Hard Bite and Other Short Stories

by Anonymous-9

  He-she is bug-eyed at a monkey in the room, and my jaw is hanging, looking from titties to dick, dick to titties. We make eye contact. “Excuse me,” we both shout at the same time. She snaps the curtain shut, and I wheel the hell out of there.

  Sid and I get back to the van without incident Have to admit, I’m a little shaken. Some people have their bodies altered by accident, like me. Others come out of the womb that way. I’ll remember this encounter next time I want to feel sorry for myself.

  Back in the van, I call Cinda.

  “Sid’s okay.”

  Cinda makes a relieved sound. “There’s a coin-op carwash at Norwalk and Del Amo.”

  “In Lakewood?”

  “More like Hawaiian Gardens.”

  “Gang Banger Gardens?”

  “Fraid so. I could send you to Cerritos, but there’s more police presence.”

  “I’ll take my chances with the Mexican mafia.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  The carwash is a bargain for six quarters and the change machine even works. It’s one of those open air, cement-stall drive-in places where you work the hose yourself. Nobody’s here, no pedestrians, hardly any traffic on the wet streets. I throw the van doors wide, put Sid on my shoulder and turn the high pressure hose on the interior. It’s going to be a squishy ride back to LA. We’re nearly done when Sid does the inexplicable—he leaps away and goes bounding down a back alley.

  I roll after him, whisper-shouting his name—the last thing we need is attention from the locals. Grimy, cinderblock garages line the alley. One has the door up; spilling a square of light onto cracked cement. Sid stops in the dingy yellow and cringes, watching. The tortured sound of an animal stands hair up on my neck. A man with his back turned is hanging a muscular pit bull to death. It gags and jerks, drool dripping from the swollen, protruding tongue. Another dog, scabbed and scarred, is tied close, barking like hell—the graceless end of a failed fight dog.

  “Let the dog down!” I hear myself command, immediately thinking what the fuck am I doing? The dog convulses. His executioner, a scrabble-survived son of the third world, whirls, and laughs. “What you going to do?”

  I said, “CUT THE DOG DOWN.”

  “Hey man, you look dead already, maybe I help you faster.” He leers in my face, as a rock smacks the bridge of his nose. I don’t have to look—Sid is a sure shot with projectiles. I lash out my steel hand and catch a corner of the guy’s mouth, ripping it open to his ear. He falls, gurgling blood, and I slash the hanging dog free—he thuds to the dirt, hauling great gulps of air. The tied dog gnaws ravenously at his own rope.

  We don’t wait to see the credits. Sid leaps onboard as my chair reverses out. The tied pit breaks free. One mighty lunge, and his slavering jaws lock around the fallen man’s windpipe. The snarling and flesh-ripping fades as Sid and I haul ass up the alley.

  My van is still okay in the wash bay. We pull out, and the two pits lumber into view, drooling red. They look one way, then the other, deciding on a direction, and head north. We don’t wave goodbye.

  Cinda and I spend a sleepless night, while Sid snores on the couch. We surf for news and avoid the subject of traceable evidence. Cinda creates the perfect distraction by splaying her legs on my desk so I can roll in close, and get her in the mood to reciprocate.

  At 6 a.m. we turn on the TV news.

  “Two men are dead after a series of animal attacks in Long Beach last night, one in Lakewood Park and another a few miles away in Hawaiian Gardens. Both victims had their throats torn, consistent with dog attacks. It’s not known if the same canines were involved in both deaths. Last night’s rainfall has made tracing difficult, say police.”

  A grin spreads across Cinda’s face, and mine is pretty wide, too.

  “What direction did you say those dogs headed?”

  “North.”

  “Hope they’re still running.”

  “All the way to Canada, baby, all the way.” †

  Tequila Spike

  I prayed for help, but help never came. By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. I’m going to kill her first...and once the kid is safely on the bus...I’m going to finish me. I’m writing this to prove that if you were in my place, and saw what I saw, and knew what I knew, for sure, for sure...you’d kill her too.

  “Thweeeeeet...”

