Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series)

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  “I won’t tell you again, Jiang.”

  Another glance at the Coca-Cola can. Then back to me. He raised his arms in surrender. A yelping sound rose from his throat, a fevered cry of fear. Most men would have been embarrassed by the sound. Unless they had me staring them down in an alley.

  “Pick it up, Jiang. Last time I’ll tell you.”

  He sighed and made a move to do as I directed. I kicked the can a foot behind him before he could get his fingertips on it. It clattered across the asphalt like sunburned leaves. He turned to his right and refocused on the can. Left his back exposed. A huge mistake.

  I kicked him hard in the seat of his pants. Adam Vinitieri would’ve smiled and sought a high-five.

  Jiang landed in a heads-first heap a full horse length beyond the Coca-Cola can. I have to give him credit, though. He’d rolled over on his back and had his hands up to ward off my blows by the time I reached him. Still, I picked him up roughly by the collar of his shirt, pulled back my arm to deliver a blow that was certain to extinguish his flame.

  I aimed it for his good eye.

  But I heard him say something.

  I dropped my arm, nodded.

  Jiang had saved himself with one word.

  Pepsi.

  EIGHT

  I’M NOT CERTAIN OF the correct definition for irony. I struggled with the concept in both high school and college. Most use the term incorrectly, that much I recall. Something regarding the incongruity of what is expected and what actually occurs. Well, bad luck and trouble had followed me all the days of my life. It’s irony, to my thinking, that I would choose the dilapidated building diagonally across from Panda House as a respite from that lifetime of bad luck and trouble.

  The building had an expansive history, much of it stained. Just six stories tall, the second floor windows on the east side of the structure had yet to be replaced after a serious gunfight that actually made the news a few years back. The windows were absent of glass and covered by plywood. The lobby carpet smelled of mildew and death. Gurneys, black body bags, and harried emergency medical workers weren’t strangers to the dark lobby. Yet Jiang had looked from his storefront at Panda House to just across the street and seen profit in the building. Bought it, I’m told, the same week he had the epiphany. Smart.

  I pushed the elevator button for UP. The stairwell wasn’t safe, even for me. When the elevator car arrived, I stepped on and pushed another button for the third floor. On the ride up, I read most of the promotional stickers plastered to the elevator walls. Mostly rappers I hadn’t ever heard of. I considered a trip back to the lobby and out of the building without finalizing my intentions. That didn’t happen, though. I exited at the third floor. Unlike the stairwell, the third floor corridor did not smell of piss and body odor. The strong aroma of cinnamon from inside someone’s unit drifted out into the hall. Baking. A suburban concept in a building a galaxy away from a world of manicured lawns and white picket fences. Another irony?

  I didn’t knock as I reached the fourth door to the left of the elevator.

  I opened up, walked in, turned and clicked all the locks in place behind me.

  Small apartment, living room and kitchen bisected by a waist-high counter. Living room furnished with a tattered brown couch and a Salvation Army chair I’ll charitably describe as green. The tan carpet seasoned by drink stains and cigarette burns. Then further marred by cheap stitch work. No television. No stereo. A bare kitchen, except for a few cold drinks in the throbbing refrigerator, an old off-brand model that probably hadn’t worked particularly well even when it was new.

  Although it had been close to a year since I’d last been here, I knew all of this without having to take an inventory. Some things never change.

  A film of light leaked through the small crack at the bottom of the bathroom door.

  I heard the sink running, a woman’s soft melodic voice humming a tune.

  I made my way to the doorway.

  She stood by the sink, naked from the waist down, with soap on her fingers and using them to massage clean the lips of her vagina. No bath cloth, but a big towel lay next to her on the sink. Resting on the towel was a folding pocket knife with a serrated blade sharp enough to filet any man foolish enough to test it. She rinsed her fingers under the tap, then cupped a handful of water and thoroughly cleansed the residual soap from her genitals. Done with that, she carefully picked up the knife, pulled the towel out from under it, set the knife on the counter like a trusted friend. Patted herself dry with the towel, humming a song the entire time. Her movements so careful and thought out.

