Chasing Bliss

by Sabrina A. Eubanks

  “Here, right?” J.T. asked, pulling up in front of a block of row houses. It was 3:00am, but it was a warm and early Saturday morning, so there was still a small smattering of people still out in small social circles.

  Chase opened the glove compartment as J.T. turned on the radio that wasn’t a real radio at all; it was a police scanner. Chase took out a pair of black gloves, a black baseball cap, and a face visor—the kind skiers wear in the winter to keep the wind off their faces. He put the gloves and cap on, then reached back into the glove box and took out a black nine with the serial numbers rubbed off. He tucked the weapon into his jeans and looked over at J.T. “Meet me two blocks down, by the light.”

  “Done,” J.T. replied in true yes-man fashion.

  Chase got out and went up the steps of Mooch’s residence. He’d done this all before, so it didn’t take him long. He took a small black case out of his pocket and used two metal tools to tumble the lock and get inside. To any onlookers, he would have looked as harmless as a resident who was having a little trouble with his key. He opened the door and stepped soundlessly into the entryway like a man coming home from work.

  It was dark and deserted, which made things easier. Apparently, Mooch called an apartment on the second floor home. Chase started up the stairs with liquid grace. The stairway was dimly lit and unoccupied, as was the hallway, but he was glad it wasn’t too quiet in the place. Somewhere someone was playing their TV too loud, and a baby was wailing—both helpful, noisy distractions for what was about to take place in the building. He jogged up the rest of the stairs and withdrew his trusty razor from his pocket. He stopped just outside Mooch’s apartment door. He was going to put the visor on, but he decided against it. Fuck it. I want the last thing this trigger-happy Mooch fucker to see is my face. He was in it now: Chase was gone. Smoke was here.

  Chase smiled to himself as he lifted the ring of the brass knocker and let it fall three times. He knew niggas get real stupid when they’re in a panic. He tried to squelch the thrill of anticipation that leapt up in him, tried to tell himself that he shouldn’t be feeling exhilarated. After all, murder isn’t supposed to be fun, like a damn hobby or something. He stepped out of the view of the peephole when he heard footsteps on the other side.

  “Who the fuck is this at two in the mornin’?” Mooch demanded.

  Chase moved all the way to the left of the door and stayed silent.

  “Who the fuck is it?” Mooch bellowed.

  Chase didn’t answer. As he heard the locks come off, he realized, suddenly, that he’d probably been smiling for the last two minutes. It was awful of him, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. His breath was low and even, and he was eerily calm.

  The door opened an inch. There was a pause, and then it opened the length of the security chain.

  Chase stayed still.

  “What the fuck?” Mooch said under his breath.

  The door closed and Chase stopped smiling as he heard the security chain come off. He knew Mooch wouldn’t be coming to the door empty handed. His body tensed as he readied himself for whatever arsenal Mooch might unleash on him.

  Mooch threw the door open, and Chase stepped in front of it. Mooch was holding a .45 in his right hand, but he seemed to forget it when he saw who his late-night visitor was. His face was a mask of fright. “Oh, God! Jesus,” he whispered.

  Chase’s smile returned. “That’s good, Mooch. It’s never too late to pray. You got just enough time to repent before I cross your ass out.” Chase lunged at him, opening his razor. He swung his arm in an arc and brought it down diagonally across Mooch’s face, from the left side of the shooter’s forehead to the tip of his chin. Chase never brought his razor down lightly, and this kill was no exception. He felt it hit the bone and slice through the cartilage in Mooch’s nose. He felt the gelatinous pop as Mooch’s eye burst like a too-ripe tomato.

  Mooch howled and looked up in shock. His fingers reflexively pulled the trigger of the .45, and the bullet screamed out and thudded into the floor.

  Chase pushed Mooch back into the apartment and kicked the gun out of his hand. He raised his arm again and brought the razor down on the other side of the man’s face in another diagonal, creating a terrible and gory X in what used to be a relatively handsome face. The skin fell open, revealing layers of muscle, fat, and connective tissue. Blood soaked his shirt in seconds. He was blubbering and begging, blinded in his one remaining good eye by his own blood. He turned to run and tripped over the coffee table, crashing to land on his back on the floor.