  The door sensor goes off as a woman enters the store towing a little kid. It’s my first week as a clerk, and I still pay attention to faces. Anyway, she’s pretty in a messy kind of way, wearing sweats that’ve been around too long, and smoking a super-long menthol. Her makeup looks fresh, even though it’s pretty thick for ten in the morning. She says hi in a raspy voice, not loud. The kid, a girl about five years old, doesn’t look at me, and goes straight for the donut case.

  “She’s going to pick out what she wants to eat,” the woman says. Her name is Chloe.”

  She sticks out her hand. Like I said, I was still pretty new, so I stretch my hand across the counter and shake. I catch the kid’s name but not hers.

  They come in every morning for donuts and soda. Chloe’s always quiet; no acting up. They never try to steal anything but I figure something’s off when the mom starts a story and never finishes before beginning another...like she’s topped up with secrets, but holding back. Says she’s on disability but not what for. Something about the social worker doesn’t know she has Chloe and it’s better that way because she doesn’t want interference.

  If she stays too long talking at me in that crackly, rapid-fire whisper of hers, it makes me dizzy.

  I sort of notice she’s dragging the kid around at all hours. Says Chloe has insomnia, just like her. I don’t know, the kid sure looks sleepy to me. I feel worry take root inside my gut, which bothers me because it’s pointless. What can I do?

  She starts asking me to baby-sit. Chloe and I go to the park and play sand castles with empty ice-cream containers. We glue popsicle sticks together and make picture frames. I have a room at the back of the store. Everything is calm back there and daytime quiet. Sometimes I leave the back door open so Sacramento sunshine throws a big yellow square on the floor. Chloe lays inside it and puts puzzles together. Finished, she turns her little face up and says, “Did I do good, Bebbie?” My name is Bebbie, like Debbie only with a B.

  I tell her, “Yes, Chloe, you did good. You did very. very good.” We kick back and float on the day, suspended in time and sunbeams.

  Was I lonely before Chloe? I never thought so. But now, when she’s not with me, the time just seems so...empty.

  “Thweeeeet...”

  A boyfriend starts showing up with the mom. A white guy with a black eye, fading. He fondles the mom’s ass right in front of everybody. I pretend I’m straightening packs of cigarettes, so my face doesn’t show my disgust.

  I’m glad men don’t notice me. Mousey brown hair, tied back. Bangs always flipping the wrong way, no matter how hard I fight them. My store apron doesn’t help my figure much. It bunches up and cuts me in two, like a bed pillow tied in the middle. But I have to wear it; and they didn’t hire me for looks. I make the cash work out, end of every day.

  The next time they come in, Chloe has strips of a sheet tied around her feet. I don’t hide my face this time.

  The mom declares, “She got burnt on the pavement. It was hot.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We were hitchin’ a ride and got into a fight with the driver, so we had to get out. I didn’t know the pavement was hot. And Chloe was in bare feet. Got the hotfoot, didn’cha Clo.”

  “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “She never needs a doctor. She’s a good girl.”

  I look for the kid’s reaction, but her face is set like cement. That kid knows how not to make trouble. She’s been trained, for sure.

  I find a tube of ointment and hand it to the mom with her donut and soda. “Put this on her feet. It’ll help.” The mom says thank you and they leave. I feel the worry root grow another inch inside m
y gut.

  A week later the white guy is replaced by a gang banger with tattoos on his neck and hands. Up close at the cash, his jacket flops open, and I see a holster under his arm. He lets Chloe skip out the door without taking her hand, and dammit it if she doesn’t scoot right into the parking lot. A van squeals its brakes and stops an inch away from her. The mom and him act soooo surprised and snotty—like cars aren’t supposed to be driving in the parking lot. I imagine Chloe lying under the wheels of the van, with dirty bandages on her feet.

  The banger stays around for a while, but after a couple months he stops showing up and I stop keeping track. There’s a passing parade with the mom—the kind of people circling the drain who haven’t made the final flush yet. One time a bleach blonde comes in with them and buys an apple. I’m happy cause it’s probably the first time Chloe’s ever seen a person eat a piece of fruit. Bleach-Blo pulls out a stiletto blade and starts slicing bits of apple and eating them right off the blade. Four or five slices in, the stiletto slips and cuts her deep between the thumb and forefinger. Blood shoots clear across the aisle and sprays a shelf of spaghetti sauce. You should’ve heard the hooting and howling. Chloe doesn’t cry or say anything at all. But her little face is white, shock white.