  I stood silently in the doorway and watched.

  She wore a peach-colored bra, the left strap hanging off her shoulder. I could only see her back, but I knew her body as well as I knew my own. Medium-sized breasts, nipples and areolas the color of pale pink rose petals, a small pouch of a stomach, belly button piercing, a fake silver dolphin strung from its chain that dangled to her thatch of blondish-brown pubic hair. The pubic hair she refused to trim. Skin the color of evaporated milk.

  “You scared the living shit out of Jiang,” she said suddenly, without looking up at me. “After what happened last time he…well, that’s water under the bridge. I won’t even go there. Why don’t you wait for me out in the living room? Check the fridge if you want something to drink.”

  “Pepsi,” I said.

  That got her full attention. The reflection of her eyes in the mirror regarded me for the first time since I’d entered the apartment. Blue eyes with a cast that made her look years older than her actual age. I noticed wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there just a year prior, some strands of stubborn gray in her color-treated hair. In a few years, I wouldn’t kick Jiang’s ass in an alley to get a crumb of her time. Few would after she lost the inevitable battle with time. I wondered how well she would handle that transition.

  “You have a mean streak a mile long,” she said, smiling. “Jiang must’ve been crazy to deny you.”

  “He won’t again,” I said.

  “You’re preaching to the choir, baby. Believe me. Jiang’s thinking about having his fifteen-year-old daughter close the restaurant at night from here on out.”

  “He should hire some muscle.”

  She snickered at the thought. “As cheap as he is? When’s the last time he replaced anything in the Panda?”

  I shrugged.

  “Mao Zedong was still the leader of China, I’d imagine,” she said.

  I raised an eyebrow, impressed, and said, “Irony.” I thought smart hookers only showed up in movies and books that were trying to be cute.

  “What?” she asked with a frown.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But Jiang should have someone to keep you girls safe.”

  “You interested?” The frown turned to a fetching smile.

  “No.”

  She full out laughed. “Jiang can save that money. I’m just about mean enough to handle myself.”

  She needed to be plenty mean.

  There weren’t many white working girls in this part of Newark. In fact, I couldn’t think of one other besides her. And the job had serious hazards regardless of skin color. It was a tough way to earn a living. But she was good. Damn good. Made good money. I supposed the rewards outweighed the risks in her mind. I’d had a similar notion about my old profession at one time.

  “You’re looking good, Cherie.”

  “Not as good as I used to,” she said. “You don’t need to charm me, baby. Just swipe your card; no PIN required.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I can still suck the skin off an angry alligator. And from the waist down it’s all good,” she said to my silence. “That’s all that matters.” She tapped her genitals delicately with her fingers. “She’s gotta lot of miles, but I keep her well-oiled and maintained.”

  If I were a better man I would have been embarrassed for the both of us.

  “Wait for me out there? I’m just about done in her
e, Dashiell.”

  “Shell,” I said.

  She raised her hand, chipped red paint on most of her fingernails. “Somebody’s touchy today. Pardon self. I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’ve always been Dashiell to me. My favorite superhero…or is it villain?”

  Veronica had been one of the first people I allowed to call me Dashiell. I’d never liked the name and seldom shared it with anyone. But Veronica’s curious smile and quiet appreciation had changed my view. Eventually Taj, Cherie, and Nevada would also become part of the initiated.

  “Shell,” I repeated.

  Cherie kept her hand raised. “That’s cool, Shell. No worries.”

  “How much longer you gonna be?” I asked.

  “I need to spray on some perfume. And put on something real nice for you. Give me five minutes.”

  I moved to back away.

  “Shell?”

  I stopped and turned back. “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you made it back,” she said. “I harbor no hard feelings about last time.”

  I nodded.

  “Sorry to hear about your loss,” she added. “I know how you felt about Nevada.”

  I said nothing.

