Penance

by Rick R. Reed

  Someone touched Jimmy’s shoulder, and he looked up to see Little T grinning down at him. Would Little T, just turned fifteen, ever look older than eleven? Right now, he was wearing a black Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt, pegged jeans, and high tops. It was a look he’d cultivated; he made more money from his tricks than anyone Jimmy knew, because they all believed he was so young. The kid had a system. Little T could pick up some older guy at the arcade and make the dude think that he was the one making the moves. Hell, Jimmy knew half the guys Little T went with thought they were getting a virgin.

  “What goes on, man? Up here?” Little T touched Jimmy’s forehead and Jimmy smiled. Little T grinned and one of his red curls fell down over his eye. He pushed it back.

  Jimmy curled into himself a little more. They all knew, ever since he got back, that something bad had come down on him. But no one had said anything…not yet anyway. Not knowing shit like that made it easier to go out there and make money. None of his friends liked to talk about the dangers out there. AIDS? We go with married guys, make sure they look healthy, clean. Weirdos? Killers? Perverts? Hell, we’re all good judges of character, you won’t catch us goin’ home with no creep. “Nothin’,” he said, “I was just thinkin’ about War Zone, you know? I ain’t seen him around for a few.”

  “He’s probably back with his ma. You know how that shit goes.” Little T squatted down on the floor beside Jimmy. “Or else he’s with Saul.” The boys exchanged a look. Saul lived on the Gold Coast, in some luxury condo above the lake. Black leather furniture, weird lights, chrome and mirrors. Every once in a while, he came into uptown, looking for a boy to share his place with, a “son” he liked to call it. Once Saul met War Zone, all the other boys could forget living in luxury because War Zone was all Saul was ever interested in from that point onward. But War Zone, the joke went, would grow up, too—sixteen, seventeen—and be much too old for the likes of Saul.

  Jimmy nodded. Sure, that’s right. Why should it be any other way? But then he thought: That’s probably what they were thinking of you when you were gone.

  How long would War Zone have to be missing before anyone gave a shit?

  Little T walked away and Jimmy leaned back into the mattress he sat on. Chill: Just because something bad happened to you doesn’t mean the same shit is going on with War Zone. You’re safe here, and that’s all that counts. Fuck, you’re home. Jimmy looked around the room.

  Corner of Lawrence and Kenmore. Close to the lake, close to the el, close to Dominick’s, Super Powers Arcade, and the streets…where they could all make some money. So what if the building was run-down and abandoned? So what if rats played on the stairs and there was no electricity or running water? So what if they had to sneak in and out of the basement door at the side, making sure they weren’t seen? It was a place to crash…private. It was a place they could call their own, at least until someone found out, a cop, a gang, whatever, and chased them all out.

  Jimmy, Miranda, Avery, Little T, and War Zone had been staying here since the summer, when Avery met Randy and Randy let him crash there for one night. “Chicken Arms” Avery had called it when he told them all about it one night last August. Told them all about the building where they could live for free without the hassle of mothers, pimps, gang members, cops; told them all about Randy, the older guy. Avery had originally intended on making them pay rent. Jimmy had to snicker at the memory. The fat kid wanted a share of what they made from tricks for letting them stay there. Randy wasn’t having any of it, and besides, Avery was stupid enough to outnumber himself with “tenants.” What an asshole.

  But Randy was a good dude; he kind of watched out for them all, even if he acted like he wished they weren’t around. At twenty-six, Randy had lived in the condemned building for over a year. And he had fixed it up to look decent: put some curtains up, gotten some pillows and mattresses to sleep or party on. It was cold, but hey, it was home, better than some sidewalk grate on a cold night. They had all brought their share of blankets, old clothes, and rags…they all bedded down on cold nights under these, using the heat their bodies generated for warmth. If it got really bad, they burned a little fire in an old rubbish can Randy had brought in, but they didn’t like to do that too often: the glow could attract undesirable elements.

