Loser's Town

by Unknown

  Allison and Richie had gone out to dinner that night they’d argued in the club, the night he talked about taking her to Cabo. Alison was so tired of resisting that she simply gave in, let him have what he wanted, to get it over. The worst part was that the sex wasn’t bad and she’d always been a little attracted to Richie in spite of herself. Maybe this is what made him so relentless. He was nicer in bed than she’d imagined. No marathon lover and not terribly original, but he’d been uncharacteristically gentle and anxious to please. Being Richie, she’d worried about whips and chains, maybe something with razorblades. Instead he was almost boyish, uncertain. He’d climaxed and she thought it diplomatic to fake hers. He didn’t appear to notice and was grateful. But there was that vacuum afterwards. Nothing to say, no warmth, no laughter, you roll apart like boxers to neutral corners. As far as Richie was concerned, she could have been anybody. And she felt the same about Richie. Did Allison feel like a whore? No. It’s the twenty-first century, when sex and power are so clearly confused that nobody worries about it anymore. Allison didn’t feel any better about herself, though it was one less thing to struggle against. Richie would stop hounding her now and do whatever he was going to do.

  Well enough.

  Except now there was Terry again.

  Terry, showing up like the proverbial bad penny. As hard to get rid of as dogshit on a shoe.

  If she’d known she’d be seeing Terry again, she’d never have slept with Richie. But she’d promised herself that Terry was history, that he was nothing but trouble, him and his grandiose plans for taking Richie down. She never should have told Terry, the persuasive little shit, about Martin and the dope runs. That was a mistake, even though she couldn’t imagine how Terry would ever be able to use it, or that Richie would ever find out it was her. Nevertheless, she should have kept her mouth shut. Richie was nobody to fool with.

  Allison lit a cigarette and watched Terry sleep and found herself wanting him again. As if the very act of worrying about it aroused her. The more she worried, the more she wanted the sex. The more sex they had, the more she’d worry. Like a drug. She stubbed out the cigarette and reached down between the sheets to wake him up. She wasn’t crazy about this whole boat thing, but there was something erotic about the sound of the water and the gentle rocking, and the fact that, a mile from shore, they could be as loud as they wanted. There’d always been the child and the neighbors or guests or something. The freedom to let yourself loose, say what you wanted as loud as you wanted, was an additional spice. Now she could scream if she felt like it and no one would hear.

  The skiff made its way over the water toward the sailboat. Potts sat in the stern steering the thing while Squiers sat perched up front like George fucking Washington crossing the Potomac. Squiers had even tried standing up at one point until the craft lurched precipitously and Potts told him to set his fat ass down. It was dark and they ran without lights, though the only real danger was getting ploughed by some motorboat. No one else was on the water, though, and the skiff simply followed the line between the lighted harbor and the bobbing lights of Terry’s boat anchored a mile out.

  The evening had started out badly and wasn’t getting any better. Richie had worked out this elaborate plan involving an ‘amphibious assault’ on Terry’s boat. Like the D-Day invasions, it sounded plausible until you tried it, then the real problems popped up out of nowhere. Like getting a boat. First you get a small boat, says Richie. Only Richie knows shit about boats, large or small. Richie has seen too many fucking commando movies. He envisioned a rubber, Jacques Cousteau-like Zodiac creeping up in the night. In reality all Potts could get was a frail, wooden piece of crap that took on water like a sieve and had an engine that wouldn’t blend mayonnaise yet sounded like a freighter. And even this had cost them two hundred bucks to borrow from an old smelly bastard who sold bait on the docks and wanted three hundred until Squiers leaned on him a little. Periodically Potts would bitch at Squiers to pick up the fucking bucket and bail.

  Then there was the small matter of the drugs.

  Potts’ drug days were long behind him, though God knows he sucked down enough tequila and beer to float a barge. On this particular evening he’d felt the need for something more appropriate, however. He was a nervous wreck about the whole fucking thing, didn’t want to do it, didn’t know if he was actually capable of doing it, though he was desperate for the bonus Richie had promised. His stomach had been churning since Richie had laid this on him, so drinking was out, but he was shaking too hard to carry it off without aid. What he needed was a Xanax or something to take the edge off and forestall a grand case of the whirling-twirlies. Potts had rummaged through his medicine cabinet and the various drawers in his house before leaving and could find no worthy chemicals. So he hit the tequila, which only made things worse, since now he felt ready to both shit and puke on himself.

