by G L Rockey
“Where is she?”
Angelo must have seen kill in my eyes because he said, “Wonn a drink?”
“NO. Talk to me Angelo, talk to me.”
He whispered, “Frazer was in, talked with Snakebite, had some pictures….”
“Of what?”
“Of you and Gillian, some house in the sticks, said she was a fucking agent.”
Things bounced around in my mind. Some were weak, some strong. Kill was high on the list.
“Where is she?”
“Left, couple hours ago….”
“Where?”
“I doan know.”
“Where, Angelo?”
“She had an appointment.”
“WHERE?”
“Berry.”
I felt a chill turn to loathing, hate, rage.
Angelo said, “Watch yourself, everything's a mess, Snakebite said….” He looked toward The Haute Cuisine stairs. “Oh shit.”
I looked too.
Snakebite, dressed in a black suit, briefcase in hand, ambled down and walked up to me, “What you doing in here prick?”
I snatched his sunglasses off with my left hand.
He grabbed his hat and said, “You're dead.”
I threw his sunglasses to the floor and stepped on them. He shot me a soft left to the chin and I gave him a right to the jaw.
Tumbling back, his hat still on, he crashed over a booth.
Kittens screaming, Angelo jumping over the bar, I went for the outside exit.
* * *
Going up the concrete steps, I sensed her. Up the last step, I saw her, unsteady, coming down the sidewalk. The sight of her slew me. I wanted to cry but there was no cry left. I ran to her, said, “We need to get out of here.”
Sluggishly, she pushed me away, “I have some unfinished business with Snakebite.”
I could see she wasn’t right, something, “No you don't.” I took her by the arm and double-timed it to Winston.
Seated in Winston, I looked at her—blood was at the corner of her mouth and covered her hands and arms. Her T-shirt torn, she stared straight ahead.
I said, “What happened?”
“Fuck you.”
I started Winston, pulled away and words weren't coming. I reached and touched her.
She said, “Your scum sucking boss drugged me.”
“Berry….”
“No, Jack the fucking Ripper.”
I closed my eyes, opened my eyes, shifted to third, not wanting to know, not wanting to hear, not believing, believing. “How, I mean….”
“HOW?”
“I didn't mean … where?”
“On the Queen Mary, the captain's quarters, you dumb dickhead … his office … he drugged me.” She sobbed for the first time. “Dirty bastard.”
I was going to ask ‘why did you go there’ but, with everything else floating around, what did I know. Then I was going to ask about what Sago had told me about her and the T.B.I. but just said, “I know.”
“You know,” she said flatly. “Put the top down.”
I pulled over, put the top down, got back in and, getting it along, the coolness of the air swirled around the stark evening.
I said, “Should we call the … report this to….”
“Shut up.”
“Why did you go to his office … I mean….”
“I do out calls, remember.”
“I, I….”
“Shut up.”
I tried to shake the cobwebs from back before I knew this death was the reward of life, not wanting to know what Berry had done, not wanting to hear, not believing, believing.
She wiped her eyes. “I want to go home.”
“Where's your bike?”
“Fuck my bike, take me home.”
I was going to say ‘where’ but thought better and heading for the farm, I said, “Talk to me.”
She wiped her hair back from her face. “I feel like a million black nights when nobody wants you, not even God.” She looked up into the sky. “This is all a dream. Tell me it's a dream, piano man. Tell me your dream is my nightmare.”
Some time went by and I noticed her take off her boots then felt her feet on my lap. I glanced. She crossed her arms across her chest and leaned her head back. I think she was thinking.
While I let her think, my guts hanging there, bleeding, the order baffling me, I hated hate and why and what for?
A full moon, darting between clouds, cast flashes of metallic light on the landscape. I listened to her silence and a thought became clear, I will kill the pig of more.
“Why me, why us, why?” She said.
“Could be a song.”
“I'm not in the mood, piano man.”
Winston purring through the night, the air thick and sweet with the smell of night, the familiar road narrowed into a single lane of thin macadam and the blackness grew tall along the road, hanging over forming a tunnel and the droplets of moonlight flashed through tiny holes in patches of the open leaves.
Can't be, I thought.
“What?”
“How did you … we're home.” I downshifted and pulled onto the front yard of Miller Road #26.
We got out and, as I put Winston's top up, she stripped, put her clothes in a pile, took my Zippo, set them on fire, and we watched them burn.
She said, “I want to wash my hair with thick suds. I want to lather my body many times until I flush that scum boss of yours’ sick fish smell down the drain.”
“Keep it a dream.” I said.
We went inside. She went to the bathroom.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the window open, a light breeze coming in, I was thinking: kings kill, women weep, children die. Then I thought again, I will kill the pig of more. Strange thoughts. I had never hated as much as I hated and I hated that I hated … I couldn’t get his name past a gag. I listened to her gargling, then the water running as she showered. I thought, I should go in there with her then knew that would be the typical dumb thing only I could do. I slipped off my boots and leaned back against the headboard.
* * *
After several minutes, Joyce, drying herself with a white towel, stepped to the bed and, smelling fresh and a little wet, stretched out beside me.
