Blood of Paradise

by David Corbett

  Peg screamed, “Phil! What the—you’re gonna—you—” Her Kentucky twang bent every vowel in two. She stamped her foot, wiggled her hands. “You got a serious problem, Phil, know that?”

  “A free talk, okay?” It came out sounding shabby.

  Her jaw dropped. “Here?”

  “I wanna visit her. I got a right.”

  “Aw crap, Phil.” Her eyes teared up. “You can’t—you don’t—”

  He had no time to take heart from her pity. The cavalry arrived, Mr. Skillethands and Mr. Kung Fu Prissy-Hick Longhair vaulting onto the stage like a tumbling act, Son of Skillethands hanging back. In the melee that followed, Strock got in a few good licks with the cane, swinging it like an ax, but Skillethands parried the worst blows with his weight-room arms, and Longhair, true to Strock’s suspicion, had a vicious scissor kick that landed once in the thigh, once in the chest, and finally in the midriff, robbing Strock of breath. They wrestled him down and punished him, tongues protruding through their teeth, lusty little gasps of fury. From behind, Peg shrieked, “Don’t hurt him, okay? Okay?” But they got in their furtive stabs at his crotch and eyes, then trundled him off the stage, through the tables.

  The front door slammed open, they heaved him outside, and the long-haired hilljack pitched the cane as far as he could into the dark. Mr. Skillethands, panting, told the two uniformed guards manning the parking lot, “Please escort this gentleman off the grounds.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Now.”

  Strock struggled to his knees. Behind him, the club music soared briefly as the three bouncers trooped back in, then dimmed to a dull throb as the door closed behind them. His balls ached mercilessly from one particularly crushing squeeze. He ran his tongue along his teeth, checking for broken crowns.

  Footsteps shuttled forward as the two outside guards approached. Strock lifted one hand above his head, face still brushing the pavement as he tried to catch his breath.

  “A minute, fellas, all right? Just let me—”

  A pair of musty desert boots entered his field of vision. Following the image upward, Strock discovered black polyester slacks tightening at a pudgy waist, a tattered black vinyl jacket. The face was triple-chinned. A shiny pate divided identical tufts of mousy brown hair.

  It was the other one who spoke, though. “You’re not gonna give us no more trouble now, are ya?”

  Through the blur Strock saw a knobby man, tall as Lincoln, with a craggy face and slicked-back hair. Popcorn-knuckled hands gripped his knees as he leaned down.

  “That was a question, fella. Round here questions go with answers.”

  “I just need a second.” Strock coughed up blood. “Catch my wind.”

  “Plenty of wind up here.” The wiry one slipped a hand into Strock’s armpit and yanked upward. “See for yourself.”

  As soon as Strock had his balance he swung to rid himself of the man’s grip. The elbow missed, but before Strock could regroup, the fat one aimed a cannister of pepper spray and let go, hitting Strock but the other guard, too. Both men grabbed at their eyes.

  “Christ, Bursich, you tubby fuck, what the—”

  “Sorry, shit, sorry, Jesus, sorry …”

  “Anybody need some help here?”

  It was a new voice, male, younger. Strock blinked and squinted but could see nothing through his scalding tears. Words sawed back and forth, ending with: “What say I take him off your hands?” Strock felt himself roughly pulled away. He coughed up a wad of caustic phlegm, then his bad leg buckled, lurching him sideways. The newcomer grabbed him up before he fell and kept them both moving. Kid’s quick, Strock thought. Strong, too.

  “Where’d you come from?” The words came out strangled with mucus.

  “Let’s get out of here. Then we’ll talk.”

  The stranger let Strock rest against the side of a white sedan. Water chugged from a plastic bottle and spilled onto the asphalt, then Strock felt a wet handkerchief pressed into his hand. He spread the soaked hanky across his eyes, which felt like they were on fire.

  “I need my cane.”

  “We’ll get you another one.”

  “I’m lame. I can’t—”

  “We’ll get you another one.”

  The stranger dropped Strock into the passenger seat, then slammed the door shut and hustled around and climbed in behind the wheel. Soon they were hurtling up the lakeside highway toward the toll road.

