by Richard Long
I did pretty good myself, she thought with a swell of pride. Then she realized the total insanity of her glorified recollection. Jesus! What’s happening to me? She searched for an answer but the echoing sound of boot steps on the staircase was all she heard in reply.
When they finally reached the landing, Rose assumed they would be continuing up the next flight of stairs to her own apartment. She began to steer Martin in that direction when he shook his head and nudged his chin toward his own door instead.
Paul wasn’t missing a thing, dissecting every nuance of their silent communication like a behavioral psychologist. She lives upstairs. He’s been there before. She hasn’t been inside his apartment. Doesn’t know what to expect. Interesting. Very interesting.
Martin saw Paul’s gears turning and lowered his head ruefully, wondering how much worse things would get now that Paul knew where she lived.
Michael crept up the stairs behind everyone else, not sure what he was supposed to be doing, trying not to think about it. Looking at Rose made it easier. His eyes were riveted to her tiny ass. As they climbed higher, he deliberately backed off a few more steps so he could sneak a peek up her tight black vinyl skirt. No undies! Whoa! Check out those piercings!
He started counting the rings as he followed them up the stairs. One…two…three…
He banged his fist on the railing as they reached the landing and turned the corner.
Martin dug his good hand into his pocket, pulling out the thick ring of keys for his myriad combination of locks. He looked over his shoulder to gauge what Paul was thinking. He returned his glance with a sweaty grin and a leer at the back of Rose’s head.
Before he unbolted half the locks, Martin wished he were turning the key in the exact opposite direction. From the other side of the door.
Rose helped Martin lie down across the clean Formica kitchen table (with the two spare leaves added to give it three extra feet of length). She gingerly removed his shirt and had to cover her mouth to keep the horrified gasp inside. A thick chunk of flesh had been blown out, leaving a large piece of gore flimsily attached to a flap of skin. Blood was leaking out profusely.
Paul wasn’t fazed in the least. Martin let out a sigh of relief as he gauged Paul’s reaction. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea having him here after all.
“Where’s yer kit?” Paul asked gruffly.
“Under the sink,” Martin grunted. “Blood’s in the fridge.”
Rose’s mouth gaped in a “What the fuck?” pantomime.
Paul reached under the sink and pulled out a generic plastic toolbox. Inside was a full array of gauze, scalpels, needles, sutures, field dressings, antibiotics…everything he’d been taught by Paul to keep on hand for any emergency, like self-surgery. There were even four ampoules of morphine should a rare circumstance arise where the only way to keep a steady hand during the procedure was to take the edge off the pain.
Paul scoffed at the sight of it. “You won’t be needing this crap, will you, Martin?”
Even though Martin would have vastly preferred a quick shot in the ass, and would have done so himself if he’d been left to his own devices, he knew what the correct response was if he wanted to get the best care possible. “No.”
“Glad to hear it.” Paul nodded.
“Wait a second!” Rose piped up. “He’s in pain!” They were the first words she’d spoken in five minutes. She’d been trying to keep her mouth shut about these guys out of consideration for Martin, assuming that they must be his friends. But what kind of friend doesn’t let you take painkillers when you have a bullet hole through your torso?
“Just so’s ya know, little girl…Martin knows a lot more about pain than you ever will, even with all those nasty little pins stickin’ every which way out of your painted hide!”
Paul breathed hard and leaned over her like the Ghost of Christmas Future, daring her to say anything. She didn’t. Satisfied, Paul let out another “Hhmph!” and got back to work. He opened the fridge, took out a pint of whole blood and started slapping Martin’s veins below his bicep. Martin remained silent, knowing he needed every ounce of strength for the ordeal to follow. Talking wasn’t an option. Neither was screaming, even when Paul jammed the IV tube into a vein with enough force to drive a pencil through a two-by-four.
