Rush

by Wozencraft, Kim

  I drove. I wished I were going somewhere. At some point I realized that the car was uncomfortably warm and I rolled down a window. The radio said, “Y’all ought to get outdoors on this beautiful Tuesday afternoon, March is in like a lamb and we may see eighty today. How ’bout those lying eyes? Here’s some Eagles for you.”

  11

  I don’t know exactly why I walked over. Maybe I wanted to get away from the telephone calls and the knocks on the door. I went to my empty apartment, my address. The key was stiff in the lock, but when I got the door open, there he was. Sitting on the living-room floor, wrapped in a white sheet, holding a sawed-off shotgun, resting it in the crook of his arm. The shotgun was covered completely with duct tape, right down to the trigger. No fingerprints that way.

  Something shining in the bathroom caught my eye. I looked past him and saw the U-joint from under the sink, lying on the floor in a puddle of rusty water.

  He stared at the front door.

  “Lock it,” he said.

  “You lose something?” I asked. “Something go down the drain, Jim? What kind of shit is this? I’ve been thinking you were dead, wondering what to do, who to call, not even knowing where to start looking. That’s cold, man. That’s very cold.”

  “The front door,” he said, “lock it. People coming.”

  “No one is coming.”

  “Heavy dudes,” he said. “Characters. Armed robbers. Lock it.”

  I walked past him to the bathroom. On the counter: a test tube, opaque white plastic caked in the bottom, a glass stirring rod, a blood-tinted plastic syringe.

  “Recover your Preys? They can get slick washing them down. Shame to lose a good rush.”

  He staggered up and locked the front door.

  “Tricky business,” I said, “trying to hold on to those slick little tablets under running water. But it’s worth it, right? Washing that pretty, hard-pink coating off, all that time cooking them, stirring, stirring in the test tube, squeezing the juice out of the plastic. Yeah, that juice, it’s worth it.”

  “What are you bitching about? I got heavy motherfuckers coming.” He fell against the wall and slumped back to the floor. “They’re coming. I know they’re coming.”

  “What are you saying? Think about what you’re saying. Every dope dealer in town is convinced you’re the heaviest dude around. What are you talking here? They’re all scared of you. Dude.”

  “The cowboy dude, him and his running buddies. They’re pissed. They’re coming.” He pulled the sheet around his shoulders, over his head, forming a hood. He was shaking. I saw sweat on his forehead. He set the shotgun in his lap and lit a cigarette, took two long drags before he tossed the match into a paper cup. Coffee dregs and cigarette butts.

  “Got any evidence for Dodd?” I asked. “I’m taking some over.” I pulled up my sleeves and stuck my arms out at him. Faintest traces of yellow. “Look,” I said. “Look. I’m pulling up.”

  He stared up at two o’clock high and then closed his eyes and brought his chin to his chest.

  “Let’s get all righteous,” he said, talking to the floor. “Let’s show what a good and decent human being we are. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? You’re telling me you’re suddenly straight? Grow the fuck up.”

  “I’m not doing needles,” I said. “No more needles.”

  “What’s it been, how long? We still have to get Gaines. We got a ways to go on this little deal.”

  “You saying Gaines is a junkie? I don’t think so. No need for that kind of action with him.”

  “Check the closet, man, the envelopes are in the closet.”

  I found them, right where he said, scattered all over the floor, manila envelopes—evidence envelopes—offense reports taped to each one. They’d been sealed tight. And then torn open and emptied. I looked through the reports. He’d been buying lots of speed: Preludin, crank, Desoxyn, Biphetamine. I carried them back to the living room, tossed them next to him on the floor.

  “There’s no dope here. What are you doing? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  “My job,” he said. “I’m doing my fucking job.”

  I sat down facing him.

  “Hey, dude,” I said, “talk to me. Tell me all about handling it. I need to hear that stuff about kicking covers for a few days, getting up on your feet and walking. Tell me that.”

  “All I can do is wait,” he said. “They’re coming.”

