The chanting is getting louder, and the cloaked patrons are shuffling around the pentagram. Counterclockwise. Over their shoulders and in the gaps between them, I can see Astaroth standing next to the flaming bowl. He has the bag of my blood open, and he’s dipping his fingers in and flicking my blood into the flames. Over the chanting I can hear him shouting at the flames. Maybe Latin? I wouldn’t know it if I heard it, but it certainly isn’t English and Latin seems appropriate for the circumstances.
“Roll onto your stomach, Caish, prostrate before Hell and its Lord,” I hear.
I roll over, naked and slippery with blood and sweat, and lay face down on the tile.
Hands reach out and spread my arms and legs. I try to pull them back but leather straps wrap around my wrists and ankles and hold them fast. “Do not fight the sacred ritual,” someone whispers in my ear, “Satan will reward your humility.”
26
Hours later, I limp out of Spectra’s, contract in hand. At the end of the ritual I was helped to my feet and made to sign several papers. One of which was my copy of the contract with the Devil (although he never did show up (that I know of), apparently Astaroth has power of an attorney to sign on His behalf). The contract is on old-fashioned parchment and states that in exchange for my eternal servitude in the caves of Hell, Lucifer has agreed to supply me with earthly wealth. To receive this wealth, I simply need to follow the promptings of the Devil. They would be clear.
My first prompting is to destroy Spectra’s. Even Satan wouldn’t condone what they did to me. Astaroth told me to act on any strong urges, listen to every evil whisper, and move with determination when inspired. Will do.
I make it back to last night’s nook and rest. I have enough trail mix and beef jerky to hang out for a day and let my body recover from that diabolical experience. I’m running low on water, but I can fill up in the public bathroom around the corner. For now I need to sleep.
The next morning I walk downtown to get money. On my way, a soup kitchen gives me lunch. At the corner of Broadway and 6th, I curl up on a sidewalk and place a cup on the ground in front of me.
At the end of the day, I’ve made $13.27. Enough for dinner, a pack of cigarettes, and a couple lottery tickets. Inspiration prompts me to buy a Scratcher and a Powerball ticket. I listen closely for Satan’s revelation. Which numbers would He have me choose? I tell the teller I’ll take a Powerball and panic when she lets the machine randomly generate my numbers. Then I see the hand of Satan in my numbers. Lots of threes and sixes. Of course, for Satan will not be mocked. And a four; four corners of the earth, four seasons, four horsemen of the apocalypse. Twenty-five—my lucky number.
25 30 33 46 60 03.
Satan’s immaculate Powerball. The jackpot is up to $251,000,000, so this very well could be my ticket back to Malibu. It’s a Friday, so the next drawing is tomorrow.
After a restless night on Skidrow, the sun rises on the first day of the rest of my life. I rush to the gas station and check the winning numbers. First number in the draw: 25! Next number 30. Yes! This is it. I knew it. Then 33! I knew I could do it. Then... 87. Eighty-seven? I check my ticket again. Maybe a mistake? Did I make a mistake? It should have been a forty-six. Next number 49. Goddammit. Satan dammit. Have I not paid the price? First God, and now I’ve been forsaken by Satan. Powerball number: 03. Oh? Well let’s see. If I have the first three numbers, plus the power number, that means I have won. $197. Not bad, not bad. Maybe this is just Satan’s way of testing my faith. Satan works in mysterious ways.
Two hundred dollars is enough to stay in a motel for a couple nights and get myself cleaned up. I’ll refill my prescriptions, make some sales, and buy myself time at the motel until my next inspiration arrives.
But first, Spectra’s.
I walk across town and get to Spectra’s as the sun is setting. I stash my backpack in my alley nook and look through the dumpster for milk cartons. Four of them. That will do it. Behind the wall at the end of the alley are the backyards of lower-middle-class houses. When the glow of sunset gives way to the blackness of the night, I hop the wall and creep up to the base of a house, crouching under the windows. Wouldn’t want the happy family inside to see me lurking around in their backyard. Their hose is rusted to the spigot. Their neighbor’s hose isn’t attached. It’s lying in the overgrown grass like a dead snake. I hop the fence dividing their yards and put the hose over my head and across my chest. The neighbor’s lights aren’t on. I run across their yard back to the wall, which I scale and drop over back into the alley. Then I wait. This next part is best done when cars are no longer roving.
