut up.
Stabbed?
No. Cut into pieces. With only a few strokes. Just like your old boss, Eirean. That’s why I’m here. It looks like it may be a serial killer. Sorry to tell you. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt both her and Eirean?
No.
It’s likely someone you know. The chances of both of these being random and you knowing both without knowing the killer are slim to none.
I have no idea.
The murder weapon is what is strange. It has characteristics of a knife wound and an axe wound, while not looking like either. Do you know anyone who collects medieval weapons?
Vietnam John. That fucker. He killed them with that crazy knife. Why? It’s hot, but the window won’t roll down.
There’s another matter.
He reaches in his breast pocket and pulls out a marble.
Tell me what you know about this.
It’s a marble?
No, it’s much more than that. No time to bullshit me. I don’t care about you being locked up.
Can you turn on the air conditioner?
You okay? You’re not going to boot in here, are you? You want me to pull over?
Where are we going?
FBI safe house. You’ll like it.
Nah, just drop me off somewhere . . .
Where? Where are you going to go? You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You’re homeless. There’s nowhere to drop you off.
What do you care?
I need to be able to find you again. It’s hard to find people that don’t have a place to live. Plus, I have your meds.
Meds?
Yep. You’re on some crazy shit. I don’t even know if this is FDA approved yet.
What is it?
I don’t know the medical term, but everyone’s calling it whiteout. It’s the latest thing they’re coming up with to counteract this black hole shit that you fuckers are all smoking until you go crazy and smear yourselves with shit.
All what?
All you fuckers. There’s one or two a day in the Bay Area now. The DEA is trying to keep it contained, but it’s only a matter of time. If this spreads out to the rest of the US, we’re in deep shit, no pun intended.
He keeps talking. Sounds like real conspiracy shit. They know everything, but everything they know is wrong. A bunch of people who don’t smoke it who think they can get in our heads. They can’t. They have to smoke it. They have to be one of us. But of course, they’re no longer them at that point.
All through South Beach, shit has changed. Used to be warehouses; there was even a weird trailer park down here on Townsend Street back in the day. Now it’s all luxury condos and upscale restaurants. All people do here is work at tech jobs, sleep in million-dollar condos, and eat for entertainment. I guess they drink, too. There are bars that pop up down here that serve nothing but top-shelf mojitos and appletinis or whatever the trendy drink is at the time.
Agent Hart’s place is all glass and views above the Bay. Everything is new. Everything is nice. Everything looks like it fits together. It’s so clean, I can immediately smell myself.
Take a shower, he says, pointing in the direction. You smell like the psych ward.
I’m so used to tiny flats stuffed with roommates in every corner, under the stairs, in the pantry, in bunk beds, with old plumbing that hasn’t been replaced in forty years that I have no idea how most of the city is living.
The shower is clean. It doesn’t drip. When I turn the hot faucet, hot water comes out. I bet I could flush in here and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. I scrub as much as I can, trying to get the institutional stink off me.
The meds are like eating a hot pepper, if your entire body was your mouth. They’re keeping me rooted in time. I’m clean, more or less, for the first time since . . . seventeen? I take the meds when I’m naked and standing in the shower. Once they hit, I feel like Johnny Storm flaming on. I sweat immediately and my heart punches through my chest. But I don’t have withdrawals.
Agent Hart isn’t a bad guy. He’s like the class president in high school. Popular but not an asshole, but nothing interesting about him, either. The guy who gets A’s and plays three sports. The guy whose hair is always in place, drives a cool car that was handed down to him, and has a girlfriend who always says hi and smiles at you but will never really talk to you. The couple you picture having functional sex for the first time on prom night and mutually climaxing.
He watches CSI and Law & Order and a few other cop shows I don’t recognize. We watch Casino and Goodfellas, Scarface, Menace II Society, Road House, and The Big Lebowski. His favorite movie is The Shawshank Redemption. This guy is the living average guy in his age group. He’s a demographic. He’s a walking pie chart off the Life page of the USA Today. How do you get like this? How do you get to be an average guy with an above-average job and do everything you’re supposed to do, like contribute to your 401(k) and shit like that?
He eats everything but in moderation. He has a beer sometimes and drinks a bit of scotch but that’s it. I tried sneaking some of his scotch, but it’s not working with the meds I’m on. Makes me instantly nauseous.
This is the best place I’ve ever lived. It has everything I need. But it’s weird, not going outside. It’s a prison cell with a premium cable package and a fully stocked fridge, a Tempur-Pedic mattress and a showerhead with multiple settings. I’m restless. I want to go outside. I think of bolting out of here. But I also know I’ll never live this well again.
Time for us to go, he says, turning off the TV.
Go? Go where?
You’ve gone through sufficient detox. I can take you outside out in the real world.
What for?