I touched her and whispered, “I think they know about this house, Angelo said Snakebite had some pictures….”
“Let them come, I hope they come, I want them to come.”
I moved to hold her.
She said, “I need time to think.”
After some time she whispered, “Hold me.”
I did and she clung to me and there was distant lightning and the light from it flashed through the window and there was far off thunder and we talked and she told me everything.
* * *
Then she was very still like she wasn't breathing. I put my nose to hers, felt her warm breath and she was very asleep.
Her breathing deep, not wanting to wake her, I held her, and closed one eye. Drifting, familiar with discerning nightmares and hallucinations, this was more like what Aunt Jane called a vision, I didn’t believe her then, never did but in the present, rethinking my ‘never did assessment’, I am seeing one play out on the ceiling now:
Berry takes my hand and leads me up a narrow mountain path. A brilliant flash of lightning enhances a large maple tree whose leaves are red and orange with an early autumn. Berry says, “I got a dream Jack. A dream as big as the sky. One day there'll be only one big INC. and everybody will work for the INC. and the INC. will give and the INC. will take away. What efficiency. I have that dream Jack.”
We walk to a cliff and gaze to a polluted lake below. A lady is swimming. As she begins to sink she cries out.
I want to help her but have no arms and I see a sign DEERG and it slowly revolves to read GREED.
Then Berry sucks an egg that looks like a world globe, throws the empty shell to the ground, and says, “Forget her Jack, we got bigger fish to fry.” Wiping his lips, he says, “She's
excess baggage on a flight to becoming”
A pack of red hounds chew at my ankles. I say, “You always win don't you, Berry.”
He smiles, “Look around.”
I notice an old man with long hair crawling onto the top of the hill. His hands are bleeding.
Berry sneers, “What is he, a poet? Har har har. Watch out for those nuts with the long hair.”
A strong wind begins to blow, I look at the man. He is Professor Strunk. He says, “And where do dead Mondays go?”
A chorus sings, “As a species extinct a long time in the land.”
Strunk says, “The notes, Jack. The music. The symbols. One to one, one to two, two to three, three to four, open your ears.”
The chorus sings, “Middle C, Middle C, Middle C.”
Berry says, “Bullshit,” and runs off down the hill.
Strunk begins to weep, “And who will say the eulogy at that funeral?”
The chorus sings, “Who, who, who.”
Berry returns. His large head on a boy's body, he wears black tennis shoes held loosely by worn and broken laces and his dirty kneecaps poke through ragged overalls.
I look at my index finger.
Berry kicks me in the shins. “Cheater Peter. You're it this time.” He turns and yells down the hill, “Come on, everybody home free. Jack is it this time. New game.”
I hold my finger up for Berry to see. “It's just my finger, look.” I point my finger at my temple. “Everything is going to be okay.” I squeeze and my head disappears.
I see a head stone:
HUMANITY
Last of a species, a long time in the land
EXTINCT
Then I’m sitting behind Berry big mahogany desk; I open the top drawer, stop, shout, “THERE’S NOTHING IN THERE!”
* * *
Sweating, shivering, I wiped my hand across my forehead and realized I was standing in the middle of the bed.
Joyce sat up. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing, go back to sleep.” I lay on my back and she nuzzled up. Her breathing heavy again, I said thank you and closed my eyes.
She woke me and I noticed the first light of morning coming through the window. I also noticed she was up, dressed, and herself again.
She said, “Don't get up, I have to go.”
From what Sago had told me, I had an idea where, said, “Where are you going?”
“Unfinished business.”
“I'll go with you.”
“No.”
“I insist.”
“Which leg would you like broken first?”
She looked like she meant it and I was sure she could do it. I said, “I love you, be careful.”
CHAPTER 9
Real Time
Nashville, TN, 7:00 A.M., CDT, Wednesday, June 19
His bedside telephone ringing, Joe Galbo rolled over and answered. A minute later, stunned, he hung up, quickly dressed, nearly backed his Chrysler through his garage door, and sped away to TV12.
CHAPTER 10
Jack’s Time
Some time after Gillian left, drifting in and out of half sleep, her smell everywhere, the morning stillness drifted through the window and that rooster, down the road, crowed. I looked out the window. The rising morning light shadowed the elm and oak and dogwood trees. Like I said before, I never saw such green and the air could feed a family of ten for a month.
I smelled the pillow where her head lay. I said a quick silent prayer for Joyce then checked Blacspain, Wednesday, June 19, 7:31 A.M. I eased out of bed, went to the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. I ran a comb through my hair then went to the closet, checked to see, the rifle was gone. I got my clothes, and, in the kitchen, slipped on by wrinkled Monday uniform.
Going out into the cool morning air, the grass wet with dew, there was that clean fresh smell in the air.
I stepped from the front porch to Winston and noticed a yellow and black spider perched delicately over a lacy web wet with dew. The dew drops, like pearls, stretched between sharp blades of green grass. I put Winston's top down, got in and started the engine—throaty in the humid air.
Not sure what I was going to do, knowing I had to do it, I headed to TV12.