At what must be 2:00 a.m., I walk through the neighborhood until I spot an old truck parked in a backyard. Milk jugs and hose in hand, I hop the fence and run up to the truck. A porch light turns on and lights the yard. I crouch behind the truck and wait to hear the click-clack of a shotgun cocking. After a few seconds with my heart in my throat, pounding in my ears, the light goes off. Motion light. Nothing to worry about. I line up the milk jugs and unscrew the truck’s gas cap. The hose slides into the gas tank without a sound. The other end of the hose tastes like rust and rubber. I suck and suck until my mouth is filled with gas. I spew out the gas and shove the end of the hose into a milk jug. I spit and spit, but the poison clings to my tongue. Spilled gas is soaking into my face and clothes. When the first jug is full, I move the hose to the next, then the next, then the next. I pull the hose out of the gas tank and lift it over my shoulder. I’m careful to keep both ends above the rest of the hose. Now that it’s full of gas it may as well be lead.
In the bed of the truck is a two-foot length of rebar that will come in handy. The motion light goes on again when I take the bar. I tie the hose, ends up, around my shoulders, then sneak over to Spectra’s. I try to stay in the shadows, but I take the long way (there’s no way I’m climbing that alley wall loaded with all this gas).
I get to Spectra’s without being spotted. Once behind the building, I set the four milk jugs down and rest the roll of hose upright against the wall.
The back door is fortified beyond what a rebar could ever pry open. But the plywood over the windows peels off like a corn husk. I set the board under the window without a sound. The window behind the board isn’t even locked. Silence. No alarms. Cheap bastard.
I lift the jugs and hose into the window, then climb in.
As thrilling as it is to be in a building at night without anybody else around, I’m not interested in sifting through files or rummaging through Astaroth’s personal property. Then again, I might as well look for cash or liquor laying around. The opportunity makes the thief, as they say. I check that the velvet curtains are closed over the window I just climbed in and turn on the hallway light. The building is small, and finding Astaroth’s office is easy. Down the hall, through the chapel, first door to the right. Lazy fuckers didn’t even clean-up. My blood is still on the tile in the pentagram, polluted by Satanist clam sauce.
Astaroth’s drawers are empty except for a few worthless pieces of paper. One drawer in his desk has a bottle of Fireball; I take it out and keep looking. No cash. There’s a safe behind the desk (right where you’d expect it). It’s about the size of a microwave. But I can’t break into safes. Especially not with a piece of rebar. It’s either bolted to the ground or too heavy to lift. Damn. That’s probably where the money is. I press my ear to the cold metal of the safe’s door and see if I can hear clicks when I turn the knob. Nope. I try the handle. The safe door swings open. Didn’t even lock his safe! Oh Astaroth, what are we going to do with you?
Sure enough, there is cash. Three large and a couple hundred in checks. I sit behind Astaroth’s desk and count it. $3,351.00 to be precise. The rest of the safe is full of legal documents. The cash barely fits into my pockets. With the Fireball in hand, I return to the room at the back of the building with my gas jugs and hose.
Now I have butterflies. What if Astaroth’s cronies are on their way to beat me up? A camera somewhere I didn
’t see. A silent alarm. A nosy neighbor. I move quick. I pour the first jug out in Astaroth’s office. Splash some in the safe, on and round the desk, on the couch, and I make a trail of gas back to the chapel. Two jugs for the chapel. I unravel the hose in the hall, connecting gas in the chapel to the back rooms where I empty the last jug of gas. I clamor out of the window, pockets bulging with cash and Fireball in hand, and crouch down. I hear a car pulling up on the street.
I peak around the building and see that it’s a squad car. Fuck. Must of been a silent alarm. I rush back to the open window, pull off my gas-soaked shirt, and light it on fire. I toss it into the back room and run for it.