I need you to spot for me. You see a world out there that I only know exists in theory. I’m looking for what I think is there, and not only do you know what it looks like, you also have a name for it.
What are you looking for?
The killer with the axe or the halberd or whatever it is. A broadsword. Also, the black hole source is somewhere in the Tenderloin, from looking at the occurrence of . . .
For lack of a better word.
No. This is death. I just want to go into witness relocation or something.
That’s for witnesses in federal cases. You’re not in one of those yet. Yet. We make a case, and I can assuredly get you set up in a new place with a new name.
A sweet pad like this?
Yeah. You should see what we have in Miami.
Fuck Miami. Fuck Florida.
Okay then. We’ll set you up in a state of your choice. But we have to get a case going first before we make you a witness that we have to protect.
No. No, it’s death. For sure. These guys are bad news.
What about Liza?
What about her?
You loved her. Right?
It wasn’t really love, per se.
Fine, whatever. But you were in each other’s lives and she cared about you, and some asshole chopped her into lunchmeat. Don’t you want to see justice done?
Liza. Hell. She was nice to me. She swiped a bunch of my drugs, but I probably would’ve done the same in her situation. Fuck.
This is one last hustle. Do this, this last bit of dirt, and then retire wherever. Alaska. I could go to Alaska. Live off the grid in some cabin getting a check from the government. I could get a seaplane or some shit. Solar panels and Netflix and I’m good. Or Montana. Raise llamas.
Fuck, everyone snitches. Everyone rolls eventually. That whole thing of never ratting out is fiction. It’s only in movies. It’s not real. Everyone gets caught doing something dumb like shooting dope and nodding out in the getaway car or their girlfriend gets mad and calls the cops and drops dime. It’s my turn.
I don’t owe these fuckers anything. I’m just a means to an end. I’m an ATM you put drugs in and money comes out. Well, no more, jack—this ATM is offline.
I’ll do it, I say, standing up quickly.
That’s my boy, he says, holding out a fist to bump.
OSO’S PLACE
I HAVEN’T BEEN out of the TL that long, but it looks worse than I remember. It’s a shade dirtier, a little bit smellier; there’s a few more broken windows, a couple more graffiti tags; the sidewalks have an extra junkie or two hanging out. It just looks like it has upped its filth game one level. Like an extra layer of grime coating the place.
We pull up outside Oso’s place. The plan is this: I get in there and confirm Oso is in there with a bunch of shit. I drop a code word into the mike, and a van full of testosterone and Kevlar empties out and storms the castle. A small group of trigger-happy motherfuckers that want to make a video-game-style mess out of anyone who gets in their way, to turn their problem into a fine red mist.
Agent Hart adjusts a microphone made to look like an Eat the Rich button.
You have your gun?
Yes.
Is it loaded? One in the chamber?
Yes, Mom.
You wouldn’t think of skipping on me with that buy money, would you?
The only thing I would do with a stack of money like this is buy drugs. And that’s what I’m supposed to do with it.
I get out of the car. Something’s not right down here. It’s hard to say that the air in the TL is bad, but it’s like the air is stained or something, a dingy yellow color all around me. Not smoke, but something like it. It’s like the air isn’t clear, like it has a slight tinge to it.
The buzzer on Oso’s building is like something you’d find on a gas station bathroom floor. It’s so dirty there is hair and grit stuck to it. I don’t want to touch it, but I have to press the buttons with something. Pocket check. Wallet. Gun. That’s it.
Fuck. This is what my life has come to? I’m a guy who only carries a wallet and a pistol? I should at least have a pen. I could go back to the car and get one, I guess. No, fuck that. I buzz up with my pinky. Must remember not to touch the eyes or mouth with this pinky.
The front hallway already stinks to high hell. I’m not even on Oso’s floor, and I can smell him. Flies sit on the banister like birds on a wire. They don’t fly away as my hand goes up the rail. I have to avoid them. Some of them walk slowly, but they don’t fly.
The smell is so overwhelming when I get to his door that I want to bolt out of here. I want to tell Hart that it didn’t work out, that he wasn’t there. I close my eyes, think of my cabin in Alaska, and knock.
It’s open, fool, I hear him say. I turn the knob. A rush of warm, spoiled air and a squadron of flies escape into my face. I exhale and try to inhale, and it’s worse the second time. I see those little floaty things in front of my eyes.
You okay, fool?
Yeah, just a little sick. I need to get right.
You got my money, motherfucker?
Wouldn’t come back around without it.
My eyes quit stinging and adjust.
Oso isn’t fat.
What. The. Fuck.
Oso isn’t fat, but he has long, sagging wrinkles. He’s wearing a bathrobe. It’s open, but with the overlapping folds of skin, I can’t see his cock, only drooping flesh trying to ooze its way to the floor. His skin has tiny lumps all over it.
