Serpents in the Cold

by Thomas O'Malley

  “How about a drink with your brother-in-law?” he said, realizing too late how much it sounded like a pickup line. And even though she smiled, her eyes betrayed her. He gently grabbed her arm and pulled her in closer to a space at the bar and, slurring his words, told her that he’d missed her. He waved to the bartender, Bowie, and asked for another whiskey and a whiskey sour.

  When their drinks came, she turned to her table, where her stylish escort sat, gesturing with his hands, beckoning her back. She raised an index finger and mouthed the words “One minute, just one more minute.”

  “Who’s the sharp dresser?” Dante asked, and she laughed and her eyes drifted back to the table.

  “Just a friend,” she said. Sheila was never a good liar, not to him at least.

  “Well, I hope he’s treating you well.” He looked her over for a moment. She had lost some weight and it showed in her face. Gone was the dreamy curiosity she’d often exhibited. It was now replaced with a self-assured elegance. She wore white gloves that ran all the way up to her elbows and made the pink satin dress even more chic, perhaps too much so for an after-hours club like the Pacific. He stared at her gold necklace and the swell of her cleavage. He was about to ask how she could afford such jewelry, but she was already preparing to leave. “Good to see you, Dante,” she said, and he stumbled and pulled her into him and said he loved her. Her body went tight and he loosened his embrace and stepped back.

  “It’s been hard for us all,” he said, trying to sound normal despite the anxiety building in his chest and throat. He wanted to say how much he truly cared for her, that they were family, that he loved her and desired her, yes, but before he could utter the words, she extinguished her cigarette, kissed him on the cheek, and said good-bye. That was it. And then she was gone.

  PARKING THE CAR off River Street just outside Central Square, Dante walked two streets over to the corner of Winston. The faint odors of chocolate and burnt fudge carried half a mile from the Necco candy factory. He lit another cigarette, exhaled smoke from his nostrils.

  He paused before the green house, a square, flat-roofed two-family without a back or front porch. He pushed the doorbell once and then repeated, hearing the sharp buzzing echo in the hallway inside. All the houses in this neighborhood were built in a rush during the first war, and they were squared up tightly on narrow streets and sidewalks barely wide enough to hold a hydrant. He watched two little boys skip on the sidewalk toward him. Each was wearing a tattered sweater that was a size too big. They looked up, chins raised, and stared at him, a look that an adult might give somebody who wasn’t from the neighborhood, and even though they were just children, the look got under his skin.

  The door opened, and a voice like a breaking dish made him turn around. “Jesus Christ, look who crossed the bridge! If it ain’t Dante Cooper, it must be whatever is left of his ghost.”

  Dante hadn’t seen Karl in over two months. He was wearing a thin robe and a pair of blemished chinos. A beard hid his lopsided chin and thinned over his stick neck, where his Adam’s apple protruded like something infected. His heavy eyes were bloodshot. He wasn’t a large man, didn’t look like he’d be much in a fight, but the diseased look usually kept those who wanted to brawl in check; he had the look of a man who found many uses for razor blades besides shaving.

  “I was in the neighborhood. Just thought I’d say hello.”

  “Is that right? Came all the way here just to see me?”

  One never knew what to expect with Karl. Either he was pissed off or ecstatic, and he could switch back and forth with the ease of a well-kept switchblade. Right at this moment, Dante couldn’t get a good read on him.

  Once up the bare wooden stairs to the second floor, Dante could smell the marijuana. It wasn’t a good sign. Things must have been dry, and without any of the heavy stuff, Karl was resorting to the green leaf to help pass the time.

  Dante didn’t want to waste any more effort on him than he had to. “I just thought I’d pop by.”

  “You make it sound like we’re friends, Dante. You’re here for the same reason everybody comes here. You think I’m stupid?”

  The second-floor hallway was crammed with nearly a dozen cardboard boxes.

  “No, I don’t think you’re stupid, Karl. I’ve seen you do some stupid things before, but no.”