  “Don’t rub your eyes with that.” The young man tugged at the corner of the wet handkerchief. “Just dab.”

  Strock opened his window. The air felt good on his face. “I know how to handle pepper spray.”

  The stranger turned off the highway before the toll road interchange and crossed some railroad tracks bordered by sparse woods. They were still in Indiana, somewhere between East Chicago and the Illinois line.

  “You’re name’s Phil, right? Phil Strock. They called you Candyman.”

  Strock turned toward him, blinking, wincing. “I don’t know you.”

  “You knew my old man.”

  “And he was who?”

  “Ray McManus.”

  It took several seconds to focus and the effort hurt but Strock finally managed to keep his eyes open long enough to take the young man in. “You’re Pop Gun’s son?” Ray McManus had been the oldest man in the Eighteenth still working patrol, thus Pop Gun. “You used to hang around your dad’s basement and watch us all cheat at poker.”

  “I watched a lot more than that.”

  They entered a neighborhood of nondescript one-story homes lined along curving potholed streets. It was dark and quiet. The air smelled of mud.

  “Luke, right?”

  “Jude.”

  “Jude. That’s it. Sorry.” Strock sat back a little, relaxed into the seat. “Well, Jude, let me tell you something. Your old man was a right cop.”

  That prompted a dreary chuckle. “Fat lot of good it did him.”

  “Fat lot of good it did any of us.” Strock leaned out his window, still open, and spat. It tasted like he’d gargled with battery acid. “Pop Gun saved my life—know that?”

  There was nothing but silence for several seconds. Then: “No. I never heard that.”

  “You bet your ass. I’ve got a crap leg and my life’s a joke. But I’d be dead if not for your old man.” Strock smiled ruefully. “Laugh Master Ray. Old Pop Gun.”

  Jude slowed for one last turn, then pulled into the driveway of a small ranch-style house with brick cladding to match the chimney.

  “Weird coincidence,” Strock said, “you of all people walking up like that when I’m getting my ass peeled.”

  12

  Leaning in the doorway, Strock said, “Going through a divorce?”

  The dining room was empty except for two mismatched chairs. The living room had a mattress on the floor near the fireplace. Pet stains and cigarette burns dotted the carpet.

  “It’s not my house. Rental agent knows my uncle.” Jude checked Strock’s eyes. “Let’s run some cold water where they tagged you with the Mace.”

  “Lead the way.” Strock hobbled behind Jude toward the kitchen, using the wall for balance. The burning had tapered off but not enough. His eyes and throat still itched with a scalding heat and his skin felt raw. Lurching over to the sink, he turned the rusty faucet handle and lathered up, gently washing his hands and face. Then he doused his eyes and put his lips to the spigot to slake his thirst.

  “There’s food in the fridge,” Jude said from behind. “Help yourself.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ve got one more errand to run.”

  Strock patted his cheeks with a towel. “I’ll come with.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “I said I’ll come with.”

  “It’s personal, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back in a snap. Honest.”

  With that, Jude was gone. Strock stared after him, listening as the front door opened and closed. His leg throbbed from walking without his cane. Even if he’d wanted to chase after the kid
, there’d be no way to catch up. If it weren’t for your old man, Strock thought, no way I’d stay put in this hole. I’d find a way out if I had to crawl.

  He checked the fridge; it was decades old, grimy white and humming in the corner like a little factory. He found a carton of eggs and a wealth of sandwich fixings inside. More to his liking, a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock sat there too. He grabbed two bottles, went searching for a church key, and in a cupboard found a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and some giveaway tumblers bearing sports team logos. He took the bottle of Jack down, regarding it fondly. Kid wouldn’t leave the stuff around, he thought, right where you could find it, if he didn’t mean for you to have a taste.

  Music blared so loud it distorted from the two cheap speakers on the floor. The booth was made of frosted glass brick in which embedded neon tubes glimmered like little frozen thunderbolts. A plaster pedestal, the kind you see in a florist’s shop, stood beside a squat armchair upholstered in fake velvet. An ashtray sat on the pedestal. A red felt curtain covered the doorway.