Heard you got picked up on a 5150.
Yeah.
I can’t front you no more.
Not asking you to.
Oso’s moving slowly, like he’s underwater. He’s trying to stand up, I think. His whole body shines with sweat. He gets in a standing position and drips rings on his carpet.
Hey, bro . . . do you smell something weird?
You’re kidding, right?
Oso falls to the floor. Dark chili vomit shoots out of his mouth. Thousands of black hole marbles surface from his skin. They were waiting to break out of him like that urban legend of the lady who had a spider lay eggs in her ear.
There’s millions of dollars of black hole marbles all over the place emerging from the corpse of the worst smelling man I’ve ever met. I’m alternating between greed, shock, and disgust.
The vomit smell hits me, and while I thought this room couldn’t get any worse, I immediately puke everything I have and dry heave. I have to get out of here. But I can’t pass up the bounty in this room.
This apartment is full of money and drugs, the two solutions to all my problems.
Fuck all this. Fuck it all. Fuck the feds and whatever plans they have. Now that Oso is dead, I don’t even know what they want from me. They don’t need me. Fuck. I should get what I can and bail on this whole scene.
They must be on their way. I have to hurry.
I scoop up what I can of the black hole marbles and put them in my pockets. They’re too heavy. I need something to put them in. I dump them back out on the floor.
I try to open the windows, but they’re stuck. Dry heaving. Should I break one? Would that draw too much attention? Fuck it. It’s the TL. No one cares about a fucking broken window.
I break one with the butt of my twenty-five. Blood. Fuck. Cold wind comes in. Bleeding everywhere. Hand or arm or finger or something is bleeding. It’s getting all over.
Cookie tin in the kitchen. I can dump the cookies out and put the marbles in it. I open the tin. Cocaine. A cookie tin full of cocaine. I scoop up a huge bump with a delivery menu lying on the counter. Oh fuck. This shit is clean. Uncut. There’s not coke like this around anymore. Heart Panics. Going to burst. I’m sexy. I’m a god. I took too much. FUCK THE WORLD.
Keep looking. Always something under the sink.
Money. Stacks of it, wrapped in plastic. Stuff stack of hundreds in the pants. That’s coming with me.
I can hear them climbing the fire escape. They’re coming in. Fuck. Must leave, now.
Run down the hall. Old lady getting in the elevator. Get on.
She’s covered in cat hair, and I’m covered in blood and puke. She doesn’t pay me any mind. Stops. Run out.
Outside.
Agent Hart stands outside the car. He’s looking at me. He knows something’s wrong.
Behind him is Vietnam John with the biggest knife I’ve ever s
een.
Vietnam John. Behind you. BEHIND YOU.
Slow motion. Silence. Hart sees my fear and turns around. Vietnam John has the knife overhead. Hart reflexively puts his forearm above his face.
Hart’s arm severs right above the elbow and flies off like it’s waving goodbye. The stump shoots a foot-long arc of blood across John’s face. Hart drops. John’s knife is stuck in the car. It’s split part of the roof and gotten wedged in.
John looks up at me. Our eyes lock. Rage stare.
You’re part of this, you son of a bitch! he yells. Snitch rat motherfucker!
There’s no time to explain. Run. Fucking run. Don’t look back, just run. There’s a bookstore on Market. I know where the employee bathroom is. Hide.
HIDEY HOLE
I DON’T THINK anyone saw me come in here.
Calm down. Relax. Breathe. Take inventory.
Hart had my meds. My replacement meds they put me on at the hospital. I’m not even sure what it was.
I can’t get back into his place.
There will be a swarm of cops around his car.
I’m probably a suspect in some part of this.
Ten grand in cash.
I feel around in my pockets. One solitary black hole marble. When I dumped them out, I must have missed this one.
There’s a faint smell in here of weed. Stale, old weed.
I look behind a bookshelf. A pipe and a lighter. Not the best, but it will do.
When in doubt, get high. If you don’t know what you’re doing, do it blasted out of your mind. You can always blame the drugs for any bad decisions you make. It’s a lot easier than having to blame yourself. If you can’t fix what’s broken, break it some more.
Being strung out beats withdrawals by a long shot. I’m not facing all this bullshit without being high. That’s for damn sure. I’m not going back to SF General. Fuck that place. If there’s no real way of getting this shit out of my system, I’m going the other direction. I’m putting a lot more in my system.
There’s nothing like your first high, but a high after a detox and a long clean spell, well, that’s probably second.
I hit the marble with the lighter. It takes a moment, but a trail of smoke wisps off it, and I inhale and hold it. I haven’t exhaled, and I can feel it getting into my system. This bathroom is my world, and I am a king. Yertle the Turtle of this sixteen-square-foot pond. Everything is perfect.
Black Hole Page 12