Halfway House

by Weston Ochse

  “Go,” he commanded. “Take care of your business then meet back at my place.”

  “Louis, are you coming?”

  He took off at a dead run toward the police car. She didn’t wait for him. Instead, she got in and spun up the lights. When she squealed away from the curb, he was in the front seat, leaning forward, his mind already on his dad, hoping he was doing nothing more than matching dominoes on the front porch, chink-chunking the tiles against the table like he always did.

  Chapter 20

  Daddy? Where are you, Daddy?

  Laurie? Is that you?

  Daddy? I can’t find you. There are so many of us, I can’t get by.

  Hold on, Laurie. Daddy’s coming.

  His head jerked up as he woke, the father’s fear still clinging to him on the Kevlar webs of hardened dreams. His knees sagged, but he caught himself. He’d fallen asleep standing again. He was exhausted, so tired even his face hurt. He’d allowed them to escort him inside three times—twice to use the bathroom and once to eat a bowl of gruel they’d made with vitamins, oatmeal, creatine and ephedrine.

  They’d offered to give him a room, but said it would cost. When he’d asked how much and received their response of one thousand dollars, he’d laughed in their faces. You can give us something of equal value, they’d offered. That had only made him laugh harder.

  But as the hours progressed and his body began to break down, he considered the offer. He had the Velzy that his daughter had given him. He could trade that to them. As he paced in his own figure-eight circuit, he recognized the symmetry of using the gift Laurie had given him as the price of admission so he could speak with her one last time. It would also serve as a penance. He’d left her to grow up fatherless so he could chase the world’s waves. To give up his last board would be fitting.

  He suddenly found his way blocked as the triplets formed an impenetrable barrier. They stared at him from behind black sunglasses. Their mouths were pinched into toothless frowns, their chins collapsing. Their white hair, which had been pulled into severe buns, escaped in places, long strands whipping as the gentle sea breeze danced them around. It was no wonder he’d heard the wardens calling them the Three Blind Mice.

  “She wants to talk to you,” the one on the left said.

  “She’s scared,” the one in the middle said.

  He growled and tried to move around them, but wherever he went they scooted in his way.

  “She wants her daddy,” the one on the right said.

  He turned to get away and bumped square into the chest of the old man with the missing left arm. His eyes were rimmed with moles, as if they’d grown there in the blackness of the man’s worry. “Talk to her so I can talk to my Maria,” he said. “Your daughter keeps interrupting because you won’t talk to her.”

  “What do you mean I won’t talk to her?” Kanga asked, the words slicing him deeply. What had he been doing the last three days but trying every second to speak with her?

  “Yo, old man. Get her out of my head so I can be with Lashawnda,” the black banger said, sauntering toward him, fists bunched at his side. “This soul blocking you doing ain’t fucking cool.”

  Kanga took a step back. Soul blocking? Was he doing that? He held his hands out and stared up at the sky. What was he doing wrong? He’d embraced the idea that he could speak with the dead. He’d been doing what he’d seen everyone else do. Was he doing anything right at all?

  “You gotta sleep, man. They work themselves into you when you sleep, then they can talk to you right up until the end.” The pregnant woman with dyed red hair shook her head like she’d just had to explain to him for the tenth time how to use the faucet.

  “Motherfucker needs to sleep,” the kid said.

  “Sleep,” said the Three Blind Mice in unison.

  “Sleep,” said the one-armed man.

  Kanga looked over at the wardens and noticed the smug smile on their faces. They’d known all along. They’d known he’d be back. They’d known he hadn’t had a choice.

  Chapter 21

  It had begun to rain a fine mist. Through the windshield the red and blue lights took on a smudged quality, making 8th Street look like a painting Lucy had once seen in the Getty Museum, a blur of mottled colors as if a hand had ruined the art before the paint had had time to dry. Then the wiper swept away the water and gave him a clear view of the events as they unfolded.

  Two ambulances. One team of paramedics kneeling in the middle of the yard, strapping someone to a stretcher.