  I scraped up the envelopes and went to the kitchen sink. I burned them, one by one, envelopes and offense reports, holding them over the garbage disposal.

  “Doing the Felony Rag,” I said. He said nothing. The flames reflected dully in the brushed stainless steel sink and flared up once or twice to lick the bottom of the cabinet.

  “Hey,” I said, “you told me a long time ago about the difference between chipping and going on a run.”

  He sat against the wall.

  “You’re on a run, Jim, this is no one- or two-day thing. You’re on a serious run here.” He shifted the shotgun to his other arm.

  Finally there was nothing left but soggy bits of gray-and-black ash. I washed the remains down the disposal and hit the switch on the wall, listened to the blades grinding beneath the sink before I walked over and sat down opposite him.

  I did not know what to say, what words would reach. He lit another cigarette and rubbed his eyes.

  “Not that I think you’ll understand or even care,” I said, “but I love you. I didn’t come down here to watch this happen. Come home with me, back to your place. Please. Tell me how to help.”

  “Later,” he said.

  “Come by this evening. You don’t have to stay. Just come by. For a few minutes even. You need to get out of here.”

  “Later,” he said. “Later. Let me think.”

  * * *

  Walker had kicked off his boots and was lounging on the couch, both of us staring at the tube, not really watching.

  “So where is he?”

  “Over in my apartment,” I said. “He’s having a difficult time. He needs a few days.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “He needs a few days.”

  “But he’s all right?”

  “I’m watching him. He might come over tonight.”

  “Man. Talk about your rough gig.”

  “That it is,” I said. “You got any smoke?”

  There was a tap on the door. When I opened it, Jim was on the landing. He looked through the doorway at Walker, who was stirring on the couch, and then he looked at me with that wildness showing in his eyes. He blew past me, yanking his jacket off as he went toward the couch. Walker stood up and Jim didn’t even pause, dropped his jacket on the floor, jerked his gun from his belt and slammed it on the coffee table, grabbed Walker by his shirt and threw him against the living room wall.

  “Jim!” I screamed, “Stop!” I grabbed at his arms and he pushed and I was on the floor. I shook myself, felt pain in my arm, tried to sit up.

  “Okay, motherfucker,” Jim snarled. He reached down to Walker, who had sunk to the floor and was sitting motionless, yanked him up, and threw a fist into his stomach. Walker doubled over, but caught his breath and stood back up, stood up with his lips drawn back and his eyes narrowed, his own fists clenched. He circled away from the wall, around the coffee table to the center of the room, where there was space. I saw fight in his eyes, his right hand drew back to return the blow, but then suddenly, he seemed to catch himself. The hatred vanished from his face, replaced by cold control. I could see it, Walker felt he could give Jim a run for it, he might even come out on top, but in the instant before he’d thrown the punch he had remembered who he was dealing with, recognized his situation, and brought his fist to his side. Jim saw Walker’s submission and drew back his right arm. The blow knocked Walker into the coffee table and back against the couch. He slid slowly downward, clutching his face, and curled against the cushions.

  “No more!” he yelled. “That’s
enough!” He wasn’t begging. He was telling Jim to stop unless he wanted a fight.

  Jim stood over him, so tightly wired that it seemed to me he might just explode where he stood. He shook with rage, breathing loudly, almost gasping.

  I got to my feet and approached him slowly. I put a hand on his arm. I tried to be calm. I felt like I’d gone through a windshield.

  “Jim,” I said. “Look at me.” He twisted his head sharply. His whole body was shaking. “Why are you doing this?”

  “That’s not the question,” he said. “The question is what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Just what you asked,” I said, “sitting here waiting for you.”

  “And what was he doing.” He pointed at Walker, who sat bent over on the couch, clutching his stomach.

  “He wanted to see that you were all right,” I said. “That’s all.”

  Walker raised his eyes to Jim.