* * *
After a stop at a Cracker Barrel restaurant for a coffee to go, the air fresh and crisp, settled in the left lane of I-65, familiar trip, funny, I thought, how bright the colors are. I checked the time, 8:02, thought about shaving, but didn't feel like it.
My thoughts went to Berry. I wondered what I would do when I saw his face, his eyes, his rug, smelled his Gucci New York cologne. I wasn't sure. I wondered if I had it in me to go back to the long time ago we all know, when no matter how select the bastard breeding the word making is over; the hand shaking is finished; the wine of decency is spilled on the dusty plain of mistrust and deceit; when all the symbols, written and verbal, are exhausted, and we go back to the club. It is in us. It would always be.
That other guy said, how do you paint on air? Gather water in a jar made of dust? To talk. To write. To listen. To see. To hear. To mingle with matter. To feel the beat. The music. The meaning. When the symbols fail, the club wins. And then there is nothing left but a sucking sound as the blanched bones of existence sink into the scum of eternity.
Both hands on the wheel, conjugating all that, I remembered the many times Berry belittled Jay and I remembered the words of a nightmare, hallucination, vision, whatever the hell it was: As a species extinct, a long time in the land. I wondered what if, in the big lie, maybe wrong is right. Maybe I was wrong. But knowing if I were, it would be my wrong and fuck right.
I felt a hotness condense within me and mingle with what I knew was always there under the slop of conformity and yes yes yes and what will people say. I felt a loathing for the greed mutants grabbing space on a crowded planet.
I recalled Wolfe's thoughts in “You Can't Go Home Again”:
“…the enemy stole the earth, polluted lives, took the bread and left a crust, then took the crust … the enemy is blind, but has the brutal power of the blind grab … the enemy is old as time and evil as hell … the enemy is single selfishness and compulsive greed.”
I took a sip of coffee and repeated Jay's words: “Biggie wiggie went to market and biggie wiggie found the market had been sold. Sold to a hog butcher, blood red and dripping.”
* * *
Off the interstate, I stopped for a red light and rehearsed words to Berry: “You raped her, didn't you. You rape her every day! What will you do when you suck her dry? You used her. You used Speaker. You use everything you get your greasy pig hands on. Is that it? Is that what I have to do to you? Do I have to use you?”
Then I reasoned, but if I kill you … I kill her and if I kill her I kill me.
I smacked the steering wheel. “You can't have her anymore. No more the grab. No more the cha-ching in the night. Use her no more, she's ours!” I heard my voice rise. “I will kill the pig of more. And if I'm wrong, fuck right!”
My coffee finished, I threw the cup on the floor, and noticed a guy, window down, in a white BMW, looking my way. I smiled at him and said, “Fioco … WITH FIRE!”
He powered his window up and pealed through the red light.
The light changed green and I pulled away.
I wondered if I had it in me to kill.
* * *
Turning into the parking lot of TV12, the first thing I noticed were the flashing red and blue lights and a small army of police cars. Then an ambulance zoomed past me, siren screaming, and exited the parking lot.
Pulling closer, I noticed Berry's Humvee in his reserved slot. I also saw that Big Joe's Chrysler was parked by the front entrance. The driver's door open, the lights were on.
I was tempted to park in Joe's slot but this wasn't the time.
I pulled behind Joe's Chrysler, got out, and walked to the entrance. Joe's car still running, I went inside.
Receptionist Marcie, red eyed, sobbing, talked to a police of
ficer.
Marcie saw me. “Jack,” is all she could say.
“What's happening?” I asked.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and shook her head.
The officer looked at me.
I said, “Hi,” flashed my deputy badge, and before he could talk I was past him and down the hall toward my former office.
The halls were strangely eerie, empty actually.
I arrived my office. Hadn't changed much.
Standing by the coffee pot, Joy talked with Joe Galbo's secretary, P.J.
Joy saw me. Ashen, she said, “Jack, oh Jack, my god.”
“What's going on?” I said.
“Oh Jack, it's terrible.”
More ashen than Joy, P.J., shaking her head, left quickly.
“What's going on?” I said.
Joy fumbled for words, “It's Berry, he … the cleaning people … this morning … his office….”
Conjugating everything imaginable, I smelled Sea Breeze.
“Ouch.” Sago stepped beside me.
I said, “Sago, what's up?”
Sago made a slashing motion across his neck. “Sally's dead … throat slit.”
Stunned, returning to the farm, hoping Joyce was there, I flipped WTNN-AM news on:
“… in the wee hours of this morning, a T.B.I., F.B.I., and A.T.F. task force conducted a raid on a ranch located thirty miles south of Nashville.
The ranch is owned by Nashville's notorious Mike Snakebite Walker. A source said that a bunker-like cell in the basement of the main house was a macabre scene out of hell. A young girl, identified from the FBI national missing person's database was found in a basement bunker. Authorities say she will need extensive mental rehabilitation … Walker was arrested at his Nashville business, Felix The Cat, where he also lives … in other news….”
I turned the radio off and felt uniquely ashamed that I was a member of the human race.
EPILOGUE
April, nine months later