  Chase grabbed his victim’s blood-soaked collar and went right for his neck. Mooch brought his hand up defensively, and Chase’s razor split his palm open, causing the man to shriek like a wounded banshee. Chase grunted in irritation and pushed Mooch’s chin up with the heel of his hand. He stuck the razor in the soft flesh between Mooch’s left ear and his jawbone and dragged it smoothly across his neck. He jumped back to avoid the jetting torrent of blood that shot out of the wound and wiped the blade of the bloody razor on the sofa cushion.

  Chase didn’t wait to watch Mooch’s death throes. He went out the window and down the fire escape and then sprinted the two blocks to meet J.T., staying close to the shadows on the way to his getaway car.

  The passenger door swung open for him even before he got to the vehicle. Chase slipped inside, and J.T. pulled out—not screeching away from the curb like in the movies, but calmly and normally, moving right into the light flow of late-night traffic. He glanced at Chase and handed him a Ziploc bag. Chase stripped off his gloves and shoved them in the bag, just like he always did.

  J.T. put the bag under his seat like he always did. “Everything go okay?” J.T. asked, looking over at him again.

  “Yeah. Everything’s good,” Chase said quietly. Chase began to deflate. The adrenaline was leaving his body, and he was starting to settle down. The feeling was a little like fucking: The deed was done, the rush was over, and now all he wanted to do was go to sleep. He checked his clothes for any sign of Mooch’s blood, and his search came up empty, as he couldn’t see any evidence of the bloodbath he’d caused. Chase kept two pairs of thin black leather driving gloves in his glove compartment. He reached in and took out the other pair and drew them on. Then he opened and closed his fists for a perfect fit, held his hands up, and looked at them.

  “What’s the matter?” J.T. asked, concern in his voice. “You hurt?”

  Chase slid down in his seat and put his hands in his lap. His mind flashed a picture of the gruesome X he’d made across Mooch’s face. He couldn’t believe he’d done that sick, psychopathic shit. He never could believe what he did, but he had done it. Smoke wasn’t a strong enough tag; he felt like Mr. Fucking Hyde.

  “Now’s not the time for that shit, Chase. Let’s go find Post and get this shit over with. Come on, man. Shake it off.”

  Fuck it, he thought. We can’t leave this shit half done. Suddenly, an uninvited thought of Bliss popped into his mind, and he pushed her right back out; she didn’t have any place in all that violence.

  They turned onto Knickerbocker Avenue and almost ran over a small, very dark man who everyone called Baby Hustle because of his short stature and the fact that he was always selling something to support his pathetic crack habit. He jumped out of the way with great exaggeration and started yelling at the car like a lunatic.

  “Stop the car, J.T.,” Chase said as he rolled the window down. “Hey, Baby!” he yelled.

  Baby Hustle looked at him, and his face lit up. He knew Chase might want to hit him up for some information, but Chase paid well. He did a slow bop to the vehicle. “Smoke! What’s good, son? If I’da know’d that was you, I woulda stayed my black ass out the damn street!” he said, crowing with laughter.

  Chase laughed, too, even though he wasn’t even remotely amused. “Come here, Baby.”

  Baby obeyed and walked up on the car, knowing he could make enough green for a few blasts if he played his loose-tongue cards right. “What you wa
nt with me, Smoke?”

  Chase smiled at him reassuringly. “Don’t want nothing with you, Baby.”

  Baby swallowed hard, but he looked hungry, like he was close to fiending. “You lookin’ for Mooch and Post, ain’t ya? That’s what you gotta be doin’ out here so late. Me? I’m out here late, too, but I’m just rummagin’ for shit to sell. It’s hard to maintain with this goddamn recession. Know what I’m sayin’?” he said in his raspy, but somehow squeaky voice.

  Baby was one of Chase’s go-to guys to find out the word on the street. He was reliable, and he was so terrified of Chase that Chase seriously doubted he would ever be willing to suffer the consequences of giving him up. To make sure, Chase always broke him off right—enough for him to disappear to Crack Heaven for a week. Chase got out of the car and held the back door open. Baby got in without being told, looking like he’d pretty much been expecting to see Chase sometime that night after what went down.

  Chase got in next to him and closed the door. “What you know about Post, Baby?”