  They had become kind of like a little family at the Chicken Arms, with Randy as the Mother Hen. That’s what they called him and he hated it, or at least acted like he did. He never really made any attempt to stop them. Randy was weird, quiet, never said more than three or four words at a time. When Jimmy had first met him, he’d thought the dude must hate him or something because he wouldn’t say a word. Avery hinted that Randy had done a lot of drugs, not just pot, but heroin, acid, shit like that.

  Would he care that War Zone was missing? And where was Randy right now? Too old to hustle, Randy made a living (if you could call it that) by collecting aluminum cans and ripping off food from grocery stores. If he didn’t get chased out of the store first—with his lanky frame and greasy black waist-length hair, he wasn’t too welcome in most deli departments.

  Miranda stuck her tongue out at him and held up the picture she had drawn. There were a lot of purple scribbles, but Jimmy could make out the figures of a man and a little girl. There were cartoon bubbles. The man was saying, “Let’s do sex,” and the girl’s bubble said “Wa-wa,” kind of like baby talk for crying.

  “That shit belongs down at the Art Institute, man.” Jimmy scratched his head. “Or in the psycho ward.”

  “Fuck you.” Miranda put down her pad. “Scoot over.” She sat down beside him on the bed and put her head on his shoulder. “Something’s been getting you down ever since you were gone for those few days. Wanna talk?”

  “I’m just wondering where War Zone could be.”

  “Why? He’s taken off before and you couldn’t care less.”

  Jimmy didn’t want to talk about his real suspicions because that would involve telling Miranda what had happened to him and he didn’t want anyone to know that. I mean, come on, somebody knew he couldn’t handle his ass on the street, where would that put him? “Don’t know,” he said finally, “just a funny feeling, you know? Like somethin’ bad happened?”

  Miranda stared at him for a long time, as if she would find what was bothering him in the depths of his green eyes. Miranda had always been into shit like crystals and reincarnation, moving things with your thoughts, mind reading. But then Miranda was a fourteen-year-old drunk who sold herself to guys for a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 or Cisco. “You might be picking up on something. When I was still with my mom, I’d know when my dad was beating her up. Even if I was in school. I’d get these cramps, you know, like butterflies? And I just knew, Jimmy, like it was something that already happened and I remembered. Maybe you’re picking up on some psychic vibrations.” She put her arms around him and pushed him back, so they were lying on their backs, her head on his chest.

  Jimmy thought: The girl’s already losing it, but maybe she has a point. Maybe he didn’t have ESP or something, but he did know what had happened to him and there was no reason the same thing couldn’t happen to his friend.

  “Yeah, but what can I do? I mean, even if I am right and War Zone’s in trouble, can I help him? Can I do anything?” Jimmy shrugged her off his chest and sat up. He pulled out a Kool and lit it. He exhaled and Miranda waved the smoke away from her face and coughed dramatically.

  “Do you have to do that?”

  “I’m nervous, all right? You don’t have to be right up in my face, now do you?”

  “No, I guess I don’t.” Miranda walked away, leaving Jimmy to lie on the mattress, alone with one thought.

  War Zone was missing.

  *

  “You’re so beautiful,” Saul said, rubbing the back of his knuckles across War Zone’s face. “Black skin is warmer…and you’re so smooth.”

  Bull, War Zone thought, but he smiled at Saul. Saul, what was he? Thirty-seven? Got
some bigwig shit job downtown, something with computers, some shit like that. War Zone looked back at him, not because he wanted to, but because he knew Saul liked the eye contact, told him once it made their time together more “special.” Fuck that. Saul was tall and thin, which served his prissy movements well. His fingers were long, bone-thin, like a woman’s. His face, pockmarked with craters like the surface of the moon, always wore a thin veneer of makeup: mascara, a little cover-up to try to hide the pock-marks, blush. What the makeup couldn’t cover, a perfectly groomed beard did. His light brown hair was cut short, permed and dyed at the tips a lighter shade. The man was a classic queen. But War Zone put up with him because the bucks were big and the job was easy.

