Getting Higher (8 page)

*****

Chapter Thirteen

 

Crank and Joe walked around in front of the apartment building, trying to keep warm. Neither man said a thing, just kept walking. They were lost in thought, too tired and confused to do anything or talk about anything. The throbbing of their respective hangovers was still with them, stubbornly refusing to fade; once the fire was out and the excitement died down, it all seemed to rush back in on them.

By now, the scene of the fire was once again deserted. All the firetrucks were gone, rumbled away into the city. All but one of the police cars had departed; the last belonged to two cops who were talking with the landlord. The crowd, which had suddenly swarmed to the flames like moths, had just as suddenly vanished. Only two women in curlers and long robes were still standing by the curb, pointing at the building and chattering to one another.

Out across the river, a dim light was starting to glow in the sky, the first limp flicker of morning. It was about five o'clock now, and soon the sun would be lifting over the ashes of Crank's apartment.

It was still very cold, and Joe rubbed his arms in an effort to warm up. He still wore the slacks the policeman had given him, along with the T-shirt he'd escaped from Crank's apartment in, but these clothes offered little protection from the frigid air. Crank was a little better off, now; the police had brought him some clothes a while ago, a pair of jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt. On top of all this, he still wore the overcoat that the woman had donated earlier, so at least he wasn't shivering like Joe.

While the last of the people and vehicles trickled away, the two men just kept walking. They weren't going anywhere, just back and forth and in circles around the building, but they kept moving. They paced, marched back and forth with all the energy their exhausted bodies had left.

Joe watched the sidewalk as he went along. "So," he muttered, almost to himself, "whatta' we do now?"

It took a long time for Crank to answer. "Joey, pal," he said finally, "I really wish I knew. We really got nailed this time."

"Where we gonna' stay, man?"

"Fuck," said Crank. "
I
don't know. I guess maybe we could talk to Rocky, or Jack. I can't think'a too many people around here that'd put us up, right now."

"Damn," mumbled Joe. "Twice in one week, I lose a place."

Snorting loudly, Crank spat on the street. "Yeah, Joey," he said, "your luck ain't been too good lately, has it?"

"Nope," agreed Joe, shaking his head. "But y'know, I'm gettin' used to it."

Suddenly, an angry, strident voice screamed from behind the two men. It was a high voice, almost squeaky, and it grated on their nerves like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. Crank and Joe winced as the squeal approached them, then turned to confront its mad source.

"You two, you two! Stop right now! I've got a thing or two I'd like to say!"

Crank sneered angrily. "So do I," he snarled under his breath.

Joe recognized the approaching figure as the landlord of Crank's building, a guy named Charley Wills. He was six feet tall, but seemed a lot taller, and was probably sixty-some years old. Charley was impossibly skinny, with a thin, brittle body that looked like it would snap if he ever bent over. His face was drawn and pointed, with a sharp knifey nose and jutting cheekbones; he wore thick, black-framed glasses that swung low on his nose and half-concealed his beady rodent eyes. As he walked, he thrust his elbows at ridiculous angles from his sides and bobbed his head like a daffy, pink bird.

"Schaffer!" he screeched as he finally came to rest beside them. "This was all
your
doing,
wasn
'
t
it?"

"I don't know what th' hell you're talkin' about," laughed Crank.

"Oh," said Charley Wills, "you do. You do! My apartment building, that's what I'm talking about!"

"So, what about it?"

"What about it? What
about
it?!" screamed Charley. "Take a look! See those windows? See those burned rooms? See all that furniture and all those walls and doors and bathrooms that are now nothing but ashes?
That
'
s
what about it, asshole! Do you realize what this is gonna'
cost
me?" Shaking his fists wildly in the air, Charley clenched his teeth in beaky rage. "You damn, drug-addicted, slimy trouble-makers!!"

"Hey," smiled Crank, "don't call us trouble-makers!"

"It's what you are!!" The landlord's voice quivered, twanging nasally as he raved on. "Ever since I took you on as a tenant, it's always been the same! Parties every night, booze and drugs and women! Noise and loud music, shaking the walls! Complaints from my other tenants, every single night, about you and your friends! You've been nothing but trouble, nothing but a big pain in the ass!"

"Hey, Charley, take it easy."

"No, I will
not
take it easy, and don't call me Charley! Ever since you moved in, you've given me more headaches than all my other tenants put together--and now
this
! My insurance'll
never
cover all that damage, never in a million years! Why, Schaffer,
why
?!?"

Crank stood calmly before the skinny man, apparently unruffled by the whole exchange. "Look, man," he said, his voice low and cold. "You think I did this shit on purpose? Think again, all right? Do you really imagine that I would deliberately burn out my own apartment? You think I
wanted
my clothes an' shit set on fire? Damnit, everything I
owned
went up in that hole! Don't gimme' this shit, man, I don't wanna'
hear
it!"

"Well, you
are
going to hear it! You'll pay for this, Schaffer, I swear to
God
! I'll
sue
you if I have to, but you'll pay!!!

"How, ass-wipe? Just how you think I'm gonna' pay you when I ain't got no money? You really think I'd be livin' in
this
shit-hole if I
did
have money? Wake up, man! Come back to reality!"

