Strange Robby

by Selina Rosen

  Tommy sat there for ten minutes with his jaw in his lap while the woman poured her guts out to Spider. Spider had that effect on people. For some reason complete strangers would tell her things they wouldn't normally tell another soul. It was like she could break through their politeness zone; get them to say exactly what they thought instead of a stream of niceties. The widow explained that a few months ago, Elvis—yep that was the guy's first name—had started coming up with extra cash. She didn't know where he got it, but when she asked he got mad, and when he was mad he liked to slap her around, so she didn't pursue it.

  Along with the coke they found a key to a safety deposit box. In the deposit box they found a sixty-kilo bag of smack and twenty thousand dollars in cash.

  But this time there was no way anyone could have known. Hell, the police department had dismissed him as a suspect when the coke came up missing, stating that he couldn't be suspect because of his flawless record. Even the guy's partner passed a polygraph test when asked if he knew his partner was stealing drugs from the evidence locker and selling them.

  One of the Feds pulled Tommy and Spider aside. "If you guys have got something on this Fry Guy, tell us now. How could he have known this guy was dirty? It's got to be someone in your department. Maybe someone in the IAD?"

  "We don't know any more than you do," Tommy said. Then added suspiciously, "Probably a hell of a lot less. Why don't you just tell us what the fuck the weapon is, and how someone could get a hold of it?"

  "For the thousandth time, Chan. We don't know!"

  He stomped off, and Tommy turned to Spider. "You believe him, don't you?"

  "You know what I believe."

  When Spider got home at about five o'clock, Carrie was gone. She'd left a note.

  Spider,

  Got buzzed as soon as you left. Had to go into the office for a couple of hours, same reason you had to go in. Be back around six o'clock. We could go out, or stay in. Or I could go home to my lonely home and lament the fact that I'm not in your arms. Whatever you'd like.

  Love, Carrie

  Spider cleaned up and went to the hospital to see Henry for a while.

  "I met someone. Can you believe it? I'm in love, Henry. I never thought it could happen to me, but it has. Her name is Carrie and she's beautiful, inside and out . . . Yeah, it's kind of sudden, but then maybe again it's not. You know me, I've spent most of my life looking for someone, so when I finally found her, I knew . . . . Want to hear something weird? The first night I slept with her I didn't dream at all. At least not that I remember. Last night I dreamt about Carrie, not the faceless bitch from my nightmares. I think things are going to come together for me now. Well, I gott ah go. I've got a date, but I want you to know I'm not going to forget about you, Henry. I promised I wouldn't leave you alone, and I won't."

  When Carrie got back to Spider's apartment Spider still wasn't home, but she'd left a note.

  Carrie,

  Gone out for a minute. Be right back. Please don't start without me.

  Love, Spider

  Carrie flopped down in the chair more than a little disappointed. She wanted to see Spider, and she wanted to see her now.

  She should be home, her home. Her nice, comfortable home. Instead she was here in this hole-in-the-wall in one of the worst sections of town, waiting like a lovesick fool for Spider to get there and "complete" her. She felt like a total idiot. She had laughed at friends who had acted the way she was acting now.

  So this is love—desperate, needy, scatter-brained. Damn good thing this didn't happen to me before now or I'd never have made it through law school. Where is she, what could be more important than being here with me?

  She felt insecurity creeping in on her. It was too quick. She was being too clingy; she was driving Spider away. Carrie wasn't used to feeling insecure and vulnerable. Her parents had raised her to be independent, self-assured, and self-reliant. She'd always been completely in control of her destiny; everything she'd ever wanted had been hers for the taking.

  Now she was in love and she found the situation to be as unnerving as it was exhilarating. Spider could decide to end it at any minute, and Carrie was afraid she couldn't just walk away. Maybe she'd become one of those women who kept going to their ex's houses calling and crying, "why, why can't you love me, I love you."

  The door opened and Spider walked in with two bags of groceries. She smiled when Carrie jumped, and then she carried the bags into the kitchen and set them down. When she turned around to walk back in the other room Carrie all but tackled her. They kissed long and hard, as if they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and Carrie was reassured.

  "So," Carrie released Spider and started going through one of the sacks. "I guess this means we're dining in."

  "Yes . . . well, you might as well know right now that I don't have a hell of a lot of money. I've got a lot of expenses, debts my brother left me."

  "You know, Spider . . . I make good money. It doesn't always have to be your treat or Dutch treat. Sometimes I could pay, all of the time I could pay, if you want to go out."

  Spider did her best to look offended. "Like a kept woman?"

  "Would that bother you?" Carrie asked. "Does it bother you that I make more money than you?"

  Spider thought about it for a moment. "I don't know. Truthfully, it makes me a little uncomfortable to have anyone pay for anything for me. Logically, if we're going to wind up together, and I sort of hope we are, it's a relief. Because, as I said, I'm not very flush for cash. Now don't get me wrong, all my bills get paid and all that, but there isn't a whole lot left over for extras."

