Secret Rage

by Brent Pilkey

  “I like you, man,” Rico said, lighting another cigarette. “That’s why I got you the job at Filmore’s. That’s why I let you keep selling for me even after our little tussle.” He sucked back a lungful and blew it out thoughtfully. “How long you been selling for me, man? Six months?”

  “’Bout that.” Taylor casually shifted in the seat, resting his hand on the door handle. He may have been working for Rico long before the steroid dealer got him the job at Filmore’s but he still wasn’t easy around him.

  “I got a little worried when you disappeared on me for a few weeks, thought I’d have to find someone to take over your customers.”

  “I told you, I was in the hospital,” Taylor told him carefully.

  “Right, the hospital.” Rico tapped his fingers against his lips, the lit end of the cigarette dancing in the darkness. “That was what? Three, four months ago?”

  “Yeah. Just before you got me the job at the club.” Taylor didn’t like where this conversation was headed. His hand tightened on the handle.

  “Well!” Rico exclaimed, slapping Taylor’s knee. “Let’s get down to business.” He tossed his half-finished cigarette after the first one. “You still selling to those assholes in the club?”

  “A few.”

  “That’s cool.” Rico reached down between his feet and came up with a plastic bag. “Got all you wanted. Got the eq, the Deca and Prope plus the growth hormone. Be careful with that shit, man. It’ll thicken your waist, fuck up that nice vee shape you got going.”

  Finally. Taylor dug into his pocket and handed over a wad of cash. “Can you get me some coke?”

  “No sweat.” Rico waved the effort away. “For you?”

  Taylor shook his head. He never touched that shit. “One of my guys wants some for a party. Couple hundred worth?”

  “You bet. Oh, there’s one more thing,” Rico added, stopping Taylor before he could get the door open. “I’ve had to raise my prices. Demand, you understand.”

  Taylor eased down in the seat. “How much?”

  “But for you, man, it won’t cost a dime.” Rico smiled a shark’s grin. “All you have to do is blow me.”

  “The fuck I will,” Taylor said with a half smile. He didn’t know if the big man was joking or not.

  “The fuck you will.” And before Taylor could move, Rico had a gun pressed to his temple.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Taylor’s head was pressed up against the passenger window, the gun’s barrel gouging his scalp.

  “Don’t fuck me around, man!” Rico snarled. “I know all about you. Oh yeah, I do. I had some friends check you out. I know allllll about you.” He bore down with the barrel, grinding it into Taylor’s skin. “And unless you want me to blow your fucking brains out right now, you’re gonna suck my dick.”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “You don’t think I’ll do it, man? I’ll put a bullet through your fucking head and I’ll fuck the hole.”

  “Who’ll sell your shit, then?” Taylor was grasping at shadows and knew he was seconds away from dying.

  “I’ve got a whack of guys ready to take your place.” He eased the pressure on the gun and carried on in a gentler tone. “But I like you, man, and all you gotta do is suck me off.”

  “Fuck you,” Taylor told him, then groaned as the gun dug in.

  “You don’t think I’ll do it?” Rico repeated. “You think I’m worried about the cops? Fuck the cops. I got friends who could make you disappear like you were never born.” Rico cocked the gun and in the confines of the car it was as loud as a tomb door slamming shut. “What’s it gonna be, man? Suck or die?”

  In the end, Taylor didn’t want to die.

  Rico squealed the tires of his Corvette leaving the parking lot but Taylor never heard them. His fingers were desperately clutching the chain-link fence as his stomach heaved and heaved. He puked until there was nothing left and still his stomach clenched. He staggered away from his puddle of vomit and sagged against the fencing, tears streaking his cheeks. Tears of shame, tears of hate, tears of rage.

  He crumpled to the ground. “Asshole,” he hissed and slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Asshole, asshole, asshole!” Each word was punctuated by the strike of his hand until he was hitting himself hard enough to blur his vision.

  “Never again. Never fucking again,” he swore.

