Shoot the Money

by Chris Wiltz

  Harley went around and kneeled opposite her. “I brought something better.” He took a jar and a small paintbrush out of the brown paper bag he’d been carrying all night. “It’s net dip.” Raynie furrowed her brow. “The fishermen coat their nets with it. Strong stuff. It sticks. And I got them to make it extra thick.”

  He unscrewed the top and handed it to Raynie. The stuff was green, viscous when she stuck the paint brush in it. “It looks like, like…”

  “Slime,” Harley said. He gave an evil, horror-movie laugh.

  Everyone had gathered around. Even Buddha couldn’t help looking over his shoulder.

  “Hold it.” Harley reached into his shirt pocket and took out a disposable razor. He held it up for everyone to see before he bent over Avery and shaved off his eyebrows, dry. LaDonna picked up the hair and held it tight in her fist. Harley said, “Okay, Raynie, slime him.”

  She dipped the brush, wiped it along the rim of the jar, and began to paint with a delicate touch. The goop wasn’t easy to work with; she had to keep going over and over her strokes to make them solid. For the first time, Karen began to feel nervous.

  “Beautiful,” LaDonna said when she finished. “May I?”

  “Do with him whatever you will,” Raynie said and handed her the jar.

  “Wrap this up, LaDonna,” Karen said.

  “I feel you, Honeycutt, but we outta here in five seconds.”

  She dribbled the green goo down Avery’s hairy chest. It pooled at his sternum and ran off the sides of his belly. When she got to his pubes, she said, “And something special for the little prick.” She dumped the rest of the net dip.

  ***

  It had taken less than an hour. They piled into Buddha’s Tucson and went back to La Costa. They were all as rowdy as if they’d been drinking since sunset. Except for Raynie’s friend Peter. He wasn’t being rowdy. He sat squeezed in the middle of the back seat but, still, he was the odd man out.

  Karen went over to Buddha’s window before he took off to park the car. “We couldn’t have done that without you, Buddha. Thanks.” She handed him the same two hundred dollar bills she’d tried to give the guy at the Royal O.

  Buddha looked at the money. “I can’t take your money, Karen. I don’t do nothin less I wanna.”

  “Sure, Buddha, I know, but still, you took your time to help, your car…”

  “We all help each other. LaDonna pays me.” He drove off.

  What was this? Some kind of post-hurricane mentality? Karen put the money in a pocket in her purse and went inside the club.

  The crowd had thinned because Charmaine Neville’s second show had started in the back room. Luc was drawing a beer as Karen ducked under the lift. He seemed to be deliberately not looking at her.

  She said to Zachary. “You can leave if you want.” She rummaged in her purse, adding another hundred to the two folded bills. She handed them to Zachary.

  “You’re paying me yourself?” He wasn’t reaching for them.

  “Thanks for helping out. I appreciate it.” She stood holding the money out to him, beginning to feel ridiculous. She liked it when money changed hands quickly.

  “You weren’t gone very long,” Zachary said. “I don’t want to take your money. You helped me out plenty of times.”

  For Christ sake, she couldn’t give any of this money away. She’d gone to the safe deposit box earlier in the week and taken a thousand of it to spread around to the people who helped. The tainted money. What—could people smell it?

  “No, go on, take it. That was the deal. I’ll square up with the receipts later.”

  Zachary, who looked more like a California surfer than a New Orleans night prowler, smiled and shook his head. “Unh, uh, LaDonna isn’t paying me three hundred bills for, what, forty-five minutes. That woman’s too cheap. Look, Karen, the tips are really good tonight. I’ll take my cut and regular pay and put it down you’ll give me a night when I need one.” He took a giant step under the lift top. “Hot date waiting,” he said when he popped up on the other side, and with that he was out of there.

  Once again, Karen put the money away.

  “He wouldn’t take it, huh?” Luc was behind her, spraying soda into scotch or bourbon.

  “No, and neither would Buddha. What’s with these guys? Doesn’t anybody like money any more?”

  “You must have laid it on the guy at the Royal O.”

  Karen heard something in his voice that made her wary. “If you’re interested, we ended up at Woldenberg Park.”