  Swipe.

  The other team working frantically on someone lying on the porch steps.

  Swipe.

  A cop running across the street and into the house.

  Swipe.

  No sooner would an image become clear, then it would smudge as it transformed into an impressionist rendition of itself, where things weren’t so vivid and tragedy wasn’t so determined.

  Swipe.

  As they pulled to a stop, the patrol car’s headlights strafed the crowd. Everyone knew who lived here. This was supposed to be the safest place in the city. So why had two people been shot? Lucy saw the fear and uncertainty in their faces until it smudged away and became impressionistic.

  Swipe.

  Lucy leapt from the car and ran toward the steps, pushing aside those who dared get in his way. Every word he’d ever wanted to say to his dad and hadn’t slowed him, until it felt as if he were running in slow motion. Missed opportunities were jagged glass to his feet, scraping and slashing every time his foot came down.

  A wounded Salvadoran gangbanger was being lifted from the ground as Lucy passed. He wanted to lash out and strangle the pendejo but Lucy knew he hadn’t a second to spare. Still, he snapped a mental photo for the position of honor in his to do gallery of soon-to-be-dead assholes.

  Then he was there. The bullets had entered his father’s chest, his shoulder and his hand, the latter as if he had held it out to block the assault. Lucy shook his head and took his father’s unwounded hand in his own. “Pops. You shouldn’t have.” He pushed hair from the old man’s eyes, hesitating a fraction because he couldn’t remember ever touching his father’s face.

  “Son, you have to let us go,” the voice of a paramedic said from behind him.

  A hand reached to grab him, but he shrugged it off. He noticed the IV and the line snaking into his father’s chest. The paramedics had backed away when he’d approached, fear battling with determination in their faces as they held their hands ready to continue administering aid.

  “Louis. Let him go. He’s going to survive.”

  He heard Captain Fiesler’s words, but didn’t dare believe them. His father was so still, so weak looking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his face so slack. The man always kept a hardness to his jaw, a universal don’t fuck with me scowl to the world that needed no translation. But as he lay on the steps for the whole world to see, shot by the MS 13 banger, he seemed to be just another old man.

  Firm hands gripped Lucy’s shoulders as Captain Fiesler’s voice commanded low into his ear, “Come on, Louis. They need to take him to Our Little Company of Mary. He’s okay, but things could go bad away from the hospital.”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes still switching to impressionism as everyone smudged before him. “He’s going to live?”

  “If they hurry, yes.”

  He allowed her to pull him up and reluctantly let go of his father’s hand. He watched it fall limply back to the body that had once carried him up the three hundred steps to the top of one of the cranes in the harbor just so a little boy could see the space shuttle as it burned across the heavens on its way home from space. The wink of light had trailed a finger of fire across the sky as it vanished, like the finger of God pushing a toy across the rooftop of the world.

  Are they gonna die, Daddy?

  No, son.

  Then what’s the fire for?

  To help them along.

  Fire helps?

  Som
etimes.

  * * *

  Nerve endings screamed. Fingertips tingled. Ants danced in his joints. Snakes sunned themselves in the heated maw of his stomach. His head throbbed as the remnants of an Elvis dance team tapped rapid-fire rhythms inside his skull, blue suede shoes with razor blade stiletto heels.

  Bobby turned onto his back and collected himself. The last thing he remembered was a dwarf, or something about a dwarf, and a redhead and a green-skinned Elvis. He was on the floor. A bed was to his right. A table with a fringed purple lamp stood beside it. By the dim light he could make out wallpaper with men and women cavorting. He couldn’t actually see what they were doing, but his imagination filled in the gaps.

  He levered himself into a sitting position. The bedspread was rumpled. His jacket had been removed and laid across the back of a chair near the door. His shoes were beneath it.

  Then it hit him.

  It had happened again.