I don’t hear any shouting, I’m not shot in the back, and no police officers tackle me. From a shadow half a block away I watch Spectra’s. An officer steps out of the patrol car and turns on his Mag light. He takes his time inspecting the front of the building, then the side, then the back.
My shirt must not have landed in the pile of gas I left in the room, because smoke wasn’t billowing out of the building yet. Let alone the flames of hell-fire. The officer checks the back door, then sees the window open and peaks in, pulling the curtain back.
A cumulonimbus cloud of black smoke rolls out and over the officer. The cop stumbles back, then jogs back to the squad car, talking into a shoulder walkie-talkie. While the officer is retrieving a fire extinguisher from the trunk, the smoke starts to billow. By the time the cop makes it back to the window, the curtains are a wall of fire and the pops and cracks of a structural fire are beginning.
I know I should be running away. If caught, how would I explain being soaked in gas and loaded with cash? But the fire demands my attention. I pull myself away when I hear sirens coming. Spectra’s has flames coming out of all its openings, so even if they put it out now, I’ve succeeded.
My bag is where I left it in the alley two blocks down. I change into dry clothes and throw my fuel-soaked pants into the dumpster. Headed out of the alley in the opposite direction of Spectra’s, I look back to check on the fire’s progress.
Spectra’s is a brilliant display of Hell’s wrath. Of my wrath. The skeleton of the building stands in black contrast to the bright orange blaze leaping out its windows and through its roof. The flames reflect off the sides of the polished fire engines. Firefighters are hooking up a hose to a fire hydrant across the street and raising their truck ladders into the air. Police are watching, helpless. You can hear the fire’s roar. Its voracious appetite for more fuel. Two blocks away and I can feel its heat. Black smoke twists into the night sky, bottom-lit by the flames to look more ominous. I can almost make out Satan’s face in the smoke.
Then I get the hell out of there.
We’ve all heard it: it takes money to make money. Now that I had a few grand, my downward momentum has been stopped and my upward momentum is beginning. My rise is taking root. For truly, money is the root of all happiness. My downward momentum was stopped by hitting bedrock at the very bottom, and my upward momentum seems to be a result of me selling my soul to Satan. Now that I have enough money to make money, I can take advantage of lucrative opportunities.
After one more night on the street (just to lay low), I walk up to West Hollywood and check into Malibu Motel. The place is seedy for West Hollywood, but their showers are hot, their management is laid back, and their rates are low. It’s a small place, two stories with maybe thirty rooms total. West Hollywood is right where I want to be. This is the platform from which I launch back to wealth. No better place to do it than Hollywood—the subsidiary of LA dedicated to making dreams come true. I just have to listen to the revelation and inspiration. So far it has worked quite well.
Malibu Motel has an extended stay program. You can pay up front for up to a month at a time. Like renting an apartment. So for $2,100 I have a room for twenty-eight days. A real bargain. At the end of the twenty-eight days, you have to clear your stuff out, but then you can buy another twenty-eight days that same day.
I check in, take a shower hot enough to ignite the gas soaked into my skin, then order pizza and watch TV. I grind up the last of my Oxycodone, melt it down, and mainline it. Ah, the comfort money buys. I’m back. At least for now. At least for here. Right now I’m safe, full, and floating in the warm soft clouds of euphoria.
The next morning I get back to work. Networking is the most important part of any profession, including pharmaceuticals. Motels are great places to meet potential clients and suppliers. Unlike hotels, motels are usually full of locals. People who live, or used to live, in the area, and who need another spot to stay for a little while. Motels with long-stay options become their own little communities. There are usually a few rooms with people who have lived there for months, even years. These people are the ones who can point you in the direction of whatever you need. Meeting them is easy, most motel folks are easy going and smoke lots of cigarettes. Since most motels forbid smoking in the rooms, small packs of smokers form on porches and in the parking lot. Approach one of these groups with a cigarette between your lips, and they’re sure to smile and introduce themselves.
This morning, well, early afternoon, there aren’t packs of smokers around. Just a couple tenants mulling about. Across the parking lot from my room, a young mother, pregnant with what looks to be her fourth, is on a white plastic lawn chair with her legs and arms crossed. Elbow perched on one hand, fuming cigarette in the other. She looks at me with a look that says “so?” and “fuck you” at the same time. Three children play on the curb in front of her, oblivious to their portentous circumstances.