  “What happened?”

  She hesitated before she said, “I don’t know why I didn’t think about the park to begin with.”

  She turned away from him to put ice in a glass, pour in some Coke.

  “Too many people, huh?”

  Karen took a long slow drink.

  Luc said, “Do you feel better now, since you got revenge?”

  She looked at him over the top of the glass.

  Luc said, “I mean, did it feel like revenge for what happened all those years ago?”

  He was looking at her intently, ignoring a man behind him who was demanding another Rock.

  The music was pounding; it seemed to be all bass and she felt every vibration. The people around the bar sounded loud, a raucous laugh on one side, somebody yelling, “Fuck that,” in another part of the room. Any other night she didn’t hear sounds so separately unless there was trouble—booze-fueled tempers blowing, spilled drinks, a woman crying. Any other night it was white noise.

  She pulled a Rolling Rock out of the cooler and popped it open. She reached around Luc to hand it to the man. She asked him if he wanted a glass, but he was already moving away, his head back and the bottle tipped up to the ceiling. She picked up the five he left.

  She said to Luc, “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why you wanted to do it, right?”

  She couldn’t pin it on him, it was all in the tone, the look, but she felt he was making a judgment against her. “Why does it matter?” She finished her Coke and put the glass in the sink, the five on the cash register. “I’m tired,” she said. “If you can handle this, I’m gonna cash it in early tonight.”

  “Sure.” He started to reach out to her, but she moved away too quickly. He watched as she hitched her purse a little higher on her shoulder and walked out like a person who had energy to burn.

  ***

  Raynie was watching too from where she and Peewee sat at the front of the bar. Some kind of trouble brewing there, and guilt washed over her as she recognized something like satisfaction trying to get hold of her. But she watched as Luc chatted up the women around the bar, and when he got to the front of the bar, chatted her up the same way. Maybe Luc was one of those womanizers. What was the word her mother used? Philanderer. She would never be able to tolerate that kind of hurt but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He fascinated her, and part of it was that his sophistication out-distanced hers so significantly that it would take years for her to catch up, if she ever could. She let out the breath she was holding, and with her elbow on the bar, rested her head on her hand. She took in her miserable friend, Peter Meeker. No getting around it—he’d been a drag tonight. And now with Karen gone, the moment of triumph was gone too.

  “Earlene,” Peewee said, “could we go back to the apartment? Do you mind? I can go alone if you want to stay.”

  “No, let’s go.”

  They walked back without saying much. Raynie wanted him to go, but she wasn’t sure how to tell him. If he was going to stay in New Orleans, he needed to start looking for a place. And a job.

  When they got to the apartment, she asked him if he wanted a drink. He said bourbon, as though he thought that’s what a world-weary person would want. She went over to the commode where Karen had set up the bar and poured him one. She put some ice in it and got herself a glass of water.

  She sat with him on the sofa.

  “We need to talk.” They’d said it in unison and laughed, but not long
and not convincingly.

  “You first,” Peewee said.

  “No, you. I need to know what your plans are.”

  He wouldn’t look at her. He ran a finger around the rim of the glass, then he swirled the ice. He took a sip. “I don’t think I can stay here.” He looked up at her.

  “Do you mean here at the apartment or here in the city?”

  He looked meeker and more miserable than he had all night. “Look, Ear…”

  “Shh.” Raynie pointed toward Karen’s room. She didn’t know if Karen was there or not.

  Peewee lowered his voice. “I had to come, but now I have to go.”

  “I understand. Do you miss Alice Roy?”

  He nodded slowly. “I didn’t think I would, but I do. But it isn’t just that. I don’t belong here. This place is too…it’s too fast for me.”

  When he said that, something jumped inside of Raynie. It took her a second to recognize it—excitement. Some fear too but that was part of the excitement. The place was fast, considering Mamou. She had to run to keep up but that made it worth it.

  “I know,” she said.

  His body got wired and he turned more to her and dropped his voice further. “You do? I mean, will you come back home with me, Earlene? It’s where we both belong.”

  “It’s where you belong, Peewee, not me. This place has something for me. I need to stick around and see what it is. But, Peewee, what are you going to do when you get there? You gave up your job!”