  He pushed himself to his feet and collected his bag of steroids. The neon lights of Filmore’s throbbed garishly across the street and Taylor knew there was no way he could go back in there tonight, not with his humiliation so raw and exposed. He crept from the parking lot, his eyes searching the street and buildings to see if anyone had witnessed his degradation.

  Once he was far enough along Dundas Street he flipped open his cell phone. “Hey, Gregory, it’s me,” he rasped, letting his emotions trickle into his voice to make him sound sick. “I just spent my break puking. Let the boss know I’m heading home, okay? Nah, I’m good, I’ll walk. Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

  Walking slowly, hunched over his illicit stash clasped to his belly, he plodded up Pembroke Street. Lately the residential side street had suffered an influx of prostitutes, probably feeding off of the strip club’s customers, but the sidewalk was mercifully clear as Taylor trod wearily up its length. He had no idea how he would react right now if one of those skanky crack whores approached him.

  Shadows lay across the paved paths of Allan Gardens, banished intermittently by the few ornamental lights. Taylor ignored the drunks, the young man who asked him if he wanted to get high, the odd couple strolling hand in hand. He ignored everyone until he saw Sherry on the park bench, her head bobbling rhythmically in a man’s lap. The sweep of her strawberry blond hair hid her face from him but Taylor knew it was Sherry. But it couldn’t be Sherry. It couldn’t.

  He stopped by the park bench, not believing what he was seeing. It was Sherry.

  But Sherry was dead.

  The man had a hand resting casually on the back of Sherry’s head, his own tilted back in ecstasy. Neither of them knew they were being watched. Not until Taylor clamped a hand on the man’s exposed throat and used his other to pull Sherry up and fling her away.

  The man was making gagging noises as he futilely fought against the vise that was squeezing off his breath. He stared at Taylor with panicked eyes. Taylor grimly noticed the man’s penis was now lying flaccid in his open pants much like Rico’s had after . . .

  Taylor screamed wordlessly, an animal sound of pure pain and rage, and drew his fist back. He was going to beat Rico to death.

  “No! Please stop!” Sherry lunged at Taylor, wrapped both her hands around his cocked arm. “He’s my boyfriend. It’s okay, I wanted to do it,” she sobbed frantically. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  Taylor looked at the woman clutching his arm. It wasn’t Sherry, never had been. Sherry was dead. It wasn’t Rico on the bench, pinned beneath Taylor’s hand, just some scared kid, barely out of high school.

  Taylor released his grip on the man’s throat and gently backed away, his hands held out peacefully. The woman threw herself at her boyfriend and they wrapped their arms protectively around each other, but neither ever took their eyes from the maniac before them.

  Taylor eased away. “I’m sorry. I thought . . .” he said, trying to explain, but it was useless. He retrieved his bag from where he had dropped it and hurried from the park. He never looked back until he was safely across Carlton Street but by then the couple — if they were still there — were hidden by darkness.

  Confused, lost in a haze of painful memories, Taylor headed up Homewood Avenue. He was almost at Wellesley Street — a short walk along Wellesley to his apartment, then he’d be able to lock tonight away with Sherry and all the ghosts — when someone spoke to him.

  “Looking for a date, honey?”

  Startled out of
black thoughts, Taylor looked up and found a young Asian woman wearing a tiny red dress staring provocatively at him. Her black hair was swept to one side, baring a slender length of vulnerable neck. Lips painted in scarlet smiled at him.

  “Like what you see?”

  Taylor nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.

  “I’ve got a room if you’ve got the money, or we can go someplace closer if we’re quick.”

  “Where?” he managed. He licked dry lips.

  “Follow me, honey.” She took him by the hand and led him across the street to a dark parking lot. The whore was slight in build and height and Taylor knew she would fall quickly beneath his hands. They all did.

  They’re weak, all of them. Whores and weaklings. Taylor’s hands trembled with a fury he could barely contain.

  The whore smiled at him over a bare shoulder. “Nervous or excited, honey?”

  She guided him to a far corner of the half-empty lot, tugged him into the dark recess between a minivan and a fence. She leaned up against the van and ran her eyes appreciatively over Taylor’s body.