  Where were the meds Lucy had given him? In his mind’s eye he saw them tucked into his bag back at the beach shack. Damn. Lot of good they did there. He’d thought he’d been humiliated before, getting kicked out with everyone laughing at him. But this was worse. His face burned with the memory.

  Another memory came, one of his almost-family.

  “But what if he drops the baby?” his would-be dad had hissed from the hallway, as a twelve-year-old Bobby sat in Sister Agnes’s office. Mr. and Mrs. John Lee had made it through the process, paid their fees and passed the home inspections. All they’d needed to do was sign the contract sitting in the middle of Sister Agnes’s desk. Then they could take Bobby home to their house in the Memphis suburbs with the picket fence and the dog on the front porch.

  Presto chango instant family.

  Easy Peasy Japaneasy!

  “He won’t drop the baby, John.”

  “How do you know? Will you stake the baby’s life on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happens when they’re alone together and he has one of his fits?”

  A strangled cry from the woman who might have been his mother was followed by the sound of Mr. and Mrs. John Lee walking crisply down the hall, their receding footsteps like a diminishing heartbeat in little Bobby’s chest. He stared into Sister Agnes’s eyes and shrugged. He tried to smile, but couldn’t convince his lips to make the effort. Sister Agnes kept her face impassive as she gently took the adoption papers and replaced them in a folder which she slid into the top drawer of her desk. Bobby finally reached down, grabbed his bag and stood, waiting for her to let him go back to the other boys.

  There was only one door out of the room, so Bobby doubted he was in a bathroom. He struggled into his shoes then slipped on his jacket. He tried the door and found the knob turned easily. Good, he’d been afraid he was locked in. The door opened into a hallway where he paused to listen. The house was mostly silent. He didn’t know what time it was, but the cool empty feel promised it was late into the early morning hours.

  The hallway ended at the basement studio where he’d been confronted by the home’s owner. The long room was empty except for the stage where band equipment had been erected. The floor, the other tables, and the ledge that ran around the entire room were clean, as if a party hadn’t even taken place. He took one last look at the memorabilia on the walls, pausing a moment to stare at the two Elvis records, then he ascended the stairs.

  Voices filtered from somewhere on the main level. He straightened his jacket and smoothed back his hair then followed the voices to their source.

  “There he is. Drink too much, bra?” The three security guards-valet parking attendants sat around the dining room table sharing a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. Gabe frowned and shook his head. “I told you not to do anything stupid, and here you go getting drunk and falling down.”

  “He was doing the kicking chicken like I never seen,” the huge black man named T said. “Closest I saw was this girl on PCP. She was vibrating on the sidewalk like there was something turned on inside of her and she couldn’t turn it off.”

  “I wasn’t drunk,” Bobby said. “I have a condition.”

  The Hispanic snapped his fingers and leaned forward. “I told you that was it. He has pepsilepsy. I seen that on TV. People fall down and foam at the mouth like they have rabies.”

  “It’s called epilepsy,” Bobby said.

  “What I said, pepsilepsy.”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with Pepsi, Jose. You saying it wrong.” Gabe sipped from a glass that was lost in his immense hand.

  “I’m not saying it wrong.”

  Gabe ignored Jose and addressed Bobby. “You sure put a scare into Mr. S. He was all set to toss you out on your ass when you fell. At first he thought you were fucking with him, but when it went on for a full minute, he got real nervous. He thought he’d have another dead body on his hands. That kind of attention he doesn’t need.”

  Another dead body? Bobby stored that knowledge away for future use.

  “So we threw you in the bedroom until we figured out what to do. In fact, we were just about to check on you. The last of the paparazzi left so we were gonna put you in the back of the car and drive you down the street.”

  “Saved us from having to go down the stairs,” T said.

  “Who was that girl?” Bobby asked.

  “The one who wanted you to leave? Sally is one of the boss’s movie stars.”

  “Why does she hate me so much?”

  “She don’t hate you,” Gabe said, levering his not-so-tiny frame out of the chair into a standing position. “She just wanted some attention.”

  “Fucked up way to get attention.”