  Even though this had happened many times before, War Zone stiffened as Saul pulled War Zone’s shirt over his head. Saul sucked in his breath appreciatively at the sight of War Zone’s chest.

  “Gimme another hit, man.” War Zone took the little wooden pipe from Saul’s fingers, took the lighter from the table, and fired up the bowl. Placing the lighter on top of the bowl, War Zone breathed in the marijuana smoke, imagining his lungs filling with it, stripping the THC from the smoke he would exhale moments later. He closed his eyes, willing the high to come quickly.

  He wanted to be numb. There was always someplace else to go, War Zone thought as he felt Saul’s hands rubbing the hair on his head, breathing coming heavier now. Soon, he would reach for the button of his jeans.

  He hit the pipe again. Held it, then turned his head to exhale, blowing the smoke up high, toward those funky black track lights. Saul pushed him back on the leather couch. “Black on black,” he whispered.

  War Zone’s stomach turned.

  “Let’s get you out of those dungarees.”

  What the fuck? Why can’t the man speak English?

  Saul pulled off his pants and War Zone lay before him, waiting, staring at the wall. “One more hit,” he whispered and sat up, “just one more.”

  “Sure,” Saul whispered, “enhance the experience, my dusky knight.” He massaged War Zone’s thighs while War Zone lifted the pipe once more to his lips, willing oblivion.

  *

  Later.

  “What the fuck is this?” Saul screamed, standing above him. War Zone turned on the water bed and took in all the black lacquer furniture, the bright light by the bed shining in his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, buoyed by the water.

  Saul held a microcassette recorder in his hands. War Zone recognized it immediately. It was Saul’s. He had found it on his desk earlier. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He started rummaging around for a believable reason why the recorder was in the green canvas bag he carried around with him.

  “It’s your recorder, man.” War Zone grinned at him. “You ruined my surprise.”

  For a moment the anger disappeared from Saul’s face, replaced by confusion. “What?”

  “Yeah, man, I was gonna make a recording of us doin’ it. I thought you could, you know, listen to it when I ain’t around.” He smiled.

  Saul stared at him and War Zone grew scared. He knew how Saul could get when he was mad. War Zone began to inch to the edge of the bed, trying to remember exactly where his clothes were in case he needed to make a break for it.

  “Oh,” Saul said. “So, you were just putting it in the bag and it could pick up the sounds of us in the throes of passion, as it were? And it would be unbeknownst to me.” Saul made precise gestures with his hands while he talked, like a woman.

  “Yeah, man. That’s right. What do you think?” War Zone was afraid he’d blown it. His voice was higher and his face was covered with sweat. He tried to slow down his breathing. Smiling at Saul, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Then I have a question for you, young man.” Saul lowered his bearded face to War Zone’s and spoke intensely, through clenched teeth. He took War Zone’s face in his hands. “Why wasn’t the damn thing turned on?”

  “Huh?” War Zone smiled and then giggled. “I musta forgot, man. Guess the surprise is off.” War Zone tried to rise from the bed.

  Saul pushed him back down and the water bed erupted in an explosion of waves and ripples. Words rushed from War Zone’s mouth. “No man, it ain’t like you think. I wasn’t gonna steal it, really.”

  “Who said anything about theft?” Suddenly Saul flung the recorder across the room where it hit a large round mirror mounted on the wall. The glass shattered, the mirror fell to the floor, and the recorder blasted out Saul’s voice. “Hello, sweetheart,” Saul was saying, “your daddy misses you and wishes he could be there for your seventh birthday.”

  Saul rushed to the recorder and stomped on it. War Zone watched as he jumped up and down on the recorder, his face red with rage.

  But War Zone didn’t watch long. This was the break he needed. His chance for freedom.

  He was almost at the threshold of the living room when he felt Saul’s hand grab his neck and then slide down his back, scratching. War Zone had always hated Saul’s fingernails the most: long with clear polish.

  “Where you going, little boy?”

  “I’m done, man. You got what you wanted.” War Zone turned and faced him. “You got what you wanted, faggot. Now let me go ‘fore I slice you up.” War Zone’s heart pounded, his hands shook, but he saw his bravado had made Saul pause. He forced himself to look into Saul’s eyes.