  It was here he made his great mistake, from which all others would follow: he listened to Squiers. Normally he would never do this for the obvious reasons that Squiers was insane and a pathological liar and was only useful for the threat of violence, which he was good at. As they left LA headed toward Ventura, Squiers was driving as usual and Potts was squirmy in the passenger seat.

  ‘You nervous?’ Squiers said to him, smiling.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Potts, though clearly he wasn’t. He was one short step from telling Squiers to pull over and let him out so he could puke on the side of the road and hitchhike back home. He couldn’t go through with this. It was Squiers’ type of job, though Squiers couldn’t be trusted to do it without getting out of hand.

  ‘You want a Xanax?’ said Squiers.

  Potts felt a ray of hope when he heard the word ‘Xanax’, like a small gift from God. Of course he knew better – this was Squiers after all – but he was desperate. ‘You got any?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Squiers. He reached into his coat pocket and fished out three vials of pills. This in itself was a bad sign. Squiers liked chemicals and carried around a small pharmacy. Potts never knew if the pills explained Squiers’ insanity or merely kept it from getting worse. Squiers studied the labels of the vials in the headlights of oncoming cars, then opened one, dumped out a couple of tablets and handed them to Potts. They clearly weren’t Xanax.

  ‘These aren’t Xanax,’ said Potts.

  ‘Same fucking thing,’ said Squiers.

  Potts stared at the pills. It was like falling out of an airplane with only an umbrella. You might as well open the thing, you’re fucked anyway, it couldn’t hurt.

  Potts, in his own moment of madness, took the pills.

  By Calabassas the pills had kicked in and Potts realized, with a certain bemusement, that he had finally crossed over into Squiers’ universe. It wasn’t bad, far easier to cope with than Potts’ own version. The churning gut went away, as did the feeling that somebody had inflated his veins. He was hot and sweating a little and suddenly thirsty as hell. A small price to pay. Objects took on a slight aura and sounds appeared to be relayed through a third source, reaching Potts’ ears slightly behind his vision. This was not unpleasant once you got used to it. Potts felt his muscles unknot and he sighed and sat back in the seat.

  ‘Good, huh?’ said Squiers. His own eyes were aglow with God knows what. The evil twin maybe of whatever Potts had taken. Potts was mellow but Squiers was amped. Squiers drove far too fast down the long, steep, snaky grade into Cabrillo. Potts normally would have been hopping up and down, telling Squiers to slow down. Instead Potts studied the soft glow of the lights on the plain below. The car rocked back and forth with the curves. It was like being in a glider, sailing in for a landing. Wow, thought Potts.

  Now they were on the water with the exhausted whine of the pissant motor rattling Potts’ drug-addled brain. Things had been fine as long as there were no problems, and Potts was allowed to sail along padded in a fat little drug-bubble, cushioned and slightly separated from a world he did not particularly like anyway. Then came the search for a way out
to the sailboat and the smelly old man and Squiers having to lean on him a little. Nothing too physical, just that looming, glaring thing that Squiers did so well, grabbing the man’s scrawny wrist and forcing the two hundred bucks into his hand, take it or regret it. The old man took it but now the vibes were all wrong. It was then that Potts’ mellowness took a U-turn. The pleasant bubble-wrapping against reality now felt like tying your shoelaces with oven mitts. Things were increasingly difficult to grasp, leading to confusion and not a little paranoia.

  They traveled into the wind, pushing sound behind them, but Potts stopped the motor halfway out. The sudden quiet was like heaven, and Potts felt his brain cease to vibrate against his skull.

  ‘I fucking hate the water,’ said Squiers. ‘My uncle drowned.’

  ‘Will you shut up? Sound travels over water. How many times have I got to explain this?’ While this was true, Potts mainly just didn’t want the bastard to speak.

  They got out the oars and began to row. Squiers made a great show out of banging the oars against the boat like playing a fucking kettle-drum until Potts had to take them away from him, switch positions and row himself.