  “Mr. Pendergast owns a printing company. He asked me to come work for him.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” She gave a short laugh. “They’ve really got you, Peewee, every which-a-way.”

  “They do.” He looked confused for a moment then said, “But it’s good, you know? The future is sort of all laid out.”

  A few seconds later, when she didn’t answer, Peewee said, “You know I didn’t mean you should come back with me.”

  “I know.” She reached over and took his hand. “I’m glad you came, though. You did the right thing, to go off so you could see what you want, how good your life is.”

  He squeezed her hand and nodded. “But, Earlene, you can’t ever, ever tell anyone I was here, okay? I mean, Alice Roy…and especially that we…”

  “Stop, Peewee. I’m never going to tell, and neither are you, right? You’re not going to tell Raymond or Daniel or anyone where I am.”

  His head bobbed around happily. “Never.” He made a cross over his heart. “But when are you going to tell, Earlene? You got to tell them sometime.”

  “I told you I would—when I’m ready.”

  “Do you think you’ll be ready in time for the wedding?”

  “I don’t know. That depends on when it’s happening.”

  Peewee twisted his mouth. He looked goofy. He said, sounding more like himself than ever, “Quick. Hell, Earlene, they’d have had it without me if they could’ve.”

  Nineteen

  On his way to the Quarter, Jack listened to the three messages Solo had left on his cell phone. The first short, to the point, “Call me.” The second said they were leaving the boathouse, meet him at the Chateau Sonesta, the hotel where he was staying. The third was angry: “I think when I see you Jack, I first have Ernesto use his blade to cut off each of your fingers before I kill you. Then I will send your fingers to Karen. They will have special meaning to her, I’m sure.” Jack turned off the phone.

  At Avery’s place on the corner of Bourbon and Barracks, he used the keys he’d found on Avery to open the outside gate and the door to the building. He walked up to the third floor as he patted the roll of money in his pocket, and hoped when he opened the door to the condo, an alarm didn’t go off. He turned the bolt lock and gently cracked the door. Nothing happened.

  With all the time in the world, the first thing he did was take off the silver alligator belt, make himself comfortable on the sofa, and unzip it. He pulled the hundreds out and counted them. He put them back and stuffed the two large from Avery’s pocket in with them. Standing again, he took off his own belt, threw it on the sofa, and put on the alligator. It was a little snug, stuffed to the max, but it looked okay. He rocked it into the most comfortable position and stood absolutely still, deciding where to start searching the apartment.

  He hoped the little dickhead hadn’t done something intelligent like put the money in a safe deposit box. If it was in a safe in the condo…well, hell, maybe he’d just blow it up. But he decided to assume that the dickhead was as dumb as he acted most of the time. So the first thing he did was look under the bed. He saw the aluminum case Avery had with him at the poker game, slid it out and opened it up. Then he sat back against the nearest wall and nearly laughed himself sick. When he finished he flipped open his phone.

  “Solo,” he said, “don’t say a word. I’m headed over to the hotel with the easiest money we ever made .”

  Solo didn’t say a word. He hung up while Jack laughed into a dead connection.

  ***

  Dawn was breaking over the Mississippi River when Avery started coming around. His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, his senses began to wake up. The soft light hurt his eyes, and they were dry. His mouth tasted like stale beer; he made smacking sounds. He felt cold; he reached for covers and realized he wasn’t in bed; whatever was under his hand wasn’t a sheet. His arms, his back, the backs of his legs began to itch. He could smell something…the river. Judas Priest, he was outside and he didn’t have any clothes on. He tried to sit up but between his legs something pulled at his balls, at the hair on his legs. He lifted himself on his elbows and looked down. High pitched noises came from him, a series of raccoon-like squeaks and squeals. He scuttled his butt backwards on the grass, trying to wipe off the green stuff. Puke green. It didn’t come off. He lay back. His breath was labored, irregular. Carefully he touched his chest. The shit was like tar—it didn’t come off on his hand but it was soft, like if you put your finger down in it, you’d hit goo.