  I pray at night, even though I don’t really believe in it. Please help me come up with something. Please, please don’t let the kid get hurt. You have to understand; I never had a kid in my life before. I hear prayers get answered sometimes, and I figure it’s probably like playing the lottery. If you don’t buy a ticket you can’t win. So I pray anyway, for Chloe.

  The mom wants an afternoon alone with one of the drain-riders.. It’s my day off, and I agree to come by. They live at the El Morada Motor Hotel, a squat row of units with parking strips painted outside. You can rent by the week. The minute I step inside, my sinuses fill up. The room hasn’t been cleaned since Saddam got pulled out of the rabbit hole. Heck, the place looks like Saddam’s rabbit hole. Junk, garbage and crumbs everywhere. It stinks. The room explains everything. It explains too much.

  The mom hands Chloe over to me, babbling how good it is to go out on a date and have some time to herself blah, blah. We go to feed pigeons. A couple loaves of bread from the store are precious to Chloe. She can sit and feed birds forever. When her stash gets halfway down, she starts tearing pieces smaller, so they’ll last longer. I love watching her take care of birds.

  “Did I do good, Bebbie?”

  “Yes, honey, you did real good.”

  I call Child Protection and here’s how it goes down. They respond right away, but because there’s no immediate danger, translation: no blood and bruises, they can’t act. Instead, they tell the mom they’ll be back in a week to “check out the environment.” That’s the law, right to privacy. Guess what happens...can you guess? The day the social worker comes, the mom rents a kitchenette with a bedroom nook, so it looks like Chloe has her own bed. The mini-frig has bologna and ranch dressing inside, so it looks like there’s food. The worker reports it as “a low income but satisfactory environment.” And that’s that. Next day, Chloe’s back in the hellhole.

  I try to accept the verdict. I tell myself that I’ve done the most anyone can do. The law has intervened and the law says it’s okay. But that worry plant is so tall inside my guts it’s pushing up my throat. When whatever is bound to happen finally happens, I won’t be able to live with myself. Did you catch that? I won’t be able to live.

  My next thought is about killing.

  I go around and around on how to do it. I’m pretty sure I can get the job done and get away with it, but Chloe is the problem. How do I just show up with a kid? Even if we move away, I’ll get asked for a birth certificate, and questioned about medical records and all that. Without ID, they’ll peg me for one of those child molester-kidnappers. I have to let go of wanting Chloe, or anything for myself, and just concentrate on what’s best for her. Once I get my head wrapped around that, the rest is easy.

  I make a few calls and discover that in the state of California, orphans hit the jackpot. With no family standing in the way, the good life rolls up on wheels and takes the kid in, day or night. She gets new clothes, food, toys, and a temporary home—somewhere clean, safe, and the caretakers all checked out. The state starts an immediate search for a family to permanently adopt. The good-life-on-wheels has money for everything you can imagine—medical, dental, and special help with school. The way things are going, I don’t think Chloe is ever going to get to school, so this sounds like a dream come true.

  There’s just one thing standing in the way of the jackpot and Chloe...and you know who that is by now, don’t you?

  I decide to poison her.

  Low-key, no trauma, no drama... no violence for Chloe to witness. Chloral hydrate. Spiked in a bottle of liquor. I’ve had it forever and remembered it when that blonde, billionaire widow, may she rest in peace beside her son, made it famous. I’ll tell Chloe that Mommy’s sleeping—I won’t say forever—and put her in front of the TV with a donut while I quietly call 911. When emergency crews arrive at a situation, the first thing they do is remove the children. As soon as Chloe goes outside with a rescue worker, there will be a minute while they check the mom for vital signs. In that little space, I’ll step into the bathroom and put a bullet in my head. Okay, let me bring you up to speed here 'cause you’re surprised. I have to go down the same time as the mom. The law will nail me sooner or later, and Chloe needs all the bad stuff in her life to be over in one day...so she can get on the bus to a new life with no loose ends pulling her any way but forward.