Paul closed the bullet entry wound with only three stitches. He did it with such quick facility that Martin barely let out a gasp as the needle and thread pulled his skin tautly together. When Paul bit off the excess suture, even Rose remained quiet, much to Martin’s added relief, watching the big man’s dexterous movements in awe. Being somewhat of a self-taught surgeon herself, she couldn’t help feel a kindred admiration when she witnessed someone with such obvious mastery. She also felt a tingle of longing as she saw the curved needle dip into Martin’s flesh again and again. As much as she wanted to cling to her protective feelings, it was hard for a pain junkie like herself to get too upset by what Paul was doing. Especially when it started looking good to her.
Martin, like herself, was indeed no stranger to pain, just as Paul had said. He breathed the same way she did when she was pierced (also without anesthesia, of course). She could feel the way he moved into the pain, not away from it. She could also see that he was even better at it than she was. That made her feel a little jealous, but she felt closer to him too.
See, we do have something in common, she thought, adding another lame rationalization to her quickly lengthening list.
Michael was craning his neck to watch the operation with equal enthusiasm. “Cool,” he said with a grin, as Paul tugged at the final suture.
Rose looked at Bean oddly for a moment, then noticed how many piercings he had in his face. Birds of a feather.
Paul watched the two of them and felt his desire surge even more than it had on the stoop. I love this new generation.
“Okay, Martin, let’s flip over,” he said. Rose and Michael let out involuntary gasps as the flap of skin attached to Martin’s wound didn’t quite make the turn with him.
“It’s liable to get a bit noisy now,” Paul declared. “Michael, turn on the TV set. Loud.”
Bean zoomed over to the television, turned it on and cranked it up. He zoomed back just as quickly, not wanting to miss a second of this.
Rose was still prepared to make a fuss if Martin wasn’t able to cope without medication. At the same time, she found herself wondering how much pain he could take. She also found herself getting aroused, which elicited a wave of shame she hadn’t felt since her days at the Catholic school her foster parents made her attend. She stuffed it down quickly and readied herself for the second act.
Paul put on a pair of surgical gloves rather dramatically and poured half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide into the still bleeding wound. He followed with a thick index finger, making sure he worked the fluid into all the nooks and crannies. When the peroxide poured in, Martin felt like his eyeballs were turning inside out. When the finger followed, he almost passed out. But he didn’t scream, did he? Martin knew the less he screamed, the less chance there would be for Rose to say something fatally foolish to Paul in his defense.
Rose and Michael’s mouths hung open in disbelief when Martin clenched his teeth without uttering a sound. Paul nodded with respect and admiration right along with them. Michael was so impressed he couldn’t stop himself from adding some vocal commentary, “Whoa, dude! That is badass!”
Paul chuckled. Martin was not amused. For the next ten minutes Paul worked feverishly, suturing or cauterizing every severed blood vessel, one by one. Then he began knitting the flap of flesh back into place with semi-concentric rings of dissolving sutures from the inside out. Martin let out about five low growls, two gasps and one mild shout throughout the whole ordeal. It made his performance with the nail earlier look like a game of touch football. Rose was so turned on with a combination of bloodlust and pride in her man that it was all she could do to not finger herself as the final exterior stitches were anchored in place.
Wh
en Paul threw the bloody instruments into the sink, Bean actually applauded. Paul took a slight bow and a bigger swig of whiskey from his silver flask. In the awkward silence that followed, the television sounded deafening by contrast. Martin was so out of it he didn’t notice. Paul moved uncomfortably close to Rose, then continued walking toward the TV.
The newscaster said that name: “Captain Hook.” Paul hadn’t heard it in a long time. He listened to the reporter for as long as he could bear her nasal whine, then turned off the set. The police had found one of his recent dipsty dumpster deposits. On any other night he would have relished all the fuss, but none of that mattered anymore. Time was running out. Not because of the murder, or the perfunctory investigation that would follow. Paul didn’t care about any of that. Time was running out because of Martin and the girl and the way they kept looking at each other. Yes, there was no doubt about it. He was losing him.
“So, Martin…how did you meet your little friend here?” Paul asked sweetly.
