by Guran, Paula
I sighed and put the photograph back inside my coat and got out my wallet and took out a five-dollar bill.
Frog Man saw himself as some kind of greasy high roller. “That’s it? Five dollars for prime information?”
I made a slow and careful show of putting my five back in my wallet. “Then you don’t get nothing,” I said.
He leaned back on his stool and put his stubby fingers together and let them lay on his round belly. “And you don’t get nothing neither, jackass.”
I went to the door on my right and turned the knob. Locked. I stepped back and kicked it so hard I felt the jar all the way to the top of my head. The door flew back on its hinges, slammed into the wall. It sounded like someone firing a shot.
I went on through and behind the desk, grabbed Frog Man by the shirt and slapped him hard enough he fell off the stool. I kicked him in the leg and he yelled. I picked up the stool and hit him with it across the chest, then threw the stool through a doorway that led into a kitchen. I heard something break in there and a cat made a screeching sound.
“I get mad easy,” I said.
“Hell, I see that,” he said, and held up a hand for protection. “Take it easy, man. You done hurt me.”
“That was the plan.”
The look in his eyes made me feel sorry for him. I also felt like an asshole. But that wouldn’t keep me from hitting him again if he didn’t answer my question. When I get perturbed, I’m not reasonable.
“Where is he?”
“Do I still get the five dollars?”
“No,” I said, “now you get my best wishes. You want to lose that?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Then don’t play me. Where is he, you toad?”
“He’s up in room 52, on the fifth floor.”
“Spare key?”
He nodded at a rack of them. The keys were on nails and they all had little wooden pegs on the rings with the keys. Numbers were painted on the pegs. I found one that said 52, took it off the rack.
I said, “You better not be messing with me?”
“I ain’t. He’s up there. He don’t never come down. He’s been up there a week. He makes noise up there. I don’t like it. I run a respectable place.”
“Yeah, it’s really nice here. And you better not be jerking me.”
“I ain’t. I promise.”
“Good. And, let me give you a tip. Take a bath. And get that shit out of your hair. And those teeth you got ain’t looking too good. Pull them. And shoot that fucking cat, or at least get him some place better than the kitchen to piss. It stinks like a toilet in there.”
I walked out from behind the desk, out in the hall, and up the flight of stairs in a hurry.
I rushed along the hallway on the fifth floor. It was covered in white linoleum with a gold pattern in it; it creaked and cracked as I walked along. The end of the hall had a window, and there was a stairwell on that end too. Room 52 was right across from it.
I heard movement on the far end of the stairs. I had an idea what that was all about. About that time, two of the boys I’d seen on the street showed themselves at the top of the stairs, all decked out in their nice hats and such, grinning.
One of them was about the size of a Cadillac, with a gold tooth that shown bright when he smiled. The guy behind him was skinny with his hand in his pocket.
I said, “Well, if it isn’t the pimp squad.”
“You funny, nigger,” said the big man.
“Yeah, well, catch the act now. I’m going to be moving to a new locale.”
“You bet you are,” said the big man.
“Fat ass behind the glass down there, he ain’t paying you enough to mess with me,” I said.
“Sometimes, cause we’re bored, we just like messin’.”
“Say you do?”
“Uh huh,” said the skinny one.
It was then I seen the skinny guy pull a razor out of his pocket. I had one too, but razor work, it’s nasty. He kept it closed.
Big guy with the gold tooth, flexed his fingers, and made a fist. That made me figure he didn’t have a gun or a razor; or maybe he just liked hitting people. I know I did.
They come along toward me then, and the skinny one with the razor flicked it open. I pulled the .45 out from under my coat, said, “You ought to put that back in your pocket,” I said, “save it for shaving.”
“Oh, I’m fixing to do some shaving right now,” he said.
I pointed the .45 at him.
The big man said, “That’s one gun for two men.”
“It is,” I said, “but I’m real quick with it. And frankly, I know one of you is gonna end up dead. I just ain’t sure which one right yet.”
“All right then,” said the big man, smiling. “That’ll be enough.” He looked back at the skinny man with the razor. The skinny man put the razor back in his coat pocket and they turned and started down the stairs.
I went over and stood by the stairway and listened. I could hear them walking down, but then all of a sudden, they stopped on the stairs. That’s the way I had it figured.
Then I could hear the morons rushing back up. They weren’t near as sneaky as they thought they was. The big one was first out of the chute, so to speak; come rushing out of the stairwell and onto the landing. I brought the butt of the .45 down on the back of his head, right where the skull slopes down. He did a kind of frog hop and bounced across the hall and hit his head on the wall, and went down and laid there like his intent all along had been a quick leap and a nap.
Then the other one was there, and he had the razor. He flicked it, and then he saw the .45 in my hand.
“Where did you think this gun was gonna go?” I said. “On vacation?”
I kicked him in the groin hard enough he dropped the razor, and went to his knees. I put the .45 back where I got it. I said, “You want some, man?”
He got up, and come at me. I hit him with a right and knocked him clean through the window behind him. Glass sprinkled all over the hallway.
I went over and looked out. He was lying on the fire escape, his head, against the railing. He looked right at me.