  “What do you want, baby?” she purred. “You wanna come in my mouth or my ass?”

  Taylor’s fist slammed into her cheek, driving her skull into the van’s side window, starring the glass. She would have fallen to the ground had he not hit her again. Blood exploded from her mouth as Taylor’s fist shattered her teeth. He grabbed her soft, enticing throat with a hand callused from countless hours of lifting heavy iron and pinned her to the van.

  She looked at him, her eyes filled with terror and bewilderment. “I thought you knew,” she uttered feebly. Blood flowed from her ruined mouth to spill over Taylor’s hand.

  “Fucking whore,” Taylor snarled. “You’re all fucking whores.”

  He hit her again. And again. She sagged limply in his grasp and bloodied sweat let her slip free of his hand. She collapsed bonelessly, striking the pavement with a meaty thud. Taylor knelt and studied her unconscious form. The strapless dress had slid down, baring the whore’s small breasts.

  He sat her up against the van, nudging her into place several times to keep her from toppling over. Her head drooped on her chest. Taking a handful of hair, he raised her head and began gently slapping her cheeks. He wanted her to be awake for her punishment. She groaned, eyelids fluttering.

  “That’s it, you fucking whore. Time to wake up. We ain’t finished yet.” He shoved her dress down, baring the whore to the waist. He studied her breasts with a loathing sneer on his face, drew his fist back.

  A voice rang out in the night, freezing Taylor.

  “Police! How ya doing?”

  “Bud, I can’t believe it’s gotten qui — not busy.” Connor corrected himself, not wanting to jinx them with the q-word.

  The night had flown by in a blur of radio calls but now the division had slipped into a lull, a period of calmness that could last the rest of the night or explode in the next few seconds. Jack had his money on the explosion; it felt like 51 was just pausing to catch its breath.

  And like all smart coppers, they had taken advantage of the respite to grab coffees. Jack’s training officer up in 32 had taught him the rules of policing. The first rule, of course, was Everyone goes home at the end of shift, followed closely by A smart copper is never cold, hungry or wet. No Second Cup this time, however; Connor was driving.

  “Want a quick arrest?” Jack asked, twisting in the passenger seat.

  “Sure t’ing, man,” Connor said in a bad Jamaican accent. “Whatcha got?”

  “A hooker just took her john into the stairwell by the parking lot.”

  “Cool.” Connor pulled the scout car to the curb. They were on Homewood south of Wellesley. A squat apartment building sat on the southeast corner and its visitor parking lot was behind it with the entrance on Homewood. Just off the sidewalk, thrusting up from the lawn like some Morlock well, was the stairwell leading down into the underground parking lot. The officers approached the concrete railing, their portable radios at low volume but with no other efforts at stealth; they knew the couple would be otherwise engaged.

  The bottom of the short stairwell was thick with shadows but not enough to completely conceal the two figures below. Not the one bent over the stairs nor the one behind, thrusting vigorously.

  Connor stifled a giggle and mouthed to Jack one, two, three. On three, their flashlights cut through the darkness, revealing all, and Connor announced in an unnecessarily loud voice, “Police! How ya doing?”

  The john threw up a protective arm against the light while his other groped for his pants. The prostitute simply hung her head and muttered, “Aw, shit.”

  “Come on up, folks,” Connor called out merrily. Once the busted couple climbed dejectedly up to the surface, Connor took the john off to one side while Jack dealt with the hooker. Tall, even without the stilettos, she smoothed her pink dress over thin hips while she waited for the questions to begin.

  Jack tapped his pen against his head. “Your wig is a little off-centre.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Her voice was a husky whisper.

  “Name?” Jack asked, pen poised to write.

  “Sheila.”

  Jack looked at her, waiting.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Sherman. Sherman Moors.”

  “Thank you.” Jack jotted down Sherman’s date of birth, address and description.

  “Hey, Jack,” Connor called. He jerked a thumb at the john. “This guy doesn’t believe he was fucking a guy.”