Martin’s eyes narrowed at Paul’s none-too-casual inquiry. He was too exhausted to make up a story, but he also didn’t want Paul to spend another second contemplating the proximity of their apartments. “We met in the park,” he said.
Rose didn’t know why Martin was lying, but she was smart enough not to betray his instincts, good or bad. She backed up six feet from the table as Paul came closer.
“You met in the park…well, isn’t that sweet,” he drawled, smiling at Martin’s clumsy lie. “I know how much you love the park, son. And when did this meeting take place?”
“This morning,” Martin said, propping himself up on his elbows, hanging his feet over the edge of the table, preparing for what might happen next.
“So you had a nice little chat, did you?” Paul asked Rose, turning his sinister bulk toward her. “What subjects did you cover? Current affairs? The Mideast? Family matters?”
“We didn’t talk much,” Martin cut in, grunting as he sat up squarely.
“Uh-huh.” Paul nodded, turning back to him. “Then I guess what puzzles me is why on earth this little darlin’ would risk her neck to help you battle a gang of gun-toting junkies, when she only met you this morning and you barely said two words to each other.”
“Because she likes me,” Martin mumbled childishly, turning his face to the wall.
“Oh, my!” Paul laughed. “Is that the God’s honest truth? Does she really like you?”
“Yeah, I like him a lot,” Rose cut in, stepping forward with a swell of reckless courage fueled by a much more predictable surge of anger. She squeezed Martin’s hand, much to his undisguised surprise and Paul’s palpable loathing.
“Fair enough, fair enough, he’s a likable lad, God knows,” Paul chortled, pacing away, then circling back like a shark orbiting two bleeding dolphins. “But what about you, Martin? Frankly, I don’t get it. Besides fucking, what on earth do you want with her?”
“Stop it!” Martin yelled, ripping out his IV and leaping off the table. He stood facing Paul in the small bright kitchen, naked from the waist up, muscles rippling, bandaged and bruised and ready. Ready for anything, except the look on Paul’s face. It was a look he’d never seen. Shock. Absolute shock. And maybe fear? Martin took a step closer to test that theory, his fists clenched like rocks at his waist. Paul didn’t move, didn’t twitch, didn’t blink. Whatever expression had been on his face was completely erased beneath the dead mask.
“I suggest you relax,” Paul said softly. “You’re no match for me on a good day.”
“Leave him alone!” Rose cried, tugging on Paul’s sleeve.
Martin quickly grabbed Rose by the shoulders, yanking her to the side and out of Paul’s wheelhouse. But Paul’s reaction to that maneuver was even more unexpected than the shock. He didn’t swing at Rose, or spit out more invective. He stepped up and hugged him.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul said, stroking the stubble on Martin’s head. “So you two angels are in love, is that it? Maybe you could get married, eh? Make a wedding album with some news clippings from all our adventures.”
Martin stiffened. Rose felt beads of sweat accumulate on her upper lip as she watched his silent reaction. Fuck. It was true. He was a criminal. Paul was his cohort, or worse, maybe an Irish mob boss, which seemed plausible from the way he was swinging his dick around. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“And what about you, dearie?” Paul grinned, turning to Rose. “I’ll wager Martin isn’t the first ruffian that’s plundered your grease-hole, but even if you’ve gang-banged the Hell’s Angels clubhouse, you might be a teeny bit over your head with this one. I’m sure you noticed the practiced and quite heartless ease with which he dispatched that riff-raff below. Are a few more thrill-fucks with a cold-blooded killer really worth five to ten in a cramped metal cage with a 250-pound bull dyke sporting a shag carpet between her legs? As you may have read in the papers, murderers have a tendency to get caught and punished, and seeing how careless your hero has been tonight, it would be a far more sensible choice for you to find a good-sized rock to hide under, instead of hunkering down with your gun-slinging beau in this blood-splattered kitchen like Bonnie and Clyde, waiting for the sheriff and his posse to ram down the door.”
Rose looked at Martin with absolute panic. She became even more wigged out by the cringing look of acknowledgment Martin returned, a look that stated more potently than the simple words could convey.
He’s right.