  Jude pulled from his pocket the fifty dollars’ worth of Babycake Bills he’d bought from the bartender and handed it to the dancer. “What’s your name?”

  “Heavenly.” The girl was counting. She had straight sandy hair, violet fingernails, and muddy freckles head to toe. “Only thirty for a dance.” She tried to hand him twenty back.

  “Keep it. Peg go home?”

  “Who?”

  “Celesta.”

  Her eyes darted toward the red felt curtain. Two of the bouncers patrolled the mezzanine. “Listen—I can’t let you talk to me. I gotta dance.”

  “She go home?”

  “Come on. I asked nice. Please.”

  The seat cushion hissed as Jude sat down. Heavenly removed her top. Cupping her breasts, she pinched the nipples, which were oddly shaped, flaring out like little red stingers. Jude tried to convince himself this was merely different, not unattractive.

  She started rocking her hips to the music, wagging her can and shaking her hair like a ten-year-old imitating a go-go dancer. Jude’s mind began to drift. He’d been obsessing about Eileen the entire trip, envying the passion she brought to everything—her family, her work, politics, life. He could muster little of that kind of oomph—too wary, too shy, too glum—to the point he felt at times as though he were sealed up in a psychic cocoon, arm’s length from everything and everyone. He wanted to believe Eileen could charm all that away, at which point his reverie circled back around to that night at her house in La Perla: the scent of her skin in the sticky darkness, the beery taste of her kiss, the moaning cry as she came and her dozy snore as she slept with him in the hammock. A perfect little movie, except for the end. He winced, picturing it one more time. How utterly you, he thought—take offense, get pissed, shut down, storm off. Make it right, he told himself. First thing you do once you get back, head to La Perla, talk to her. For once in your life let a woman know what she means to you.

  Meanwhile, the robotic weirdness of the performance taking place before him brought his longing into high relief. God help us all if this is erotic, he thought, just as Heavenly, with the smile of a bored stewardess, minced closer. Reaching out her arms, she dropped her plump stinger-nippled breasts to either side of his face and did a little shoulder shimmy, pelting his cheeks, then leaned down to whisper in his ear: “We call that the Teaser.”

  Who’s we, Jude wondered. “So, back to what I was saying—Peg, I mean Celesta, she go home?”

  Heavenly shot another glance past the curtain. The fear, at least, gave her face some animation. “Yeah. You’re not, like, a cop. Or one of Vince’s guys.”

  “Go home, or sent home?”

  “Really. Please. Don’t cause me trouble, okay?”

  Peggy Check lived in a weather-worn apartment project near Lake Michigan. In the parking lot, a handful of chavos loitered over smokes around a black Ford F-150 lowrider tricked out with flaming detail. Spotting a tattoo he recognized—MS 13, for Mara Salvatrucha—Jude suffered a momentary sense of whiplash. The Salvadoran community had grown considerably in the greater Chicago area since he’d left, shrinking the mental distance between there and here. Jude gave the group a wide berth—far enough to confer respect, not so far as to suggest fear—then climbed the pitted concrete stairs to the third floor.

  Sidestepping a plastic trike and a headless doll, he made his way to Peg’s door, then rapped gently, trying to peek in beyond the bedsheet at the window. Suddenly her face appeared—she’d pinned up her auburn hair, revealing a bruised cheek and smeared makeup.

  “Let me in,” he said. “Okay?”

  The bedsheet fell back into place. Shortly a scrabble of deadbolts clicked open one by one and she cracked the door, speaking across the safety chain: “You lied.”

  Her voice, to Jude’s ear, was pure coal country. He said, “He didn’t find you through me.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Don’t make me stand out here, okay?”

  From below, one of the chavos whistled a tuneless melody while one of the others said, “Llora a moco tendido, cabrito.” Cry your eyes out, sucker. Everybody laughed.

  Peg said, “Loneliest place on earth, ain’t it? Outside. When what you want is inside. Kinda like looking for work.”

  “I don’t know how he found you, but it wasn’t through me. I didn’t even talk to him till after he was kicked out, I swear.”

  She stared at him a second longer then relented, closing the door to unbolt the chain and let him in. She wore ribbed black leggings beneath a white T-shirt that hung to her knees. “You said you’d have him outta town.”

