by G. M. Ford
Mickey stuffed the pick in his jacket pocket and got out. He could see her car from where he stood. Looked like a rusty pumpkin sitting there with the Secrets license plate seriously askew.
Mickey dodged traffic across four lanes and a landscaped center strip, and then stepped between a pair of low shrubs and strolled into the Morning Standard parking lot. Everybody had their own little sign, saying this was their parking spot and nobody else’s. All nice and white-man like.
Mickey approached from the rear, keeping his head as far back inside the hoodie as he could. The afternoon light was fading, but Mickey left the hubcap shades in place as he eased the pick into the driver’s side door lock and pushed the button. Paranoia amplified the whirring noise to chainsaw proportions. He checked the surrounding area. People were coming out of the Morning Standard building now. Dribbling out in ones and twos, heading home for another night of Dancing with the Stars.
Mickey could feel the pick raking the disc cylinders, feel them turning, separating and reaching the shearline. Then it stopped on a dime. He pulled on the handle and the VW door popped open.
Mickey pocketed the pick, dropped the sheaf of papers onto the front seat, and then reached in and relocked the door.
A Bekins van blasted its angry air horns at Mickey as he matadored his way back across the street. The blast separated Gus and the pissed-off birds. He quickly lost the phone and started the Buick.
“I want to see her get it,” Mickey said as he got in.
Gus turned off the car. Angry Birds again.
Must have been a hot news day. Natalie Mendonhal stayed late. It was a full fifteen minutes after everybody else had headed home before she came rolling across the lot to her car. “There she is,” Mickey said.
Gus looked up as Natalie Mendonhal opened her car and plopped down into the seat . . . and then immediately got back out, frowning down at the seat, as she picked up the paperwork and set it on the roof of the car. She craned her neck and looked around. And then scanned the area again.
They watched as she got her glasses from her purse, stuck them on the end of her nose, and then started fingering her way through the stack, pressing the pile of pages to the roof with her free hand as the wind tried to scatter them like dry leaves.
Two minutes passed. She stopped and looked around again, as if in disbelief, then, in rapid succession, hugged the pages to her chest, slammed the car door with her foot, and started jogging back toward the newsroom like she was on fire.
“Shit’s about to hit the fan,” Gus said with a grin.
“About 6:00 a.m., when the morning edition hits the street,” Mickey said.
Mickey got out of the car. “I’m going to change my clothes,” he said to Gus. “Then we need to get rid of this stuff.”
Gus started the car as Mickey climbed in the back seat.
“Sure gonna miss that ghetto getup,” Gus said as they pulled out into the street.
“Let’s remember him as LaMichael,” Mickey said as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head.
She was tiny. Maybe ninety pounds with rocks in her pockets. He had her wrapped up, like a swaddled baby. But that wasn’t what left Grace speechless. It was the rest of the stuff in the room that had her jaw resting on her jacket.
He had one of everything, piled over in the corner. A ventilator, an ECG, an ICU monitor collection, oxygen tank, leg bag, Posey vest. The whole ball of wax. Head trauma central. Virtually none of which was currently in use.
From where Grace stood, it looked like the nasogastric tube in her throat, the catheter running out from under the covers, the IV stand, and a standard blood pressure monitor attached to her arm were the only pieces of equipment she was actually connected to.
She turned to Roberto. “Where’d you get this stuff?” she asked.
He shrugged and looked away.
“What’s that mean? she demanded. “You’ve got half a million dollars’ worth of medical equipment here. You telling me this belongs to you?”
“It was in her room,” he said.
“What room?”
“At the hospital place.”
“And you took it?”
He nodded again.
Grace walked over to the side of the bed and looked down. Sophia was beautiful. Something about her affect reminded Grace of a renaissance Madonna, something Spanish maybe, serene and lit from within.
“How’d you get her here?”
Roberto threw his eyes toward the door. “The truck,” he said.
Grace was unable to disguise her astonishment. “That truck?” she said pointing at the door. “You brought her all the way from LA in a food truck?”
“It’s self-contained,” he said. “You could plug it in, or it’s got batteries.”
Grace sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at Roberto. “This is insane. We can’t do this,” she said. She swept a hand over the ICU equipment. “They’ll come looking for you, Roberto. You can’t walk out of a hospital with stuff like that and expect them to let you get away with it.”
“I’m gonna bring it back . . . soon as . . . you . . . when Sophia . . .”
Grace held up both hands. “Don’t you realize . . . I mean, even if Sophia awakens . . . I mean, best-case scenario, she’s going to need months, maybe years of physical therapy before she can begin to lead anything like a normal life.”
“I hadda do something,” Roberto said. “They was gonna kick her out.”
“Kick her out?”
“My insurance expired. They said I hadda put her someplace else. And then I saw this magazine thing about the Silver Angel . . . you know . . . and I thought . . .”
“Jesus, Roberto.”
“They gimme a list of places where I could take her. They all had long waiting lists. I went to one.” His eyes nearly rolled in his head. “You shoulda seen it. People stacked like animals . . . I couldn’t . . . I just hadda do something. She was pregnant when this happened. They hadda take the baby . . . some kind of tubal thing. They said it was her or the baby.”