  "Then let me pay for the extras. As far as I'm concerned we're already together. If we're going to have the kind of partnership I want, we don't need to worry about where the money comes from, just how we're going to spend it. It's not like I make more money because I work any harder or I'm any smarter. I make more money because my parents were rich lawyers and they put me through law school so that I could follow in their footsteps."

  "So, are your parents OK with . . . "

  "Me being gay? They think so. They want to be, and they do their best. They're more upset that I went into criminal law instead of joining them in private practice as a divorce attorney. After all, that's where all the real money is, don't you know?"

  Spider started putting the groceries away in an almost tangible silence.

  "What's wrong?" Carrie asked.

  Spider shrugged and didn't look up from what she was doing. "When my brother died, I'd been away at war for three years, in heavy combat areas, and God knows I'd seen a lot of death. In Baghdad, I'd killed men in the trenches on the end of my bayonet, close up and personal. I'd watched the people beside me, people that were my friends, die. We fought all day and all night, and when it was all over the blood was ankle deep, but we still held our ground. At least some of us did; only five people from my unit made it out of those trenches alive. At the time I thought that was the worst day of my life, but it wasn't even close.

  "My father showed up at my brother's funeral drunk. When I saw Scott's coffin being lowered into the earth I felt like my soul was being ripped out of my body. The only person who had ever cared about me was dead, and I knew I was alone. At the time it felt like such a permanent thing—the being alone. I reached out blindly, taking my father's hand to give and take comfort. He jerked away and screamed for the entire crowd to hear, 'Get your filthy hands off me! My son, my Scotty is dead. But you, a fucking worthless dyke, are still alive. There is no justice.'"

  "My God, Spider! I'm so sorry."

  Spider looked out the kitchen door seeming to focus on nothing. "I called him a sorry son of a bitch, and I left. The worst part of it was that I didn't think he knew. I didn't think any of them knew. Don't ask, don't tell and all. In those days I thought I was completely hidden, totally closeted. But apparently everybody knew, even Scott. I never talked to him about it, and he never talked to me. I realized what that meant; that he knew and said nothing
meant that he didn't really want to know. We never got a chance to talk about it—to work it out. For him to grow to accept who I am. It's made it very hard for me to be open about my sexuality. I look at you, at the ease with which you express yourself as a woman and a lesbian, and I envy you. I wonder if I'll ever be that comfortable in my own skin."

  Spider wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Carrie just stared at her, obviously at a loss for words, and close to tears herself.

  Spider forced a laugh. "I must be premenstrual. Excuse me." She worked her way past Carrie and into the bathroom.

  Carrie rushed over to the kitchen sink and washed her face to calm herself down. What do I say? I should say something. There should be something I can say to help her. How long has she been carrying that around? Is it a story she tells everyone who gets close to her—or just me, now? Is she even close to anyone else? What about Tommy . . . no she did the same thing to Tommy that she did to her brother; she didn't tell him. She doesn't tell anyone. That was what she was saying. Carrie dried her face on a paper towel and noticed that she took off half her makeup.

  "Damn!" She washed her face and dried it again. She had just finished when Spider walked back in the room.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell got into me. No one wants to hear that kind of shit." Spider started putting the groceries away again.

  "You're wrong. I want to hear. I want to know everything about you, Spider, good and bad—all of it. You . . . we, have nothing to be ashamed of. There's nothing wrong with us. Hell! We're wonderful. Don't let the way a fistful of uptight bigots look at you make you afraid to be yourself. You have lived an exemplary life, and you have nothing to be ashamed of."

  No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever given Spider permission to be herself. You wouldn't think it would be necessary, but for Spider it was.

  That night she had the dream again, but this time the woman had a face and it was Carrie's. Then she saw Robby, and he was calling to her, begging her to join him in his fight.

  Spider woke with a start; she knew what the dream meant. For her everything was coming together—and coming apart.

  Chapter Six

  "Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God; to

  draw near to hearken is better than the sacrifice of

  fools: For they consider not that they do evil."

  Ecclesiastes 4:17

  Robby had been working on the damned stove all day, and he was no closer to fixing it. It needed parts, parts that he didn't have and couldn't make. At five o'clock he gave up and went to start dinner. It was Evan's turn to help, but he wasn't home yet, even though the bus had arrived an hour ago.

  "Where's Evan?" Robby demanded.

  "I'll help," Donna offered.

  "Where's Evan?" Robby asked again with even less patience.

  All the kids were real quiet. They could tell when Robby was mad.

  "Where is he?"

  "He's been hanging out with some bad boys," Janice said.

  Robby looked at Donna. "What's she mean?"

  "A gang, Robby." Donna started to cry. "Evan joined a gang."

  "We'll see about that."

  They made dinner, ate, watched TV, and did their homework. All the kids were in their beds before Evan got home. Robby could smell the pot on him, and see the darkness licking at his heals. He looked at the clock; it was midnight.