  The heater blasted. A sour smell—curdled milk, fermenting in the rug—thickened the air. Coloring books littered the coffee table near the sofa.

  “We’ll be gone by tomorrow. I promise.”

  “Yeah, well.” She tapped her dark puffy cheek. “Fat lotta good that does me now.”

  Jude had discovered the birth certificate for a Chelsea Check in Cook County, tracking Strock’s name in the paternity index. Malvasio had given him the idea, mentioning a possible daughter. The address on the birth certificate was years out of date, so Jude hired a private investigator to track down Peg. The man proved worthless finding Strock. “Deadbeats fall off the radar” was his excuse. In the end, thanks to information Peg supplied, Jude blundered his way to the right address on his own.

  Strock lived on Broadway in downtown Gary; Jude had dropped by earlier that night. Deserted buildings lined the street and windblown trash ghosted down the sidewalks. The marquee of the abandoned Palace Theater read: coming soon—THE MICHAEL JACKSON PERFORMING ARTS CENTER.

  He gained entrance to Strock’s room courtesy of a woman across the hall who had a key for reasons she didn’t share. She did share her name, though: Dixie. She had a weathered, pointy face lathered in makeup and rimmed with fried yellow hair. Her Chinese robe hung open over a white slip and her thin legs glistened from a fresh shave.

  Inside the apartment, Jude wandered about, collecting Strock’s passport and checkbook and other assorted personal effects that he stuffed inside a pillow case. Dixie made no effort to stop him or even comment, merely watching, cigarette tucked into the crook of her mouth. Before leaving, Jude checked the fridge—fireproof storage for the common man. He found only three cans of Pabst, a half-eaten potpie florid with mold, and a rank pair of waterlogged shoes. Recoiling from the stench, he slammed the door shut.

  “Phil don’t always keep track of what he’s doing when he drinks,” Dixie said, crushing out her cigarette on the linoleum floor with the toe of her mule. “And he eats out a lot.”

  Jude told Peg, “I’m sorry about whatever happened at the club. I mean that. I’ve got Phil put up where I’ve been staying. I’ll have him far away by tomorrow.”

  She screwed up her mouth. It made her cheek look more swollen. “I don’t know what to believe. I mean, okay, you seem legit and you’ve treated me nice enough, I admit, but I’m like way in the
dark here and I just …” Her voice trailed away.

  Jude studied her face more closely. The bruising had a deep scratch in it, most likely the swing had been a backhand and the guy had worn a ring. “Tell me who did that,” he said.

  “Just get Phil to where he can’t fuck up, okay? I can’t afford to lose me another job.”

  “I’m serious. Tell me who it was.”

  “I’m serious too. Drop it. They’re assholes. So?”

  Jude pulled out his money clip and counted out ten hundreds, from the money Malvasio had given him. “I realize this doesn’t fix anything,” he said, handing it out for her to take. “Maybe it’ll help tide you over, though.”

  She eyed the cash, but before she could take it her daughter appeared. Rubbing a sleepy eye with the knuckles of her left hand, the little girl had the thumb of her right planted deep between her lips. She wore Pooh pajamas and mismatched socks, one blue, one white.

  “Hey, Babyshines.” Like that, Peggy Check’s voice transformed. It was warm now, gentle. As though her bruised face, this strange visitor offering money, were all just part of the same bad dream. “It’s late.”

  The little girl staggered up and attached herself to her mother’s leg, thumping her head softly against the muscular thigh. Peg ran her fingers through the little girl’s hair.

  “Other day,” Peg said, proud now, “we were out walking along the lake, you know? And this tree stands maybe fifty yards off the path. She looks up and points. ‘See the birdy, Mommy?’ I look and look, right? Can’t see squat, and I’m twenty-twenty. I’m thinking, she’s making this up, then sure enough, thing takes off, flies away. That’s half a football field. Bird smaller than my hand, okay?”

  Jude smiled but the little girl turned her head away, clutching her mother’s leg still tighter. Kid’s got sniper eyes, he thought. What’s to wonder at? She’s Phil Strock’s kid.