  “This is a fucked up universe, Bobby. What can we say?”

  The other two security guards stood, their combined thousand pounds of muscle and flesh impressive in the possible violence they could inflict.

  “No need to get up. I know where the front door is. I’ll show myself out.”

  “Not yet, Bobby. Mr. S wants to see you first.”

  “I thought he wanted me gone.”

  “After you did all that shaking, he wants an explanation. I don’t trust Mr. Pepsilepsy here to explain it, so he’ll have to hear it from your mouth.”

  “It was my accent,” Jose said. “You shouldn’t make fun of someone because of their accent.”

  T rolled his eyes and snickered. “Pepsilepsy. What a retard.”

  Jose punched him in the arm, a blow that might kill a normal human, but T barely even noticed. He moved from the table and placed a hand around Bobby’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  They escorted Bobby to the backyard. The pool was a long rectangle filled with water lit by a red light. Five people lounged around the pool as if the shine of the stars could tan them. Shrewsbury sat at a table with a pile of scripts beside him and a glass of wine. Across from him sat Sally, glowering at Bobby as he approached. Three chaise lounges were each occupied by a naked woman, arms and legs askew in their drunken slumber. Bobby couldn’t help but think of Barbie dolls and how their soft rubber limbs could be posed in virtually any position.

  “Who writes this crap?” Shrewsbury asked, tossing the script into the pool. He took a sip of wine, shaking his head as he flipped through the stack of unread scripts. Then in a fit of rage, he grabbed the rest of them and threw them in the water as well. He slammed back his wine and walked to the edge of the pool. “See? Shit floats.”

  Turning to see if his joke had found a home, he spied Bobby being escorted down the stairs leading to the pool deck. His smile widened momentarily, then fell. “I thought we’d killed you, son.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I can see that. What the hell happened?”

  Bobby glanced at Sally, whose expression had changed from anger to self-righteousness. That pissed him off. To think that a girl could manipulate the world to do her bidding without regard to other people was as wrong as wrong could be.

  “You mean when you were kicking m
e out for being an orphan?”

  “Yeah. Then.”

  “Pepsilepsy.”

  “What?”

  Jose beamed. “I told you I said it right. Listen to him saying it the same way I did.”

  “He’s fucking with us,” the big Hawaiian said.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Shrewsbury asked, looking from one guard to another.

  “Pepsilepsy,” Bobby continued. “I get the heebie-jeebies from too much Pepsi. They really should put a warning label on the bottles.”

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  For a second it looked as if Shrewsbury was going to bury his fist in Bobby’s face, but then his fingers relaxed and he sat down. Sally refilled his wine glass and he took a long pull. “We pissed you off didn’t we?”

  “You might say that.”

  “You’re not from around here so you don’t know how things work.”

  “You gonna teach me?”

  “I think I already did. You just don’t like the lesson.”

  “What? That a person can fuck with you whenever they want?”

  Shrewsbury waved the question away. “You’ve heard of the golden rule, yes?”

  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

  “Yeah. How quaint. You got it right.” He took another sip. “However applicable that rule is in Middle America, it doesn’t apply here. Here we have a different set of rules entirely. We do unto others, but not as we want them to do unto us. No fucking way. Our rule goes something like this: Do unto others before they can do unto you, because when you do it, they’re gonna be pissed off they didn’t do it first.”

  T snickered and tightened his grip on Bobby’s arm.

  “That’s a sad way to live.”

  “Sad, my ass. It’s called survival. Look at you and me, Bobby Dupree.” Shrewsbury grinned and pumped his head at his inadvertent rhyme. “You’re all pissed off because Sally decided she didn’t like you and had me kick you out. So what if you were a fucking orphan. So what if you like Elvis. So do a million other hopeless fucks. Let me tell you what you’re really pissed at. You aren’t pissed that Sally chose you to gain my attention. You’re mad because you were helpless to stop her. And why is that? It’s because she did unto you before you did unto her.”