  Evan turned on the light and saw Robby sitting there. He wanted to look tough, but as he saw the anger in his brother's eyes, all he could do was start crying.

  "Where the hell were you?" Robby asked in a low, throaty growl. "Donna said you haven't been in school for two days. That you think you've joined a gang."

  "I . . . I don't have to answer to you," Evan spat through his tears. "You . . . you're just my brother. You ain't my daddy, and you ain't God."

  "You worthless piece of shit." Robby didn't raise his voice as he hoisted himself from his chair. Without using his hands he popped his brother against the wall and held him there with the strength of his will. "Can't you feel it? The darkness is oozing up around your soul trying to claim you. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that's a good feeling?"

  Evan felt the force shove him hard against the wall again and was terrified into silence.

  "Answer me!" Robby screamed. He took his hand and ripped the dew rag from his brother's head.

  "No!" Evan cried as he wet himself.

  "You think you want to be a part of this gang. They aren't nothing but crap. I have given up any life of my own to make sure that you guys get the breaks I never had. Do you really think that I would let anyone do this . . . " he shook the rag in Evan's face, "to my family? Do you really think that I would let you ruin everything that I have worked for? How dare you bring the drugs and the darkness into my home with these babies! I'll kill you myself before I let you destroy my family. Take me to them, Evan. Show them to me."

  "Robby!" Evan cried louder. "I'll quit the gang. I won't smoke pot no more. I'll go back to school. I'll . . . "

  "You don't understand what you've done. You can't just walk away. They won't let you walk away. Do you think people stay in gangs because they like it? No. They stay because once they're in, they're afraid. Afraid that their so-called friends will kill them if they try to leave, and if they don't some other gang will. And it's not just you Evan, you've put us all in danger, that's how it works. You try to walk out of the gang, they kill one of the kids. You've created a situation that can only be cured one way. Take me to them . . . NOW!"

  Evan didn't want to, but he led his brother to his friends. The party he had left earlier still raged. It was in an old abandoned shack at the end of a slum street. There was so much pot and crack being smoked in there that it was coming out the windows. The bitter cold had driven everyone inside.

  Robby got out of the truck and donned his "costume". He turned to Evan and snarled at him. "You stay here, don't you dare move. And always remember that everything that happens tonight is your fault."

  Evan nodded silently. As Robby walked away Evan sank down into the floorboards, where he covered his ears and tried to block out the screams. Several minutes passed and then Robby opened the door and got in. He started the car and headed home. He looked at Evan quaking in the floor. "You can only belong to one gang, Evan, and that's us. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Robby."

  Chapter Seven

  "A good name is better than precious ointment;

  and the day of death than the day of one's birth.

  It is better to go to the house of mourning, than

  to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end

  of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.

  Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness

  of the countenance the heart is made glad."

  Ecclesiastes 7:1-3

  This time it was bad. These bodies weren't neatly brain-fried; they were blown up. At least fifteen prominent members of the Skulls, a local street gang, had died in the carnage last night. Five people had lived through it, and the stories they told were . . . well, ludicrous.

  "I'm telling you . . . a purple ski mask and a red cape," the punk said for the fourteenth time.

  Tommy shook his head. "Humor me, and tell me again."

  "This dude came through the door wearing a purple ski mask and a red cape. Big Jerry yelled Who the fuck do you think you are, weenie boy? He yelled back The Angel of Death! and BOOM! Jerry blew up, and then the dude just went around the room blowing people up."

  "What did the weapon look like?"

  "Man, for the thousandth time. There weren't no fucking weapon, at least nothing you could see. When he had finished he looked at us'ns and said, This is the only chance I'm giving you. Turn back from the course you are following or fry like the others."

  The kid was scared—terrified and shaking. No doubt coming down off some drug, but he told the same story that the o
ther four had. To the letter.

  Tommy watched as Spider drove up. She got out looking more than a little perturbed. "What took you so long?" Tommy asked with a smile.

  Spider looked back at him and snarled. At two o'clock in the morning she didn't feel like joking. Mostly she felt like sleeping. Carrie was trying to kill her; not that it wasn't how she'd always dreamt of going.

  "What we got?" Spider asked.

  Tommy pointed at the door. "You tell me."

  Spider walked over and looked in. She took one look around and almost chucked. The smell, the look, the dark.

  "Incoming! Oh God! It's gonna hit us!" she yelled as she ran. The others ran, too, but most of them weren't fast enough. The blast knocked her to the ground and sent her flying into the wall of the trench. Something soft and wet and sticky hit her in the side of the head. There was a glimmer of realization as the smoke and flames filled the air. That something that hit her was part of Becky. The rest of Becky was lying at her feet. She didn't have time for it to sink in; didn't have time to deal with it because then the bastards were in the trench with them . . . and it was shooting and stabbing and blood, so much blood—her blood, Becky's blood, the rag heads' blood. James came up beside her, trying to hold the bastards off. A bullet hit him, two, three. She hit the ground and rolled, finding a safe place behind a piece of a car.