  Sitting in the dark water, light poured out of the sailboat as if the inside were on fire. Which it was, in a way. As Potts and Squiers rowed closer to the boat they could hear the sounds of Terry and Allison having vigorous sex.

  ‘Shit,’ said Squiers admiringly.

  Terry was crying things out in short, breathless bursts, but was overwhelmed by Allison’s even louder moans and exhortations. Yes, oh God, yes, do it, yes, please do it, yes yes.

  Squiers was smiling widely and Potts could swear he saw his eyes glowing red in the dark. Potts himself was not unaffected. There was that voyeuristic frisson than ran up his spine, the brief clear image of what they were doing. Potts rowed harder. This was a good thing, they’d be distracted. It would make it easier. They coasted in next to the boat and the sounds were so intense it was as if they were in the cabin with them. Potts hung out a small rubber tire to keep the hulls from bumping and tied a line onto a cleat. The lovemaking continued. Potts and Squiers climbed carefully up onto the deck. The hatch was open and from the far end of the deck you could see the couple writhing naked on the bunk. Potts started forward, wanting this over quickly, but Squiers stopped him and signalled him to wait. Squiers listened to the sex and after a time his own breathing seemed to match theirs. Potts was impatient to get it done and wanted to move but Squiers glared at him and gripped his arm menacingly. They waited as the sounds got louder and quicker and Allison and Terry both cried out in a final wave when Squiers took out a 9mm pistol and launched himself down into the cabin.

  ‘Scream and I blow your fucking brains out,’ Squiers said to Allison. Terry rolled off her quickly, sat up in the bed and looked as if he might spring at Squiers. Allison grabbed a corner of the sheet and tried to cover herself.

  ‘You lost your boner!’ Squiers said to Terry. ‘Damn, I never knew anybody could lose a boner that fast.’

  Squiers motioned for Terry to back up against the bulkhead. ‘You get heroic and I’m going to kill her first, you got that?’ Holding the gun on Terry he grabbed Allison by the hair and dragged her from the bed and across the cabin. He lowered her onto her knees, still clutching a fistful of her hair in his right hand, which he jerked occasionally to remind her.

  Potts said to Terry, ‘Roll onto your stomach.’ Terry glared at him but didn’t move. Naked, tensed, he looked like a cornered animal and just as dangerous. Potts said, ‘We don’t want the girl, it’s just you we’re interested in. You do what we say and she doesn’t get hurt. You’re going to get fucked up no matter what. You can save the girl.’

  Terry glanced over at Allison, naked and cowering on her knees beside Squiers. Squiers was smiling. Squiers gave her hair a snap and she cried out. Terry didn’t move, trying to think, and Squiers twisted her hair and Allison screamed. Terry started forward but Potts put his gun in front of his face and motioned him back onto the bed. Potts nodded to Squiers and Squiers tucked the 9mm into his waistband and slapped Allison, hard, with his left hand, never letting go of her hair in his right. She cried out and Squiers pulled the gun back out of his pants. Allison was sobbing and there was a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. Squiers seemed to be enjoying himself. Allison looked at Terry, pleading.

  ‘Okay,’ said Terry. ‘You don’t hurt her.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to hurt her,’ said Potts, ‘as long as you do what you’re supposed to.’

  Potts motioned for Terry to roll onto his stomach. Potts tucked his gun into his back pocket. Under Squiers’ guard, Potts took out some long plastic ties from a messenger bag and bound Terry’s wrists, then his ankles. Potts rolled him over. ‘Open your mouth.’ Terry opened his mouth and Potts shoved a cloth into it, then sealed the mouth with duct tape. Potts got out a roll of thin wire and Terry began to panic when he saw it. Potts stepped back out of reach and nodded to Squiers, who gave another hard tug to Allison’s hair, enough to make her yell. Terry quieted down and Potts moved in again and tied Terry’s hands to the top of the bunk and his feet to the bottom. Terry was breathing hard through his nose, trying not to suffocate, trying to maintain some sort of control.

  ‘You know who sent me?’ said Potts.

  Terry nodded.