  “A white girl went missing in Montclair a few months back,” she said. “They had flyers posted everywhere. It was the lead on the local news for days. They issued Amber alerts, the whole nine. Laurie Reichert; that was the girl’s name. Is her name, I should say. Have to stay hopeful, you know?” She shrugged, half smiled. “Anyway, I memorized her name, saw it so much. I still find myself looking for her from time to time. When I’m out and I see a white girl, I always check the face.”

  I said nothing.

  “I was just thinking about how I haven’t seen any flyers like that around Newark these past few days.” She hesitated. “Nevada’s—”

  “How’s your daughter?” I cut in.

  Cherie paused briefly, long enough to study me, and then regrouped just as quickly. “Monica? Six going on thirty-six. She’s with her father. They live over on Staten Island. He’s married now. Wife’s some kind of councilwoman and architect. Councilwoman and architect, you believe that? You know I haven’t been invited to any family barbecues. My daughter calls her mommy, now. Woman’s name is Mildred, for God’s sake. Isn’t that terrible?”

  “Sorry to hear about it.”

  “Mildred’s the one to feel sorry for. I bet she specializes in Elizabethan design or some shit, with that name.”

  “I meant about your daughter calling her mommy.”

  “Yeah. There’s that.”

  “You’ll get her back one day,” I said. “Speak it into existence.”

  “Have to stay hopeful,” she said wistfully.

  “Hopeful.” I nodded. “Yeah.”

  She rubbed her right arm, at the bend of the elbow. For the first time I noticed a deep bruise there. Not sure how I’d ever missed it. It covered a third of her arm, looked like someone had tried to draw blood, but had collapsed the vein instead. I frowned.

  “That—” I began.

  “I’m healthy,” she said, folding in her arm to hide the bruise. “Physically, at least. Don’t you worry none.”

  I didn’t even consider questioning her further. Another irony?

  I SLID ON MY PANTS, then my shirt, and pulled several bills from my wallet, set them on the nightstand next to the bed. Resting by the money was Cherie’s cell phone. It vibrated, danced across the surface a couple of inches, agitated by a text or a voice mail message. Jiang, I bet, letting her know the clock needed to be punched again soon, another client wanting vanilla ice cream with his Moo Goo Gai Pan. Capitalism at its absolute finest.

  A thin film of light leaked out from under the bathroom door again. Cherie was in there washing her vagina with soapy fingers. I wasn’t planning on saying goodbye to her, but she came out of the bathroom just before I exited the apartment. Naked except for a pair of off-white panties that blended in with her skin.

  “I have a bruise on my inner thigh the size of your fist,” she announced.

  “Be careful what you say, Cherie. You make it sound as though I hit you.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” she said. “I like it rough, too, baby, but you take it to the next level. Something you want to talk about? You know I’m always here for you.”

  I spoke in silence, my thoughts kept to myself.

  “I have to tell you this, because I care. You have some serious issues,” she said. She eyed me for several beats, realized I was not about to speak. “I won’t tell Jiang about this. We know how he overreacts. Twice is…he might just go and hire some muscle and somehow-someway the expense would be passed on to me. I need all the money I can make if I’m ever gonna get Monica back.”

  She smiled despite the pall hanging over the room. I could not return the smile.

  “I hope in some small way I’ve helped you today, Shell. I mean that. I really do.”

  I stood quietly, expressionless.

  She smirked, shook her head. “I also hope no one ever puts a hit on me and calls you to do the job. You’re rough.”

  She meant no harm, but I took a step toward her anyway. It was a natural reaction without thought. Instinctual.

  “But whatever, Shell,” she said, mirroring my step forward with one of her own, backward. “I’m tough as nails. Mean, as I said. It’s okay. It is.”

  I paused, composed myself, saw a slight tremble in her mouth, the same level of fear that had lived in Jiang. Cherie was different than the Chinese restaurateur, though, tougher, battle-tested. Always prepared for whatever life handed her. I looked down and noticed the knife with the serrated blade gripped in her hand. Red blossomed on her skin from her knuckles to her wrist.