  Karl’s thin lips curled up around his gums, an attempt at a grin. “God’s on my side, you know. See these boxes here?” He pulled back one of the flaps. Inside were miniature statues of Christ on the cross, resting on beds of shredded newspaper. “With this many Jesuses, I’d say the big guy’s got my back. Yesterday I wasn’t holy; today I might as well be the fucking pope.”

  “You got enough of these to fill every windowsill in the North End.”

  Karl reached out and put his hand on Dante’s arm. “C’mon, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Karl gave him a wink, and pushed open the door. “Dante, this here is my friend Cassie. She’ll take care of you while you’re waiting.”

  The small living room stank of cheap incense and marijuana. On the couch sat a thin black girl no more than eighteen. She was wearing an off-white silk shirt halfway unbuttoned. The bottom of a billowing skirt spread up around her skinny thighs. She looked at him, her eyes moving in and out of focus, and Dante could tell that she was flying high from junk.

  “Have some fuckin’ manners, Cassie,” Karl snapped. “Say hello. An old friend like him deserves it.”

  She managed a raspy “Hello,” and her head lolled suddenly as though some cosmic puppeteer had sneezed, tweaking the wrong string. A slight impression of fog escaped from her mouth as she tried to smile, and Dante felt how cold it was in the room.

  “Take a seat, Dante. Please, make yourself at home.”

  “I can’t stay long.” It all felt wrong to him.

  Karl crossed the room and flipped a record on the player. The stirring of a blues ballad came on, barely audible with all the skips and pops on the vinyl and dust clogging the needle. He turned back to Dante. “C’mon, at least stay for a side. To be honest, I’m having a great day and I’d like you to share it with me.”

  “I don’t have much time.”

  The girl on the couch broke out in raspy laughter. “He doesn’t sound like a true friend, does he? He really ain’t here to see you.”

  Dante gave her a look-over and made sure she felt it. “Karl, if you don’t want to part with any, I understand. I just need something to take the edge off. I’ve been clean for a while. It won’t take much.”

  “Don’t like our company, do you?”

  “It’s not that. I’m just busy with something.”

  “Saving the world, are you?”

  “No, just helping somebody out.”

  “But you’ll only end up making it worse like always, no?” Karl laughed.

  Dante didn’t respond, so Karl continued, slightly apologetic. “Okay, I understand. How much you got on you?”

  “Ten.”

  “I’ll fix you up something. You can join all of us, if you want. I think we’re ready, aren’t we, Cass?”

  The girl laughed again. “This pale boy looks like he could use some of that love. A face that bruised-up means he a little lonely.” She spread her legs apart and Dante saw the wiry mass of pubic hair.

  Karl said, “Don’t mind her, she gives too much lip and not enough head is what it comes down to. I’ll be right back.” He opened a door off the living room and went inside. Dante could hear him talking to somebody.

  A man’s wool peacoat hung on the back of the chair. He sat down and looked at the Oriental rug. Two Christ figurines were lying there, each snapped in two at the waist. He reached down and picked one up. It was hollow inside. His thumb pressed into the abdomen, and the plaster crumbled in his hand. So this was where Karl stored it. Dante shook his head, let what was left of Christ drop to the floor, and wiped his chalky fingers on his pant leg.

  “Hey you, look.” The girl had lifted her skirt higher, spr
ead her legs farther apart. She rubbed the inside of her spotty thighs for a bit before parting the hair and exposing the pink folds, which she spread with skinny fingers. She leered and then leaned forward, inspected her sex as if it had been removed from her body and placed on a dinner plate.

  “Close your damn legs,” he said.

  She cackled in response and probed deeper with her thumb and index finger. Dante stood and made his way to the bedroom. Karl was already on his way out. The door was open and Dante could see inside.