“You crazy, cocksucker. What if there hadn’t been no fire escape?”
“You’d have your ass punched into the bricks. Still might.”
He got up quick and clamored down the fire escape like a squirrel. I watched him till he got to the ground and went limping away down the alley between some overturned trash cans and a slinking dog.
I picked up his razor and put it in my pocket with the one I already had, walked over and kicked the big man in the head just because I could.
I knocked on the door. No one answered. I could hear sounds from inside. It was similar to what I had heard on that record, but not quite, and it was faint, as if coming from a distance.
No one answered my knock, so I stuck the key in the door and opened it and went straight away inside.
I almost lost my breath when I did.
The air in the room was thick and it stunk of mildew and rot and things long dead. It made those boiled pig feet and that shitting cat and that rotten-tooth bastard downstairs smell like perfume.
Tootie was lying on the bed, on his back. His eyes were closed. He was a guy usually dressed to the top, baby, but his shirt was wrinkled and dirty and sweaty at the neck and arm pits. His pants were nasty too. He had on his shoes, but no socks. He looked like someone had set him on fire and then beat out the flames with a two-by-four. His face was like a skull, he had lost so much flesh, and he was as bony under his clothes as a skeleton.
Where his hands lay on the sheet, there were blood stains. His guitar was next to the bed, and there were stacks and stacks of composition note books lying on the floor. A couple of them were open and filled with writing. Hell, I didn’t even know Tootie could write.
The wall on the far side was marked up in black and red paint; there were all manner of musical notes drawn on it, along with symbols I had never seen before; swiggle
s and circles and stick figure drawings. Blood was on the wall too, most likely from Tootie’s bleeding fingers. Two open paint cans, the red and the black, were on the floor with brushes stuck up in them. Paint was splattered on the floor and had dried in humped up blisters. The guitar had blood stains all over it.
A record player, plugged in, setting on a nightstand by the bed, was playing that strange music. I went to it right away and picked up the needle and set it aside. And let me tell you, just making my way across the room to get hold of the player was like wading through mud with my ankles tied together. It seemed to me as I got closer to the record, the louder it got, and the more ill I felt. My head throbbed. My heart pounded.
When I had the needle up and the music off, I went over and touched Tootie. He didn’t move, but I could see his chest rising and falling. Except for his hands, he didn’t seem hurt. He was in a deep sleep. I picked up his right hand and turned it over and looked at it. The fingers were cut deep, like someone had taken a razor to the tips. Right off, I figured that was from playing his guitar. Struck me, that to get the sounds he got out of it, he really had to dig in with those fingers. And from the looks of this room, he had been at it non-stop, until recent.
I shook him. His eyes fluttered and finally opened. They were bloodshot and had dark circles around them.
When he saw me, he startled, and his eyes rolled around in his head like those little games kids get where you try to shake the marbles into holes. After a moment, they got straight, and he said, “Ricky?”
That was another reason I hated him. I didn’t like being called Ricky.
I said, “Hello, shithead. You’re sister’s worried sick.”
“The music,” he said. “Put the music back on.”
“You call that music?” I said.
He took a deep breath, rolled out of the bed, nearly knocking me aside. Then I saw him jerk, like he’d seen a truck coming right at him. I turned. I wished it had been a truck.
Let me try and tell you what I saw. I not only saw it, I felt it. It was in the very air we were breathing, getting inside my chest like mice wearing barbed wire coats. The wall Tootie had painted and drawn all that crap on, shook.
And then the wall wasn’t a wall at all. It was a long hallway, dark as original sin. There was something moving in there, something that slithered and slid and made smacking sounds like an anxious old drunk about to take his next drink. Stars popped up, greasy stars that didn’t remind me of anything I had ever seen in the night sky; a moon the color of a bleeding fish eye was in the background, and it cast a light on something moving toward us.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“No,” Tootie said. “It’s not him.”
Tootie jumped to the record player, picked up the needle, and put it on. There came that rotten sound I had heard with Alma May, and I knew what I had heard when I first came into the room was the tail end of that same record playing, the part I hadn’t heard before.
The music screeched and howled. I bent over and threw up. I fell back against the bed, tried to get up, but my legs were like old pipe cleaners. That record had taken the juice out of me. And then I saw it.
There’s no description that really fits. It was . . . a thing. All blanket wrapped in shadow with sucker mouths and thrashing tentacles and centipede legs mounted on clicking hooves. A bulb-like head plastered all over with red and yellow eyes that seemed to creep. All around it, shadows swirled like water. It had a beak. Well, beaks.
The thing was coming right out of the wall. Tentacles thrashed toward me. One touched me across the cheek. It was like being scalded with hot grease. A shadow come loose of the thing, fell onto the floorboards of the room, turned red and raced across the floor like a gush of blood. Insects and maggots squirmed in the bleeding shadow, and the record hit a high spot so loud and so goddamn strange, I ground my teeth, felt as if my insides were being twisted up like wet wash. And then I passed out.
When I came to, the music was still playing. Tootie was bent over me.
“That sound,” I said.
“You get used to it,” Tootie said, “but the thing can’t. Or maybe it can, but just not yet.”