  I’m not afraid to die. I’m not dying for nothing.

  It’s evening, and I invited myself over to the El Morada. The mom’s latest lowlife took off and she’s alone, so now’s the time. I already put the Anna Ni-chloral hydrate in a bottle of tequila. I got Mr. Bubble for Chloe, and a big new bath towel. The towel is wrapped around a gun— a handgun from the store that the owner leaves behind the counter just in case. I’m going to ask the mom if I can give Chloe a bath before bed, and while I’m in there, hide the gun under the bathroom sink for when I need it in the morning...

  “Knock knock.”

  Chloe knows I’m coming, and throws herself into my arms. The mom is right there, all smiley when she sees the tequila. I give it to her, and she starts rummaging for a couple plastic cups, while Chloe and I go into the bathroom and get the Mr. Bubble going in the rusty old tub.

  Chloe gets in and lathers up, playing with the foam, and I know it’s the right moment to get that gun shoved way back under the sink. So far so good...and all of a sudden the outside door busts open like somebody put a boot through it, and a voice hollers, “You whore,” and stuff about acting like a taconera while I been away, and there’s a little zhzhzhoot sound like a shot. Somebody hits the wall right next to the bathroom door, and makes a soft, sliding sound all the way down.

  I meet Chloe’s eyes—wide and shiny with fear. My fingers go to my lips, a silent shhhh, and I inch the shower curtain across to hide her. Steps come up to the bathroom door—the impact sprung it open a few inches. I’m glued to the sound of those feet and I’m too freaked to even think about reaching for the gun under the sink. A drip from the tap hits the bathwater. It sounds like a firecracker going off. My eyes focus beyond the crack in the door and I see the mom’s torso—and a man’s hand reach out to touch her. I recognize tattoos on that hand. And then his face draws near, until his eye appears in the door crack. “Come out,” he says. The barrel of a gun rises to point at me, underneath his eye.

  My legs won’t move; knees rubbery, not responding. “Out,” he says, again.

  If it wasn’t for all the blood, the mom could just be taking a nap, sitting all relaxed like that. Except for the bullet through her heart. She has an empty plastic cup in one hand and my tequila in the other. The banger recognizes me, smirks, and crosses to a cheap boom box. A gangsta starts growling about guns and hos—murder music. Banger takes the bottle out of c
orpse-mom’s hand and drinks from it long and hard. “Where’s the kid?” he says.

  I stutter something about gone with a babysitter while he swigs away. “Tastes like shit,” he says, holding the bottle up. It explodes in a thousand sparkling shards. Behind the dazzling spray of tequila, a rose opens in his throat, scattering bloody petals. He staggers back, leaving a red swerve on the grimy shag, hits the screen door, and crashes through. Shouts and commotion outside as I look behind me and there is Chloe, little Chloe, naked and dripping, holding a smoking gun. Her small voice sounds innocent and clear, like bird song after a bomb blast, “Did I do good, Bebbie? Did I do good?” †

  Claw Marks

  First time she walked in, I was under my favorite barstool. The sway in her tail looked inviting but the rest of her looked suspicious.

  “Shot a Jack,” she whispered to Mack.

  Ignoring me on the floor, she shivered onto a stool, and I could smell sex on her skirt, like she just had a roll in the alley. I like it out there myself, sometimes.

  She was overdressed for Mack’s place. Some kinda shiny shoes and purse to match, gold on her hands and ears. I heard Mack strike up a line in his polite voice—I never hear that tone out of him myself—but then, I’m not female. Mack lets me keep my balls.

  She answered him in a voice that stood the hair up on the back of my neck. I felt like swiping her ankle to draw blood and drive her out—but then a mouse creeping along the far wall caught my attention, and I forgot all about Mack and his smelly blonde.

  This is my bar, my territory, and anything non-human gets clawed by me sooner or later. Mack puts food down only once a day, so I catch lunch and dinner, snacks too. Sometimes I catch a bounty and open their bellies, hook a string of guts with my lower fangs, and pull hard to create a flowery effect. It makes Mack a nice present, but the idiot never eats anything, and throws my trophies out. Hey, I don’t let on how embarrassing he is. I know who pours my milk in the morning.