  A slight frown creased Baby’s brow, and he looked at Chase warily. “Post only? Why you ain’t askin’ about Mooch too?”

  Chase looked at him steadily. “I never mentioned Mooch. You did. Mooch ain’t my business no more.”

  Baby looked momentarily confused, but then a look of comprehension settled in his face. “If you already got that nigga, I’m glad. Him, Post, and a nigga named Cicero beat my ass unmerciful once over ten dollars’ worth of get-high. Fuckers said I stole that shit.”

  Chase smiled. “Did you steal it, Baby?”

  Baby shrugged. “Well, yeah, but that ain’t no damn reason to put a man in a coma for three days. Ten dollars ain’t shit to them niggas, but they felt the need to beat a man like that.”

  Chase nodded his head in faux commiseration.

  “I hope you got his ass good.”

  Chase didn’t answer him; he just looked at him evenly. “So, you got somethin’ to tell me?” he prodded.

  “What time is it?”

  Chase looked at his watch. “Two thirty. Why?”

  Baby scratched his chin and laughed. “You must be one of the luckiest motherfuckers I ever met, Smoke. Post just happens to be one of the people I try to keep on my radar. I ain’t willin’ to get my head broke like that no mo’, so yeah, I got somethin’ to tell you.”

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “Friday nights, you can usually find that asshole drinkin’ at Ricky’s Bar on DeKalb. You know where I’m talkin’ ‘bout?”

  Chase nodded. “Yeah, I know Ricky’s.”

  “Okay. If he ain’t there, then he’s workin’, cuttin’ product and countin’ money at a drug house on Patchen. If he ain’t there, he’s home ‘sleep, most likely. That nigga don’t get nowhere near the pussy he claim he do. My bet is, though, that asshole’s still up at Ricky’s, gettin’ his drink on. I saw him go in there ‘round midnight, and he drink like a damn fish.”

  Chase smiled at him. “That’s a solid, Baby.” He took a money clip out of his pocket and handed it to Baby Hustle.

  When the crack head counted it with his eyes, he saw $500. Baby’s eyes widened, and he tried not to snatch it greedily. “You know I wouldn’t take this if I was a regular, cleaned-up man, but I ain’t. I is who I is, just like everybody else. Thanks, Smoke.”

  “It’s okay. And Baby, if somebody tries to fuck with you anymore, just holler and I’ll come pay ‘em a visit, okay?”

  Baby nodded. “Okay, Smoke. You always take care of me.”

  “And I always will.”

  Baby looked sincerely touched. “I ain’t gonna get high till daybreak, just in case you need me. You a damn decent man, Smoke.”

  Chase had to laugh at that one. “That’s a matter of opinion, I think. Be careful, Baby.”

  “Right. You, too, Smoke.” He leaned forward. “And you too, J.T.”

  J.T. nodded. “See ya, Baby.”

  Chase got out of the car and let him out.

  “Don’t forget…if you need me, Smoke, come get me.”

  Chase smiled at him. “I won’t forget. Bye, Baby.”

  Baby nodded and walked away, pausing briefly to tuck his fresh batch of get-high money in his drawers.

  Chase shook his head and hoped he wasn’t wearing boxers. He got back into the passenger seat and looked over at J.T. “You heard him. Ricky’s Bar on DeKalb.”

  J.T. looked at him for a long moment. “You, my friend, are truly a multifaceted man. You got a million sides to you, and I believe each one is genuine—the real deal. From kindness and generosity, love and concern, to all the dark shit you do, I think you sincerely mean everything you do.”

  Chase looked at him. “Yeah, J.T.? You’re probably right, but I don’t feel like hearin’ that shit right now, so go fuck yourself…and I sincerely mean that too.”

  J.T. chuckled richly. “Your anger’s misdirected. It ain’t me you’re mad at. It’s Cyrus.”

  Chase felt like punching him just because he was right. “I’m mad at your ass, too, with all that Black Yoda shit. Shut the fuck up, J.T., and drive the car.”

  J.T. sighed heavily. “Forgive you I do, Grasshopper.”

  “Grasshopper wasn’t in fuckin’ Star Wars! Now please shut up so I can get my shit together. I got unfinished business to deal with.”