  “Everything okay with you, Cherie? You’re off somehow,” I said. Never mind my own obvious issues. “It’s not like you to speak so carelessly. Not like you at all.”

  “I’m managing, Dashiell. I-I-I mean, Shell. I didn’t mean any harm. I wasn’t thinking when I said that. Diarrhea of the mouth. I’m sorry. Seriously. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I said, attempting to set her at ease. “Is somebody bothering you?”

  “Who’d bother me? A hooker with a heart of gold,” she said, forcing herself to laugh.

  “Somebody bothering you?” I repeated.

  Reflexively, she rubbed the bruise in the crook of her arm. Some words were processed in her mind, and made it as far as her mouth, but she pursed her lips and held on to them like a trade secret.

  “Cherie?”

  “I’m okay, Shell.”

  “Cherie?”

  I noticed her take another subtle step backward.

  “You scare folks, Shell. Most people avoid you like the IRS. I don’t look at that as anything wrong, though. Never did. I’ve…I’ve never been afraid of you myself.”

  “Something on your mind, Cherie? You can talk to me.”

  “Snapple,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Jiang decided to mix it up for some reason. Your little confrontation looks like it turned his brain to fried rice. Snapple. That’s the new code word. He asked me to make sure I told you. Fucking guy wanted me to write it down and give it to you. But you’ll remember it, I’m sure. So use Snapple next time instead of Pepsi, okay?” And she eased back into the bathroom without giving me a chance to reply, still gripping the knife tightly.

  Just when I thought I was incapable, I felt sorry for the both of us. A final irony?

  NINE

  DESPITE ALL THAT OCCURRED tonight, and almost a year prior in the same building, I moved outside without further thought. Dark had chased the light from the sky, but the streetlamps by the building’s entrance flooded the area in an orange glow that gave the night the mood of a John Huston film. A brown Honda Accord, its windows darkened with tint, idled by the curb in front of Panda House, loud music vibrating its entire frame. Kelly Clarkson, the American Idol girl. The driver, young and black, wor
e a fitted Yankees’ cap with the brim riding low, to just above his eyes, a ridiculously large white T-shirt, jeans that sagged inches below his waistline, and dark brown leather sneakers. He emerged from Panda House, food bag in hand, cell phone pressed to his ear. His walk, an exaggerated bop, was an advertisement for just how tough he was. It’d get him killed some day. He opened the driver’s-side door of the Accord and slid in. I caught a glimpse of the girl in his passenger seat; at a distance she looked Dominican. She popped a bubble with her gum, looked at me with squinted eyes, and licked her lips suggestively. The young man, still on his cell phone, changed the music from American Idol pop to hip hop and did not appear to notice his lady’s lapse in devotion. Minutes removed from some heavy work with Cherie, and an erection fisted the front of my pants again. I watched the Accord until it reached the end of the block and turned right. Stood there for a moment, the beat of the hip hop music ringing in my ears, an image of the seductive Dominican girl licking her lips embedded in my brain. I’d likely think about her long into the next day. Satisfaction was a fleeting thing for me. I received plenty by most peoples’ standards, but it never seemed to last. What I got never seemed to be enough.

  I started across the street, toward my rental, without looking in either direction. Luckily the block, usually busy, wasn’t at that moment. Ten feet from the Acura, I used the remote on my keychain to chirp-chirp the electric locks. Five feet away, I heard a loud voice, screaming in panic behind me. I turned, keychain dangling in my hand.

  A derelict, waving his arms wildly, gestured for me to come his way. His way was the opposite direction of the Acura. His way was the darkest part of the street. Away from the business lights of Panda House, away from the streetlamps that bathed the Acura in orange.

  “My wife, sir,” he called out. “Help me. Help me. My wife.”

  Ignoring him wasn’t the most difficult thing I’d ever do.

  I kept walking.

  But then I heard him say, “Do something.”

  I shot around, frowned.

  Do something.

  It could’ve been the voices of Veronica and Ericka, panicked, pleading for something, anything, for someone to do something. It could’ve been Nevada’s voice.