Paul grinned with delight at their nervous expressions, relaxing his grip on Martin’s shoulders, walking to the window, parting the curtain an inch, peering at the street below.
“Ahhhh…just as I predicted. Our little blue friends have arrived. I’m sure they’ll be making the neighborhood rounds to see who made that big mess downstairs, so I sorely suggest you abandon your wounded paramour, go upstairs and lock yourself inside. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly safe there, like all the other cowardly citizens who don’t want to get involved after witnessing such a horrible crime.”
Abandon him. Paul had chosen his words wisely. When Martin saw Rose glance reflexively at the door, then back at him, looking first at the escape hatch, he became instantly crestfallen. She was going to leave him.
“He’s right. It’s not safe. You shouldn’t stay here with me,” Martin said quickly, his voice croaky, hoping to cut his losses.
“No,” she said resolutely, not sure where the resolve came from. Was she really prepared to throw her life away on another murdering crackpot like her dad? Did she really feel what she thought she felt every time she looked at him? Why wasn’t she halfway up the stairs already? Had she been hypnotized? Brainwashed? Possessed?
I don’t know. I don’t care. I have to stay. I have to be with him, she decided, her heart vetoing the urge to throw a few more rationalization logs in the furnace. Instead, her brain synapses ignited like a brushfire, assessing a dozen possible outcomes of the police presence on the street, the possibility of eyewitnesses who may have observed the melee, the likelihood of anyone recognizing them on a street illuminated by only one feeble streetlight, and the even more remote possibility of anyone giving a shit. Who were those punks anyway? Drug dealers. What do drug dealers do? Shoot each other. End of story.
“They won’t come up,” she said quickly and confidently. “And if they do, we turn off the lights and don’t open the door. Those guys were scumbags. The cops don’t care. They don’t want to do the paperwork. It’s all a formality.”
Paul stared hard at her. Johnny really put his dick into it when he made this pistol, he thought with begrudged admiration. She’s got balls like a bull and thinks fast on her feet.
“I agree with your assessment,” he said with a new formality and respectfulness that had Martin and Rose staring at him in something akin to wonder. “Just the same, I’d like a word alone with Martin to discuss other strategic options should your theory be flawed.”
“It’s not flawed and it’s my idea, so we can all discuss it together,” she said def
iantly.
Martin saw the veins bulge on Paul’s forehead and quickly intervened. “You can go back there for a few minutes,” he said, steering her to an open door at the end of the hallway.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rose said, standing her ground on tippy-toes.
“It’s okay. It won’t take long,” Martin said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her closer to his side as Paul took a measured step toward her.
Rose squeezed Martin’s hand a few seconds longer, then with a worried look at him and a suspicious scowl at Paul, she walked down the hallway, Michael slinking in tow.
Martin followed her with his eyes, seriously regretting his decision to let her come upstairs. He wanted to tell her to leave, to get the hell out of here right now. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the police they needed to worry about, it was Paul. He wanted to warn her not to say another word to him. To even look at him. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. Not with both of their lives at stake. Not with Paul listening.
Shit. She had no idea who she was dealing with. No idea at all.
Dear Diary, my life is officially over. Why bother saying more? Oh, right —because I’m an asshole. Too bad I didn’t remind myself before I went back. Asshole! I’m not sure I’ll be able to get all this down the way it happened, so I’d better have a stiff one first.
Okay. The Striker told me to come back as soon as I wanted, so I went back the next day. I brought the lamp. When I knocked at the door, I thought there was no one home. I waited and listened and thought I heard some people talking inside, but when he opened the door he was alone. Still wearing that stupid loincloth too. Jesus. I’d hate to be his drycleaner.
He smiled when he saw the lamp, then put it next to the other one and plugged it in. The sixty-watt bulb cast a warm glow through the skin of the lampshade—made from human skin. I always wondered if Eddie Gein came up with the idea on his own, or whether he was inspired by reading all those books about Nazi atrocities. When you think about the belt he made out of nipples or the shoebox filled with vaginas, it’s hard to tell.