  ‘We’re not going to kill you. We’re going to hurt you, but you’re gonna wish you were dead for a while. Two things I got to tell you. First, you shouldn’t fuck other people’s girlfriends. It’s not nice. Second, when you can talk again, you tell that fucking cowboy faggot friend of yours that he’s going to be next.’

  Potts looked at Squiers, who pulled Allison to her feet. Squiers put one hand over her mouth and the other firmly around her waist. Potts reached into the messenger bag again and took out a short length of iron bar wrapped in tape. Terry bucked and twisted when he saw it, his shouts lost behind the cloth and the tape. Allison too tried to shout and struggle but Squiers held her tightly and didn’t mind at all her writhing body. Potts pulled on a rubber glove then Potts stopped and held the iron bar in his hands and looked down at Terry and froze. There was a kind of high-pitched buzz in his head and for a moment he believed all this was just in his mind, that he wasn’t really there at all. But the buzzing went on and his pounding heart and shortness of breath brought him around and, yes, he was there okay, he had to do this, everything depended on him doing this, he’d do it for Brittany, for Ingrid and their future and who the fuck was this guy anyway, some complete stranger, some guy who was fucking somebody else’s girlfriend, some guy who meant shit to him, some guy who was just in the way between him and what he wanted and the people he cared about.

  Potts raised the iron bar and brought it down hard, quick, onto Terry’s left shin. He felt the bone give and heard the dull snap and Terry’s muffled scream all at the same time. Somewhere behind him the girl was trying to scream as well. Potts rested. The iron bar had become unbelievably heavy. Potts could barely lift it. The buzzing was like a relentless siren and Potts felt his hand sweating in the rubber glove. Potts clenched his teeth and broke Terry’s other leg in the same place. Then Potts went to work with his gloved fist on Terry’s face. Richie had insisted. Somewhere along the way the man on the bed passed out. Meanwhile Squiers was whispering into Allison’s ear. He let go of her mouth. She was past screaming and was sobbing and weak and Squiers groped her with his free hand.

  Potts stood and tried to get his bearings. He could feel his body swaying. The drug was in full force now. The adrenaline gave it a turbocharge and his heart pushed the torrid mixture through his veins like a rocketing flare. He thought he might pass out but caught himself. He took off the bloody glove and dropped it back in the messenger bag then picked up the iron bar where he’d dropped it on the bed and put that too in the bag. He picked up the bag and thought things were going to be fine then had to lunge for the head, where he puked violently in the toilet. He splashed cold water on his face and w
hen he came out Squiers had the girl pinned on a seat and was trying to open his pants. Potts stared at this and it took a moment to register.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Please?’ Allison begged Potts. Squiers ignored both of them.

  ‘Get the fuck away from her!’ Potts told him.

  Squiers was between her legs and was trying to unbuckle his Levi’s. Potts yelled at him again and when he didn’t respond Potts got out the iron bar again and hit him on the back, hard enough to assure his attention. Squiers grunted and turned on him.

  ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ said Potts. ‘Richie said just the guy. He said to leave the girl alone!’

  Potts’ head was an air-raid siren and Squiers himself was beyond reason. Squiers’ own bubbling chemical stew had glazed his eyes and dulled his flesh. A truck could have ploughed into him and it wouldn’t have registered. Squiers hit Potts and sent him flying across the cabin, dropping the bar. When he looked up Squiers had retrieved the bar and had it raised and was coming at him.

  Potts never knew how the pistol got into his hand. He’d forgotten it in his back pocket, though surely he’d fallen on it, remembered it was there, reached for it without thinking. All he knew is that suddenly it was there, and it fired, and a small hole appeared in Squiers’ chest.

  A 9mm pistol is not a large gun, but in a small enclosed space – like the tiny cabin of a thirty-foot sailboat – it makes a noise that is literally deafening. Potts’ ears exploded and all he could think of for a few moments was the pain. The drug-buzzing had been replaced by the pain and the ringing and Potts couldn’t hear a goddamned thing. Not a thing. He got to his feet and looked over at the girl, who was curled up and crying with her hands over her own ears. Potts could see she was crying but he couldn’t hear it. Potts said something to the girl but it was pointless. Squiers was slumped on the floor with a small, blossoming hole in the approximate area of his heart. If he wasn’t dead he was dying. Potts wasn’t going to get close enough to check.