BANG. Somebody hit the door. “Come on out and play, baby . . .” a voice slurred. “Come on, Blondie . . . ve vill not harm you.” Shitty German accent.
Grace ignored him. “Roberto . . . we’ve got to call an ambulance. Sophia needs professional care. Much as I’d like to be able to help you . . . both of you . . . I just can’t.”
BANG. The whole front wall of the cabin shook from the impact. The door lock exploded. The door cringed inward, stopped only by the flimsy gold chain.
An arm inserted itself into the breach, holding a dripping can of beer.
“Come on, baby,” he crooned. “Poppa got a brand new bag.”
Grace launched herself at the door, hitting it in full stride, shoulder first. Sounded like someone had snapped a broom handle in two. An agonized roar raced into the room. The beer can dropped to the floor. The arm snaked back out. Grace slammed the door. A high-pitched keening noise seemed to be everywhere at once. BANG. BANG.
“Bitch . . . you fucking bitch!” he was screaming. Trying to kick in the door.
Grace looked over at Roberto. “Slide the dresser over here,” she said.
Roberto began to drag the dresser over toward the door. The sticky shag carpet made it heavy going, but he stayed at it, moving it two feet at a time.
“Turn it the other way,” Grace said as she heaved against the door with her shoulder. Roberto slid it around so it sat lengthwise against the back of the door, leaving only about four feet between the edge of the dresser and the wall.
The rest of it he figured out on his own. He dropped to the floor, put his back against the wall and his feet against the end of the dresser. As long as he kept his knees locked, nobody was coming through the door.
Grace stepped back, huffed several deep breaths while she patted herself down, lo
oking for her phone. “I’m calling the cops,” she announced, when she found it.
BANG. BANG.
“Oh . . . please, please . . . they’ll take me away from her. She’ll die without me. Please. Don’t . . . don’t . . .”
Grace started to dial 911 but stopped. The banging had stopped. She listened. Other than the faint passage of traffic, it had suddenly grown quiet.
In her mind’s eye, Grace could see her mother’s face, smug and sleek and stainless as her chair, saying “I told you so. You can’t deal with people like this.”
Grace wandered over and sat on the bed next to Sophia. She knew from past experience that the comatose often were completely aware of what was going on in their surroundings. They just weren’t able to respond to any of it.
She reached out and put a hand on Sophia’s forehead, then laid her own brow on the back of her hand. Somewhere in the universe, music was playing.
“It’s alright,” she whispered. “It’s alright.”
Coaltown again. All the way out to the north end of the island this time. Out to where the darkening sky was ruled by an enormous stone smokestack. The kind they’d never let you build anymore, standing against the horizon like a giant screw you finger, pointing up at the ocean of airborne sludge it released every night, saying here it is fool, whatcha gonna do about it?
Used to be an old lead smelter, back in the days before they’d noticed that lead exposure was about as healthy as smallpox. Same folks who’d wanted to make the island into a park wanted to tear the stack down, wanted to remove the blemish from their horizon, they’d said. That lasted until the state environmental impact study came back saying that pollution abatement alone was going to cost the city the price of a new library, and that, depending on the method of demolition and the prevailing winds at the time, a major evacuation of a three-county area might well be required. So much for demolition.
Biosystems turned the old blast furnace into a giant incinerator, and used it to get rid of anything they couldn’t save, sink, or sell.
Gus pulled the Buick to the curb in the big circular drive.
“Bring the bag,” he said, as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
Mickey felt it the minute he got out of the car. It felt as if a hand were pushing against his chest. Like he was walking up a steep hill, working his legs like crazy, but not making any progress.
Gus picked up on Mickey’s discomfort. “Place gives me the willies,” he said.
Mickey followed Gus around the side of the building, where the giant overhead conveyer belt snaked up from the water, screeching and groaning like a gored animal as it rumbled along, bristling with the carcinogenic rubble of post-industrial society.
The closer they got to the open doors, the heavier the bag seemed to get. From twenty yards away, Mickey could see the terrifying red glow seeping out into the night. His cheeks could feel the fire. Felt like his skin was crackling and his hair was about to burst into flame. His will forced him forward, but his legs had their doubts.
The glare was so bright now that Mickey had to look away. When he peeked again, somebody in a flameproof suit was shuffling in his direction. Big square head, backlit by the unholy orange glow, holding out his hand . . . reaching.
Mickey’s feet stopped moving altogether. His arm trembled as he held out the bag. Soon as the guy took hold of the handle, Gus grabbed Mickey by the shoulder and pulled him back. Took everything Mickey had not to stumble into a run.
Wasn’t till they rounded the corner of the building, and the back of his neck began to cool, that Mickey realized he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He stopped, put his hands on his hips and gulped air.
“You okay?” Gus asked.
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “I’m fine.”
Gus pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “I don’t know how those guys work there.”
“Must be Catholics,” Mickey said.
Grace could feel her presence. Sophia was floating, becoming less herself and more everything else, minute to minute. When she was younger, Grace had come to picture the process as a Creamsicle floating in warm water, the little orange wisps spreading slowly toward the edges, getting thinner and thinner, until the vanilla ice cream began to show and the ripples turned to white.