  “I’m fine,” Jim shouted, pulling away from me. “I’m just fucking great!” He turned to Walker. “Now I want some cases from you, motherfucker, and I mean cases, not this penny-ante bullshit you’ve been turning. You think I’m gonna sit back and take this crap you’ve been dishing out? You set up some real deals, no more of this pill bullshit. I want coke. I want brown. I want speed. And I want this bastard Gaines. Now you’ve got about the best deal there is, getting to party around with this lady. It ain’t like you got to walk a dude into these deals. You know ain’t nobody gonna suspect her of being the heat. So you start walking her in, boy, you walk her in and let her buy some dope and you get me some goddamn cases before I personally deliver your ass to Huntsville.”

  “Walker,” I said quietly, “go home.” He grabbed his boots and stepped toward the door, stopping with one hand on the knob to glare at Jim. “Go,” I pleaded. “Now.”

  He closed the door and I bent to right the coffee table and began picking up stems of pot from the floor. Jim paced the living room, still shuddering.

  When I’d cleaned up the mess, I sat down on the couch, rubbing my arm where I’d fallen on it. He stopped pacing suddenly and looked at me.

  “You’re fucked up,” I said. “Walker’s been busting his ass, giving me plenty of damn good cases. You are really fucked up.”

  “Talk to me about fucked up, baby. Tell me all about it. You got your head so far up your ass you must be seeing tonsils.”

  He walked out, slamming the door behind him. I wanted to go after him, try to bring him back, try to salvage something. I dug under the couch, looking for the mirror.

  * * *

  It was noisy in the clubs. Every night, the noise. The smell of beer-soaked carpet and rancid nicotine. The drunks. People trying to get loaded, fucked up, wasted. Walker began doing his best to stay that way.

  I sat in Drillers each night, waiting for him to stagger over with new defendants. I began sampling the dope right at the table. Fuck it. I would give Walker a taste, give the seller a bump of thanks, snort more myself, hoping Gaines might notice. At the end of each evening, I took myself to Jim’s apartment and got out the grinder, cut the dope back to weight, wrote the reports. When I took evidence to Dodd, he would ask what Jim was doing, and I would say Jim is working on Gaines. I hoped there was enough dope in the vials to satisfy the chemists at the lab.

  * * *

  I could see Rob through the storefront window, kicked back in a bentwood rocker, his boots resting on a large walnut desk. He was reading a newspaper.

  Main Street in Saratoga was dark and dead, doors locked for the night, owners at home sleeping, or maybe watching some late-night television. The lone light coming from the store spilled out of the floor-to-ceiling glass, casting a grayish pall on the sidewalk. A small sign overhead, in black cursive on tan, said denny’s antiques.

  Rob looked up when my headlights hit the back of his car, the only one parked on the street, and by the time I reached the door he had found his keys and unlocked it. The smell of furniture polish floated past as I walked in.

  “Glad you called,” he said. “It’s lonely out here.”

  “So this is Denny’s shop?”

  “In name. He’s got cousins and sisters scattered all over the county, they work it for him. I don’t think it makes him any money though. It’s the same with the farming, just something to talk about. Hard to retire at twenty-seven.” He took a corncob pipe from his shirt pocket and tapped it against the heel of his boot. “I really am glad you called,” he said. “I’m bored out of my mind.”

  “A friend of ours is speeded out of his.”

  “What else is new. Let’s go in back. Hazards of the profession, man.”

  We wound past sixties-vintage couches and kitchen tables to a small door in the back wall. The storeroom was full of junk, mostly old dressers and headboards, a few nightstands, some desks. The only light leaked over the three-quarter wall that separated the showroom from the storeroom.

  I tossed Rob a baggie.

  “Praise the Lord,” he said, pinching out some leaf and packing the dope into the pipe.

  “There’s coke, too,” I said. “If you’re interested.”

  “Hell, baby, of course I’m interested. Been sitting here all night, wondering what a man could do around here except maybe fuck the dog.”

  I tossed him a vial.

  “We been working a case on a statewide speed network,” he said, “headquartered in San Antonio. It’s all wiretaps and surveillance, not bust in sight, and things at the office are dry. Very dry.