To my right, a local is leaning against a pole that supports the walkway above. Thin, middle-aged, and as blonde as a Norwegian newborn, this person was ripe for conversation. I check to make sure I have my pack of cigarettes and lighter, and walk over.
“Smoke?” I hold out my pack with two cigarettes sticking out.
“Thanks.” The local slides one out and leans forward, letting me light it. “I seen ya move in yesterday, welcome aboard.” The local takes a healthy first drag and demonstrates a mastery of the art of smoking. The grip of the cigarette is delicate, the fingers are bent in a natural position, as if unaware they are cradling a cigarette. The lips don’t purse or pucker, but close around the paper tube with ease, letting the teeth do the gripping. The inhale isn’t some cheek-hollowing vacuum, it’s as subtle as inhaling the scent of a new candle. The local blows the smoke out in a steady breath, then looks at the cigarette, as if in approval.
“I’m Golden,” the local says, extending a hand.
“I’m Caish. Nice to meet you.”
“Where ya comin’ from, Cash?”
“Malibu.”
“Oh, wow. Malibu? Shit, what’d ya do to end up here?” Golden chuckled.
“I got robbed. Everything I owned, stolen.”
“Nah, you serious?”
“Yup, serious. Got conned.”
“Damn, Cash. Well, like I said, welcome aboard. I guess ya could consider me this ship’s captain. Been here longer’n anybody except Marbles, who has been here longer than even management. She lives up on 204. She’s nuts though. Government pays her bills and she just stays up there in 204 with her cats. Management don’t even make her move in and out every month. So if ya need anything, I’m the one to come to. I help most people ‘round here get comfortable for as long as they’re aboard. It can get tough livin’ here sometimes, but I’m always here to help.”
“Good to hear,” I say, “it’s nice to have a friend in tough times.”
“Essential, I’d say.”
“So what’s her deal?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the mother.
Golden looked across the parking lot, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Mmm,” Golden blew the smoke out, “that’s Topaz. She ain’t in a good way.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
She’s strung out, addicted to everything under the sun, and due in three weeks, Golden tells me. Never had to work a day in her life, beca
me reliant on her abusive boyfriend, then couldn’t pay the mortgage when he was picked up for selling crack. She’s now selling herself to make ends meet. Golden knew her life story. Every detail. Last week the baby stopped kicking.
We walk over to a bench with an unobstructed view of the sun and smoke through the rest of my pack of Marlboros. Golden tells me the stories of each of the long-stay residents. When Golden asks about my story, I begin what feels like a therapy session. During my telling, Golden asks me questions like, “And how did that make ya feel?” and, “Why do ya think that happened?” It reminds me of the way Sam used to ask questions. The truth is, I don’t know why these bad things happened. I believe in karma, and have always been a good person. I tipped generously, donated tons of money to charities, and gave millions to family. Sam would say bad things happen because karma doesn’t exist, but entropy does. Golden doesn’t offer a solution. Golden just nods, says, “Mhm.”
We talk away the afternoon, then walk down to Pink’s and get burgers.
Afterwards, we’re walking back to Malibu Motel, smoking cigarettes, when I tell Golden that I need to get pain killers. Golden smiles. Of course you do, we all do, Golden says. We have ways.
Over the next few weeks, Golden introduces me to both suppliers and clients. A few are residents of Malibu Motel, including Topaz, but most are in the surrounding neighborhood. Rich people too. People who pull their Range Rover up to the curb and hand me crisp one hundred-dollar bills for a few pill bottles full of opioids. I reinvest the earnings in more inventory and lottery tickets. By the end of my first twenty-eight days at Malibu Motel, I have enough money to buy a laptop. So I do. It’s a business investment. So I can network better.
But that investment makes it so I can’t afford another twenty-eight days at the motel. Golden talks a friend into letting me stay in her garage—a one-car, unfinished, roach-infested wooden box of depression. But she let me stay there for $500 a month, so I can’t complain.
Malibu Motel Page 36