  A white teenage girl was wiping down her breasts with a tissue. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. Her lipstick was smeared over her lips and chin, and her legs were wide open and bent at the knees as if she were giving birth. Before her a man of about fifty was pulling up his boxer shorts. His half-erect penis looked as though it had been bloodied. He wore oval gold-rimmed glasses and looked like a minister, his pale face shaved so clean it shone like polished ivory. Sick bastards like him were the ruin of this world, Dante thought. He looked back at the girl on the bed. Unflinching, she balled up the tissue and threw it on the floor near Dante. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”

  Karl put his hand on Dante’s arm and pulled him back into the living room, closed the door behind him. “Jesus, Dante. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He handed him six fixes tied in a balloon.

  Dante gave him the ten. His jaws clenched and he chewed on the insides of his mouth; he wanted to crack the skull of the sick bastard.

  In the hallway Karl said, “I’ll see you again, soon.”

  “No you won’t. I’m giving up after this, I’m going clean.”

  “Sure, Dante, sure. I’ve heard that one a million times. Sorry, brother.”

  “No, I mean it. I’m done.”

  “I’ll see you in two days, tops, maybe even sooner. And you know it’s only me you can come to. The whole city is dried up and it has been for months. Canto and Boris ain’t carrying, and Gordon is up in Concord. Unless some of your nigger friends can feed you some overpriced shit, probably cut with fuckin’ pancake mix, I’m the only one.”

  “Karl, you’re nothing but a lowlife.”

  “But this lowlife always gives people like you what they need.”

  “Like selling underage girls to get fucked? Karl, they should put you on a pedestal. Then light a fucking match.”

  Karl bared his teeth. He didn’t like sarcasm. “You’ve been lonely since she’s gone, don’t say you aren’t. I could see it in your eyes when you saw those little tits and that tight li’l cunt staring right up at you. You’re no different from the rest of us animals, so don’t be a fuckin’ hypocrite.”

  “You don’t know me for shit, Karl. I won’t be seeing you again.”

  “That’s a good one, Dante. Morning after next you’ll be back. You’ll always come back to Brother Karl.”

  On the street, Dante inhaled deeply to cleanse the clinging odors of incense, bitter reefer, cum, and pussy that had permeated the apartment and had made their way into his clothes. He lit a cigarette and found it tough to drag on. He shuddered with a disgust and loathing he hadn’t felt in some time.

  Hate was the only thing that could make one stronger, and he hated not just himself but every low-down bookie, thug, and peddler of junk and underage girls. Someday the fires of hell would take them all away, and he wished that he’d be able to sit on the precipice, taking in his last fix, and watch them all burn and suffer, knowing that soon enough the flames would come his way and pull him down to join them.

  13

  _________________________

  Wholesale Food Terminal, Boston

  THE WAREHOUSE TERMINAL at the fraying edges of Dorchester, Roxbury, and South Boston spread out on the west bank of the Fort Point Channel like a vast industrial wasteland with trucks rumbling in and out of warehouse bays. Cal had often passed it coming from Uphams Corner without giving it a second thought, but as they came in through the Southampton Street entrance, the size of the place momentarily overwhelmed him.

  “Jesus, how many warehouses are there here?”

  “I dunno, maybe fifty? Sixty?

  “And how many of them are cold storage?”

  “Most of ’em.”

  “Christ.”

  “Keep the faith. You might get lucky straight off.”

  A quarter of a mile in Jimmy waited for a truck to pull out and then turned the rig wide before a row of empty bays beneath the sign BOSTON MEATS and slowly backed it to the dock. Inside the warehouse Cal followed Jimmy to the dispatcher’s office, where a woodstove burned by the desk and drivers were drinking coffee and waiting for their loads. A blackboard covered the far wall listing the truck numbers and times in and out and their scheduled pickups and drops in glaring white chalk, pressed hard to the board. Jimmy led him over to a desk by the loading dock where a large ledger showed the drivers’ assignments, their rigs, and their times, signed in and out with each return to the hub. The door to the office was propped open by a cinder block, and from the warehouse beyond came the sound of blaring forklifts and shouting loading-dock workers.