  “That ain’t a guy,” the john said indignantly. “If that’s a guy, then that means I’m gay and I’m not a fucking faggot. I’m married with a kid and one on the way.” He was young, mid-twenties at best, and had his chest shoved out like some tough-guy wannabe.

  Connor was grinning immensely. “Hey, honey, tell this guy your name.”

  Sherman’s shoulders sagged. Sighing, the prostitute tugged off the blond wig. “Sherman.” His voice was flat, defeated, and Jack felt like giving Connor a smack.

  The john handled the revelation rather poorly. “Fuck me!” he cried and fell to his butt, trying to sob convincingly.

  Jack finished Sherman’s Appearance Notice, his court date set for next month, and handed it to him with some advice. “Why don’t you stay out of sight for a while? Grab a coffee or something. We’ll send the idiot on his way but I can’t guarantee he won’t come back.”

  Sherman nodded, his wig back in place. “Thanks, but he won’t be back. Not for that, at least. He knew what he was buying.”

  “Yeah, kinda figured that. Any problems lately, Sheila? Anyone causing trouble in the area?”

  Sheila shook her head. “It’s been busy but tame. I did hear something about a working girl getting beaten up a couple of nights ago over on Church.”

  It was Jack’s turn to shake his head. “We haven’t been told anything about that, but that’s 52 Division and they tend to keep things to themselves. Have a good night, Sheila.”

  “You too, officer.” Sheila headed back to her spot on Maitland Place, the division’s track for transvestite prostitutes.

  I never asked if she got paid. Jack glanced at the john, still huddling on the ground like he was some kind of victim. Guess she did.

  Connor had the john on his feet by the time Jack joined them. “Time to go, buddy.” Connor waved his hand along Homewood. “North or south, just get going.”

  “Sometimes this job really sucks,” Jack commented as he watched the john trudge away.

  “How so?”

  Jack faced Connor. “Think about it. If that guy’s telling the truth and he is married, what’s he going to take home to his wife after butt-fucking a tranny without a condom?”

  “So what’s that got to do with us?” Connor asked as they headed back to the scout car.

  “Don’t you think his wife has the righ
t to know her husband was having unprotected anal sex with someone from a high-risk group? But if we called her to let her know for her own safety and the kids’, then that asshole could probably sue us and have us fired. It sucks.”

  “So make an anonymous phone call,” Connor suggested.

  Jack snorted. “I’m thinking about it. But it’d be pretty obvious —” Jack stopped and swept the parking lot with his flashlight.

  “What is it?” Connor had his light out as well.

  “Don’t know,” Jack muttered, heading into the lot. “Thought I heard something.”

  The parking lot was small, room for maybe twenty cars, but less than half of the spots were filled. Jack slowly panned his light over the cars, not knowing what he was looking for but sure he’d recognize it when he found it. He walked farther into the lot.

  “Hey, Jack. Hold up.” Connor had his head cocked to the radio mike clipped to his shoulder. “There’s a stabbing at Sherbourne and Dundas. Let’s go.”

  Jack clicked off his flashlight and ran over to the car. Seconds later the lot was splashed with flickering red light as the scout car sped off down Homewood. The flashing light was swallowed by the night and the lot was left in shadow.

  Taylor watched the cops run back to their car and speed off. The breath escaped him in a relieved sigh. Close, too fucking close.

  He looked down at the whore, slumped over on the pavement. A small puddle of blood, glistening a dark crimson in the weak fluorescent light, spread out from the whore’s face. Taylor stared at the whore’s face then her breasts, recalling the comments he had heard the cops making.

  Could it be?

  He yanked the whore’s dress up over her hips and ripped aside her underwear. “Fuck me,” he groaned. “You’re a fucking man.” Why, in God’s name, would a guy want to be a woman? A weak, useless woman?

  “You’re still a fucking whore,” he spat at the hooker. He wanted to stay and punish the little fuck some more but the close call with the cops had shaken his nerve. No need to press his luck.

  The whore was whimpering, trying to lift his head. Taylor’s boot lashed out, smashing his jaw. The whore fell back to the pavement to lie unmoving and broken in his own blood.