I looked at the wall. There was no alleyway. It was just a wall plastered in paint designs and spots of blood.
“And if the music stops?” I said.
“I fall asleep,” Tootie said. “Record quits playing, it starts coming.”
For a moment I didn’t know anything to say. I finally got off the floor and sat on the bed. I felt my cheek where the tentacle hit me. It throbbed and I could feel blisters. I also had a knot on my head where I had fallen.
“Almost got you,” Tootie said. “I think you can leave and it won’t come after you. Me, I can’t. I leave, it follows. It’ll finally find me. I guess here is as good as any place.”
I was looking at him, listening, but not understanding a damn thing.
The record quit. Tootie started it again. I looked at the wall. Even that blank moment without sound scared me. I didn’t want to see that thing again. I didn’t even want to think about it.
“I haven’t slept in days, until now,” Tootie said, coming to sit on the bed. “You hadn’t come in, it would have got me, carried me off, taken my soul. But, you can leave. It’s my lookout, not yours . . . I’m always in some kind of shit, ain’t I, Ricky?”
“That’s the truth.”
“This though, it’s the corker. I got to stand up and be a man for once. I got to fight this thing back, and all I got is the music. Like I told you, you can go.”
I shook my head. “Alma May sent me. I said I’d bring you back.”
It was Tootie’s turn to shake his head. “Nope. I ain’t goin’. I ain’t done nothin’ but mess up sis’s life. I ain’t gonna do it.”
“First responsible thing I ever heard you say,” I said.
“Go on,” Tootie said. “Leave me to it. I can take care of myself.”
“If you don’t die of starvation, or pass out from lack of sleep, or need of water, you’ll be just fine.”
Tootie smiled at me. “Yeah. That’s all I got to worry about. I hope it is one of them other things kills me. Cause if it comes for me . . . Well, I don’t want to think about it.”
“Keep the record going, I’ll get something to eat and drink, some coffee. You think you can stay awake a half hour or so?”
“I can, but you’re coming back?”
“I’m coming back,” I said.
Out in the hallway I saw the big guy was gone. I took the stairs.
When I got back, Tootie had cleaned up the vomit, and was looking through the notebooks. He was sitting on the floor and had them stacked all around him. He was maybe six inches away from the record player. Now and again he’d reach up and start it all over.
Soon as I was in the room, and that sound from the record was snugged up around me, I felt sick. I had gone to a greasy spoon down the street, after I changed a flat tire. One of the boys I’d given a hard time had most likely knifed it. My bet was the lucky son-of-a-bitch who had fallen on the fire escape.
Besides the tire, a half dozen long scratches had been cut into the paint on the passengers side, and my windshield was knocked in. I got back from the café, I parked what was left of my car behind the hotel, down the street a bit, and walked a block. Car looked so bad now, maybe nobody would want to steal it.
I sat one of the open sacks on the floor by Tootie.
“Both hamburgers are yours,” I said. “I got coffee for the both of us here.”
I took out a tall, cardboard container of coffee and gave it to him, took the other one for myself. I sat on the bed and sipped. Nothing tasted good in that room with that smell and that sound. But, Tootie, he ate like a wolf. He gulped those burgers and coffee like it was air.
When he finished with the second burger, he started up the record again, leaned his back against the bed.
“Coffee or not,” he said, “I don’t know how long I can stay awake.�
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“So what you got to do is keep the record playing?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Lay up in bed, sleep for a few hours. I’ll keep the record going. You’re rested, you got to explain this thing to me, and then we’ll figure something out.”
“There’s nothing to figure,” he said. “But, god, I’ll take you up on that sleep.”
He crawled up in the bed and was immediately out.
I started the record over.
I got up then, untied Tootie’s shoes and pulled them off. Hell, like him or not, he was Alma May’s brother. And another thing, I wouldn’t wish that thing behind the wall on my worst enemy.
I sat on the floor where Tootie had sat and kept restarting the record as I tried to figure things out, which wasn’t easy with that music going. I got up from time to time and walked around the room, and then I’d end up back on the floor by the record player, where I could reach it easy.
Between changes, I looked through the composition notebooks. They were full of musical notes mixed with scribbles like the ones on the wall. It was hard to focus with that horrid sound. It was like the air was full of snakes and razors. Got the feeling the music was pushing at something behind that wall. Got the feeling too, there was something on the other side, pushing back.
It was dark when Tootie woke up. He had slept a good ten hours, and I was exhausted with all that record changing, that horrible sound. I had a headache from looking over those notebooks, and I didn’t know anymore about them than when I first started.
I went and bought more coffee, brought it back, and we sat on the bed, him changing the record from time to time, us sipping.
I said, “You sure you can’t just walk away?”
I was avoiding the real question for some reason. Like, what in hell is that thing, and what is going on? Maybe I was afraid of the answer.
“You saw that thing. I can walk away, all right. And I can run. But wherever I go, it’ll find me. So, at some point, I got to face it. Sometimes I make that same record sound with my guitar, give the record a rest. Thing I fear most is the record wearing out.”
I gestured at the notebooks on the floor. “What is all that?”
“My notes. My writings. I come here to write some lyrics, some new blues songs.”