  J.T. laughed and pulled a chicken-fried ghetto accent. “I’s sorry, homey. I was just tryina help you out, son. That’s my word.”

  Chase smiled in spite of himself. J.T. knew him well, and he was just trying to keep him from falling down the rabbit hole. “Just drive the car, man.”

  “All right.”

  They got to Ricky’s faster than Chase thought they would, and he sat silently for a moment, watching the people drift in and out. He didn’t see anyone he knew personally. There were one or two he’d seen around, and the rest seemed unfamiliar, but that was just on the outside. “All right, J.T., park in the middle of the next block. I might be a minute.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  Chase got out of the car and pulled his cap down. He pushed the bar door open and stepped inside. He was instantly grateful for the dim lighting. He sat at the end of the bar and ordered a Rémy, straight up. He could see the entire room from that vantage point, and he spotted Post right away. His target was snuggled up in the corner with two hoes Chase wouldn’t have touched if they were the last pieces of ass on Earth.

  Chase sipped his drink slowly and watched Post go through two rounds of drinks. After a while, the inevitable happened: Post stood, swayed a bit, and headed for the bathroom on his wobbly drunk-ass legs. Chase smiled a little as he realized as piss drunk as Post was, he was about to be stone-cold sober. Chase got up and followed him into the restroom.

  Post pushed the door open without ever turning around, and Chase stepped in right behind him, his eyes giving the room the onceover to make sure they were alone. Even though there was no one else in there at the moment, Chase knew he had to move fast; in a place like that, people had to take a piss far too often. Post staggered to a urinal and pulled out his equipment just as Chase reached into his pocket and pulled out his razor. Strangely—and much to his relief—Chase didn’t feel any of the thrill he’d felt earlier when he made a butcher block out of Mooch. He just wanted the whole thing to be over, and he silently cursed Cyrus again for getting him mixed up in it in the first place.

  He stepped up to Post, stood just behind him, and opened his razor. He never opened his mouth; his razor did all the talking. Chase slid it across Post’s throat in one brisk motion. Post’s hands flew up as he desperately tried to keep his blood where it belonged, but he failed. Blood jetted and sprayed across the bathroom in bright red splashes, and Chase watched Post collapse to the floor and start dying in earnest. Post was looking at him, clutching his ruined throat, and Chase just stared back at him coldly. “I hope it was worth it,” he said plainly and walked out of the bathroom and straight out of the bar.

  He didn’t
run. Instead, he walked to his idling car like he was out for a stroll. He casually removed his jacket and folded it with the inside facing out since he was sure there was some back-spray on the sleeve.

  J.T. saw him coming and got out of the car. He had the first pair of gloves that they’d put in the Ziploc in his hand. He opened the trunk and took out a small garbage bag. Chase pulled off the gloves he was wearing and put them in the garbage bag, along with the jacket. J.T. added the first set of gloves and tied the top of the bag into a knot. He reached back into the trunk and took out a roll of duct tape, wearing latex gloves himself. He gave Chase the keys and got into the passenger seat. Chase got in on the driver’s side, started the car, and pulled out.

  “Everything okay?” J.T. asked, wrapping the garbage bag with the duct tape.

  “All smooth, J.T., but I don’t really feel like talkin’ about it. Sorry.”

  J.T. nodded and continued wrapping the bag. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  Chase drove down DeKalb to Broadway, then took the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. He turned onto FDR Drive and took it to Avenue C, where J.T. got out and dropped the wrapped package in a garbage can in Stuyvesant Square Park. When J.T. got back in, Chase took the car up Broadway to 91st Street and Central Park West. He stopped a block from J.T.’s posh condo and killed the engine.

  “You okay?” J.T. asked.

  Chase barely heard him as he threw the door open. He only made it as far as the back tire before he started puking his guts out, barely missing his sneakers. He vaguely heard J.T. get out of the car. He couldn’t believe he was tossing his cookies in the street like a little kid, and he couldn’t seem to stop. He threw up until there was nothing left but bile, and he coughed and brought that up too. When he was done, he folded his arms on the roof of the car and put his head down. His whole midsection hurt, and he still felt like he might start dry heaving.

  “You okay now, man?” J.T. asked across the roof.

  Chase picked his head up and ran his hand over his face. “I guess. I don’t know where the hell that came from.”