  “On top of that, we’ve got a new chemist on staff. Son of a bitch guards that evidence locker like it was Fort Knox. He’s probably going in at night and cutting all the dope, taking home pure and leaving bags full of two percent or something.” He looked around the room, spotted a mirror on a dresser top and began wiping a space clean with his shirtsleeve. He cut the rails, long ones, and then rolled up a twenty and knelt down next to the table.

  “So,” he said, “been working hard?” He stood up and tilted his head back, snuffling.

  “Too hard,” I said. “Made too many cases in the last two weeks. Very fast. People have to be talking. You want some Quays?”

  “Damn, baby, you’re better than Santa Claus.”

  “My little elf has been on overtime.”

  “How is that dude? Decent snitch?”

  “Hard to keep up with. I think he was starting to get into it, considering a career as one of Beaumont’s finest, until Jim slugged him around.”

  “Raynor kicked the dude’s ass? When? What for?”

  “One night last week. For no reason at all.”

  “Just went off on the dude.”

  “Not serious, I mean no broken bones or anything. But he hurt him. Scared the hell out of me.” Rob jerked his head back and began pulling on his beard, eyeing me carefully.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. But he scared me. He went nuts. He’s been buying too much speed, man, it’s like he’s somebody else. Had no idea what he was doing.”

  I stood up and leaned against a scarred desk next to the coffee table. Rob did more rails and then stepped over to face me. “Well, I’m glad you came out,” he said.

  “I wanted to talk to you. I’m kind of confused.”

  “I’m sure,” he said. He wrapped his arms around me and I pressed my face against his neck, wanting him just to hold me.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “Just take it easy.” We stayed that way for a long time, rocking gently. And then before I realized what was happening he was pressing himself against me, bending me back over the desk, kissing, pulling me toward him and forcing me onto the desktop at the same time.

  “Missed you,” he whispered.

  I tried to stay upright, but he had me down on the desk, wrestling. And then I stopped fighting him, I felt myself go limp, tears were coming and I didn’t try to stop them, he was kissing me and I didn’t want to fight, I was tired of fighting, and then the tips of his fingers brushed my face, smearing wet, and he st
opped suddenly and pulled back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, helping me to my feet. “I just thought. . .” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at my eyes. “I’m really, I didn’t, oh fuck, man, what on earth is wrong?”

  “Everything,” I said. “Everything is wrong.”

  “Easy,” he said. “Take it easy.” He slipped his hand into mine. “I’m sorry. I thought you came out because you wanted to see me.”

  “I don’t know why it is,” I said, “but you have positively got a gift for making me feel like I’m, like I don’t know what. Things are really screwed up.”

  “Hey,” he said softly, “Jim kicked a snitch’s ass. What’s the big deal. It happens. Usually they deserve it. Whose side are you on?”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “He’s my partner. And more.” I looked at the floor, around the room, finally faced him. “But he is one strung-out son of a bitch.”

  “Oh.” He lit the pipe. “Come on,” he said, “smoke it. Relax a little. You know how it goes, baby. I’ve worked with the man. He’ll pull through.”

  “I’m talking about needles, Rob.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Methamphetamine, you know? Preludin. He’s skitzed. He’s been sitting on my living room floor for at least the last two weeks, running up speed and waiting for someone to come after him. Before that, I don’t know. I’m not sure how long he’s been on it. Says he doesn’t even remember coming to his place and smashing Walker. I go in there and it’s like talking to a ghost.”

  Rob dropped my hands and took a few steps back.

  “He’s ripping into the evidence envelopes,” I said. “After he’s sealed them. I went by to get his cases so I could take them to Dodd and there was no evidence left.”

  “Bastard just don’t care anymore, huh?”

  “Only about where the next shot’s coming from.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I had a rough time for awhile.”

  “Really.” He stuck his hand in his pockets. “Took a run down the old tunnel, huh?” He looked at me, his eyes glistening with suspicion. “Pull up your sleeves.”