  And then he spat in his face.

  Saul just stared at him. War Zone could see his eyes welling up with tears. He was nothing but a sissy, anyway.

  “We could have had something special, Kenneth,” Saul said, using his real name, which War Zone hated. “I could have done good things for you, young man. Very good things.” He began to cry. “Please don’t go. We’ll forget this.” He smiled. “I lost my temper.”

  “That ain’t all you lost, asshole.” War Zone walked by him, heading for the living room, where his clothes were in a pile on the black and white tile floor. “I don’t need your good things.” War Zone began to put his clothes on, angrily pulling the shirt over his head, jerking his pants up. Maybe he should just wait until morning, he wondered, as he contemplated the frigid night air outside. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to just give this up so easily.

  War Zone shook his head and pulled on his coat. Fuck it, just fuck it, Saul’s about ready to move on to somebody else anyway. This shit never lasted for anybody.

  “I could have been sort of a father to you, Kenneth.”

  War Zone stopped. He felt sick all at once. Shaky. He didn’t like anyone to remind him of his father. Not him. Not ever.

  A memory: eight-year-old War Zone, locked in a closet. It was dark and hard to breathe and War Zone sat at the bottom, among the dustballs and the shoes, curled into a little ball. Outside, his father was whispering, “Kenny, the rats are out here. They’re coming to get you. Rats can slide under doors, Kenny. Can you feel them, nibbling at them little toes? The rats are coming, Kenny. They’re going to eat you.”

  And he really did feel the rats, nibbling on his toes. Nibbling and nibbling until he screamed. But there were never any marks, never any blood when his father let him out hours later, when his mother was due home from work.

  But it always felt like the rats were really there. It really did.

  “I don’t need no fuckin’ father,” War Zone spit at Saul, who had come into the living room and collapsed into an overstuffed white leather chair. “And I don’t need you.” War Zone finished dressing, gathered up his green canvas bag, and left.

  *

  Outside, there was a December rain. Fuck, what time is it? War Zone wondered. There was little traffic and the sky above the lake looked sort of lighter where it met the water. Dawn’s coming: War Zone needed to get back. He walked briskly, to keep warm, until he got to the edge of the inner drive.

  In the distance, he could see headlights, a little pickup pulling out of a parking space. Damn, War Zone thought, perfect timing.
He stuck out his thumb.

  A black Toyota pickup pulled up and, luck was with him, stopped just past him. War Zone hurried to catch up with the truck. War Zone didn’t look at the driver too closely; at this hour, he figured he was lucky there was anyone even around to pick a kid like him up. But he thought it was a young guy, and that was cool. He grinned at War Zone.

  “Goin’ north?” the man asked as War Zone opened the door.

  “Yeah, man. Need to get to uptown.”

  “Right on the way, young man. Hop in.”

  War Zone got in the car and noticed the guy was older than he first appeared. His slight size and the clothes he wore had fooled him. Still, it was cool: everybody wanted to be young these days. War Zone was just glad the man happened to be there when he left Saul’s.

  It was almost as if the guy had been waiting for him.

  Chapter 9

  “Youth really isn’t that important to me,” Dwight explained to his reflection in the vanity mirror. “It’s a means to an end. These little ones are so gullible.” He put down the eyebrow pencil and looked at himself once more. “Little fuckers are more apt to be trusting if I look closer to their age.” He had darkened out the grey in his eyebrows and used a little frosty rose lipstick to add some color to his cheeks. He wore a blue corduroy baseball cap and believed that no one could tell now that his dark hair was thinning, receding away from his forehead. The black sweatshirt and acid-washed black Levi’s jeans, he thought, as he moved into his bedroom and faced the full-length mirror, were slenderizing.

  He pictured himself with one of them now, coming on to some horrid, grungy little street child. In the movie running through his mind, he saw himself as a passerby in uptown might: just one of the kids, perhaps an older brother.