The deep throb of an engine pulled Grace’s head up. She tiptoed over to the front of the room, cocked her head and listened. The steady thump of the exhaust was getting closer. She reached over and peeled back the filthy curtains covering the front window.
“Damn,” escaped her lips. They were backing the monster truck up to the front window. One of the drunks was walking along beside the truck swinging a thick chain, with a hook on the end.
She watched in horror as he ran the chain through the burglar bars and hooked it back on itself. She looked over at Roberto, wedged tight, keeping the door closed.
“Go cover Sophia, Roberto. Cover all of her.”
“But . . .”
“The door’s not a problem. Go cover her.”
Grace found her phone and dialed.
“Doan call the cops. Please . . . doan call the cops,” Roberto chanted, as he hurried to his wife’s side.
“No cops,” Grace said. “Gus . . . I need help,” she shouted into the phone. “Lucky Seven Motel on Willis Avenue.”
A shout from outside. Grace looked toward the window just at the moment when the entire front wall of the room exploded in a hail of airborne debris. She threw herself to the floor, shielding her eyes from the maelstrom of broken glass.
When she pushed herself to her knees, she was amazed at the extent of the damage. They’d hooked the monster truck up to the steel burglar bars and floored it. Instead of wrenching the bars from the window, they’d pulled down most of the cabin’s front wall and dragged it out into the center of the U, where it was now tangled up in the truck’s rear tires. The driver was out of his seat, pulling and kicking at the enormous piece of rubble that had brought his truck to a shuddering halt.
Beneath where the window used to be, an electrical line was twirling in the air, arcing and sparking, like some deranged pinwheel. Grace picked a piece of broken glass from her palm and got to her feet.
“Bitch,” somebody screamed. “You busted Petey’s fucking arm.”
They’d dropped the Buick off at the Wagner Brothers Cadillac-GMC dealership, way the hell out on Beckman Boulevard. Gus went inside the office, carrying the dealer plates and the second copy of the Royster file, and came out a few minutes later empty-handed. Mickey didn’t bother to ask any questions.
The Hardwig PD had returned the white van that Gus had been using for Demolition Derby the other day. Gus and Mickey climbed in.
Gus asked, “Where you want me to leave you?”
“I live over on the West Side,” Mickey said. “Bartley Street.”
Gus nodded. As they pulled out into the street, a guy on a chopped Harley blew by them at a thousand miles an hour, all ape-hangers, peeled-back lips and bugs in the teeth. They watched in silence as the chopper’s taillight faded to black.
“Trying to remember if I was ever that young,” Mickey said, as the bike’s throaty roar faded to a whisper.
Gus chuckled. “Know what you mean,” he said. “Lately I been thinkin’ about packing it in and maybe going back home. Figure I got enough stashed to spend the rest of my days fishing.”
“Where’s home?” Mickey asked.
“Pensacola.”
“Weather’s sure as hell better there,” Mickey said.
“Got a sister still lives there too. Rest of ’em’s gone. Died . . . moved away.”
“I’ve never lived anyplace but here,” Mickey said. “Spent my whole damn life in about a hundred square miles.”
“Better that way,” Gus proclaimed. “Gives a guy a sense of belonging . . . you know . . . of being par
t of something bigger than just him.”
Mickey pointed out to the left. “Maynard Avenue,” he said. “That’s where my grandfather used to live. Forty-seven years in the same house. Smoked these cigarettes with a little brown coupon on the back of each pack. You collected enough coupons you could redeem them for merchandise. He had piles of them all over the damn house, wrapped in little blue rubber bands. Old guy had a couple hundred thou in the bank, and he smoked himself to death trying to get a free toaster.”
“People are crazy that way,” Gus said, a second before his phone began to ring. He fished it out of his jacket pocket and squinted down at the face. He frowned and brought the phone to his ear. Listened. “Where?” he asked.
Mickey could make out a woman’s voice, rapid-fire . . . excited.
“Comin’,” Gus said as he floored the van. He looked over at Mickey, his face set hard as concrete. “Gracie got a problem,” he said. “I’ll leave ya at—”
Mickey shook his head. “I’m in,” he said.
They were doing seventy in a thirty. Gus thumbed a single number into his phone.
“Gracie got a problem,” he said. “Lucky Seven Motel over on Willis Avenue.” He hung up, stood on the brakes, and power slid them around a corner, tires screeching, every nut and bolt in the van threatening to shake loose as they cut a reaper swath through the intersection. Mickey sucked air through his teeth. Watching as a bright blue BMW burst a tire, bouncing up onto the sidewalk, trying to escape the van’s erratic path. An angry horn began to blow. Gus clicked the high beams on.
Mickey reached up and grabbed the oh shit handle.
“Turn off the oxygen,” Grace shouted above the roar of the engine and the snap of sparks. Shards of shattered glass and masonry had fallen like sleet. Roberto’s back was covered with debris. Beneath him, Sophia appeared to be uninjured. But . . . if the sparks got to the oxygen tank . . .