  Cal looked at the log. He didn’t know what he was looking for other than a sign that something was off. If someone was using a reefer to pick up, kill, transport, and then dump bodies, it would take time, time that had to show up somewhere. Forty trucks, and every truck accounted for in the last twenty-four hours, including Jimmy Gleason’s, his neat script logging his most recent run. And every truck on the page within twenty minutes of its scheduled pickup and drop-off.

  Jimmy waited. “Any luck?”

  “No. This isn’t the place. I’d better get my walking shoes on.”

  “Jesus, that’s a shame. Listen, I’ve got to drop my load and get to Fall River, but a quick tip. Most of the warehouses here do retail food sales to locals, so they usually don’t mind people coming by the docks. But stay out of the way of the loading—that’s the fastest way to piss people off. Just tell the dispatcher your story, lie where you need to, and perhaps you’ll get what you’re looking for.”

  Cal extended his hand. “Thanks, Jimmy. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  Jimmy’s grip was like a vise. “Same here,” he said. “You remember to look after that wife of yours, okay? She sounds like a peach if she’s stuck by you,” and he laughed.

  “Sure thing, Jimmy.”

  CAL HAD SPENT the better part of the day searching the terminal, and now, nearing dusk, his thigh was throbbing. The place was the size of an airport field. He’d watched refrigerated semis coming in, loading, and leaving from one warehouse after the other, their rumblings jolting the tarmac beneath his feet and trains on the B&A line—the Boston-to-Albany Twilight Express—churning back and forth out of South Station in the distance. He passed the cold storage fish warehouses with their dumpsters reeking of rotting fish and upon which big harbor seagulls fought and screeched. Whatever reefer carried her body to Tenean, he doubted it was carrying fish. The pallet loading aboard the trucks wouldn’t allow it, never mind the smell.

  The need for a drink to ebb the pain pressed at the forefront of his thoughts, but he pushed it back down, unwilling to give in to it until he had something that he and Dante could work on. He climbed the ladder to the loading dock of another warehouse—his twenty-third, if he was counting. A sign for Fat Fong Choy—鴻鈞老祖—hung over the dock, looking like the type of business sign that might be replaced in a month by another.

  The dock workers were a mix of white and Asian. An Asian kid was smoking a cigarette by the trucking log and signing his initials. When he was done, he looked up. “I was hoping you might be taking that load sitting out there to New Bedford, but you ain’t a driver.”

  His accent was townie all the way. “No, I’m looking for a friend who drives a rig out of here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I figure if I look at the log it’ll jog my memory.”

  The driver raised his eyebrows, clearly suspicious but waitin
g him out.

  Cal scanned down the log. Twenty trucks and every truck accounted for in the last twenty-four hours but one: number 36, Scarletti.

  “What happened to thirty-six, Scarletti?” he asked.

  “That your friend?”

  “Might be.”

  “How much is it worth to you?”

  Cal considered this. He had limited funds and wasn’t about to give anyone a handout, but he still had an additional ticket for the hockey game tonight. It was the Bruins, after all, and it was still Boston.

  “A ticket to the Bruins and the Canadiens,” he said. The driver looked at him and shrugged.

  “Guess it’s not worth that much to you. The Bruins fucking stink.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me.” He pulled a five from his wallet.

  The driver turned and called out to a stump of a man as wide as a rain barrel who had his back to them and was gesturing at one of the forklift drivers. “Hey, Peter! Have you seen Mike Scarletti come in? His friend here is looking for him.”

  Peter half turned, an unlit stogie mashed in his mouth, and Cal could see the face of the Asian forklift driver, tight-lipped and angry as hell. Peter held up his index finger, telling them one minute, and then went back to screaming at the driver. The kid was looking at him, grinning. “You’re full of shit, gwai lo,” he said and put out his hand.

  THE DISPATCHER PLODDED into the office as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. He was even more barrel-like close up. A heavy red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt rode up from his waistband.

  “I swear most of these morons don’t know their ass from their elbows,” he said, pulling the wet cigar from his mouth and laying it tenderly across a rusted tin ashtray. “What the fuck you want?”