  He looked at the brightening sky. His thinking was clearing, his breath getting more regular. His head hurt. He lay quietly so he could figure out if anything else hurt. He didn’t think so. He reached down to feel his penis. He couldn’t. His heart beat accelerated. He pushed into the shit, ladled on down here, and still couldn’t feel it. He squeezed. Ah, there it was.

  “Fuck.” He whimpered, lying back in the grass. “Fuck me.”

  He needed to get out of here. He sat up, wincing at all the hair getting pulled and looked around. They’d taken his fucking clothes. He spotted a piece of paper near his feet, stuck down in the grass, something written on it. He picked it up and squinted: HERE YO EYEBROWS.

  What the shit? He looked over on the grass. It looked like a wad of spit. He looked closer.

  “Holy crap!” Avery’s scream was up in the range of a eunuch, and his hand flew to where the wad on the ground used to be on his face. His fingers touched gunk on his forehead; he ran his hands down his cheekbones, felt his nose—it was all over his face. Then he put his hands on his head and ran them through his hair, pitiful with relief.

  He got up, taking small steps on his toes. Hunched over in an attempt to hide himself, he twinkle-toed over to the nearest trash barrel. Nothing but go-cups. He scurried several yards to the next can and was rewarded with a beer-soaked newspaper. He tried to lift it and the corner tore away. He got it up, managed to separate it, and fashioned a fragile loin cloth. He got very tired doing this on his toes. Holding the paper front and back, he started toward the park entrance, realizing halfway there that his hair pulled the same whether he was on his toes or flat footed.

  In the parking lot that ran along Decatur he tried to squat so the parked cars, a surprising number at dawn, would hide him, and he quietly roared with pain while his rear end nearly destroyed his cover. Back in a hunch, the well-built naked man with green ooze from his face to his groin lurched from car to car. At Decatur he took a deep breath and ran across the street. A few cars passed, but none slowed for gaw
kers. For some reason that even Avery couldn’t fathom, this pissed him off. He held his breath all the way to the side entrance of the restaurant.

  St. Louis was clear—no moving cars or people, too late for the all-nighters, too early for a lazy Sunday. He went for the doorbell to the left of the iron gate and the front newspaper fell to the flagstones. He left it there and stood with his back to the street and leaned into the button until it felt as though his finger would be permanently bent backwards.

  At last he heard the intercom open. Hard to believe he would ever be glad to hear Pascal’s voice, especially his annoyed voice. “What?”

  “Thank Christ! Let me in. It’s an emergency.”

  Pascal did not respond with the buzzer. He held for a pause then said, “I believe, Avery, you have a key.”

  “You don’t think I’d use it if I had it, you flaming asshole?”

  “Why don’t you come back later, Avery.”

  “Pascal.” It was a massive effort at self-control. “I’m standing in front of your restaurant naked.”

  The buzzer was still going as Avery’s baby-white ass disappeared down the alley.

  ***

  “If you laugh…” Avery said.

  But Pascal was frowning. “Go clean yourself up. The razor’s out, new blades in the top drawer.”

  “Is anyone here?” Avery nodded toward the bedroom.

  “No. I’ll get you some clothes.”

  Avery went to the bathroom. He saw the razor, found the blades, turned on the shower, took out a couple of towels, and only then did he look at himself in the mirror. He expected to be horrified—no eyebrows and green shit all over his face—but along with horror was humiliation and rage. Written across his forehead, and from cheek, over his nose, to cheek was:

  RAPIST

  PIG

  He wanted to break the mirror but figured Pascal would throw him back on the street. He looked around for an outlet for his rage that didn’t include destroying the bathroom. Finally, he took one of the towels between his teeth and bit as hard as he could, until the fire in his brain cooled. He stepped into the shower, turned the water as hot as he could stand it, and began the tedious and painful attempt to shave off the green paint, or whatever it was. When he finished, his balls, inside his thighs and his chest burned and were spotted with blood red and green. He couldn’t deal with his penis, but at least it was separated from his balls. He got out of the shower. After he dried off and ruined one of Pascal’s expensive towels, he rummaged through the drawers and cabinets until he found a cooling talc. He dusted himself, then with his legs spread and braced, he stood in front of the mirror to shave his face.