Charley's face was red with rage; as he spoke, his scrawny arms shot off in all directions, furious gestures that made him look like a poor, bony bird trying to fly. "Don't give me that, Schaffer! You'll pay, take my
word
for it! I'll have you sent to
jail
if I have to!
Then
you'd pay. If
that
doesn't work, I'll get you some
other
way--but you are gonna'
pay
for what you've done! You just wait, boy, you just
wait
!!"

"Hey, it was an accident, man. I don't even know how it happened."

"You just wait," repeated Charley Wills, flapping crazily. "You just wait!" Then, he turned on his heel and stormed back toward his building. There were some tenants waiting on the stairs for him, wondering where they would sleep now that their rooms were shot.

Crank watched him for a moment, his bony back receding in the distance; then, he turned in the opposite direction and started walking down the street. Joe followed him.

"That asshole," muttered Crank. "That damn motherfucker."

"So," said Joe, "whatta' we do now? Where we gonna' sleep, huh?"

"Nowhere," barked Crank. "We ain't tired. We're goin' down to Tap's."

"Tap's ain't open yet. Fuckin'
sun
ain't even up yet."

Crank turned to Joe and his eyes were ice. "We'll wait."

*****

Cha
p
ter Fourteen

"You dumb shits! I leave you guys alone for a coupla' lousy hours, an' whatta' ya' do? You burn down a fuckin'
building
! Holy fuck!" Rocky fell back in his chair, beer in hand, and laughed.

Crank wasn't in a joking mood; while Rocky roared, he just sat and stared darkly at the big man. Joe watched his red-haired friend and realized that this was the lowest he had ever seen him. Crank was silent, pale, stiff, dead, except for a twitch of his hand or a blink. His eyes were carbon pits drilled into his skull, sunk and lidded from exhaustion or despair; his hair was greased and wild, stuck up and around in stalks like it was combed with paste.

Joe and Crank had been sitting around Tap's since it opened at nine o'clock, and Rocky had stopped in around eleven. In all that time, Crank hadn't said a word.

"Hey, Rock," Joe said finally, frowning and scratching his beard. "Give us a break, all right? We're in pretty bad shape, right now. A lotta' bad shit just happened, y'know?"

"Yeah, ha ha...all right." Rocky stifled his laughter, put a hand over his mouth to try to hold it in.

"Okay, man, be cool," he said, a snicker still lingering in his voice. "I'm sorry, y'know? Like, no offense, guys."

"No sweat," said Joe. "We're shook up, man, that's all. And tired. And sick as shit from your damn party."

"What's wrong? Didn't you guys enjoy my party?"

"Oh, hey, man, it was great--don't get me wrong. It was wild, no question. Thing is, it's hard ta' talk about havin' a good time after ya' almost die. You dig?"

Rocky nodded solemnly, took a swig of beer. "So, now what?"

"Now," said Joe, "we need a place to stay."

"Ohhh, I get it.
That
'
s
what you guys're after. You wanna' stay with me." Rocky shrugged and shook his head. "Sorry, man, but no way."

"What? How come?"

"'Cause I'm
movin
' today. I'm packin' it in an' goin' up to Bartlett. Since I got that job up there, I figured it would be a little easier if I lived closer to the place. That damn Chevy a' mine'd never make it, drivin' back an' forth from
here
every day."

"Aw, fuck," whispered Crank.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry. I know you guys're in a spot, but I just can't help right now. You could maybe stay in my old place after I leave, finish out the lease, but you'd haveta' pay rent. Problem with that is, it's more'n you're payin' now; plus, I don't think you guys have much cash right now. Am I right?"

Crank nodded silently, glaring away in disgust.

Wincing, Rocky looked hurt. "Aw, dudes, I'd help ya' if I could. We're good friends, y'know? We been partyin' together for a long time...two or three years at least. That's a helluva' lotta' booze under the bridge. I'd like ta' help, but I just can't right now." Rocky looked down into his beer and sighed. "You're welcome to come to Bartlett with me, but ta' tell ya' the truth, I ain't even sure if I got a place yet. The guy I talked to said he'd have an apartment open, but he hadda' evict some dude first. For all I know, he coulda' changed his mind, or the guy mighta' come up with the rent. I don't know."

"Nah," said Crank, shaking his head. "You'll be havin' enough problems, gettin' settled in an' shit. It's too far away, anyhow. Me, I'm used to this dump, this crummy town. I been here too long, man...I don't wanna' leave now. Don't know 'bout Joey, though."

"Fuck, man," said Joe. "If you stay, I stay. You helped me out when I was in trouble, it's the least I can do to stick around with you now. 'Sides, for all I know, that damn fire mighta' been my fault in the first place."

Crank shook his head. "No, man, it wasn't."

"What th' fuck're you talkin' about?" asked Joe.

"I think it was me, man. After I screwed that chick, I went in the bathroom an' cranked up my bong. She was asleep, an' I wanted to get a little higher, so I went in an' fired the son of a bitch up." Crank looked at the table as he spoke. "Then, I guess I started feelin' sick, so I went back in an' laid down. I remember knockin' somethin' over when I left th' bathroom, I think. I was flyin' pretty high, man, and I didn't stop and check it out. Next thing I know, I'm wakin' up an' th' fuckin' place was on fire."

"Holy fuck," said Joe. "I thought you said you didn't know. You told that cop you didn't know what started the fire."

"Well, Joey, for one thing, you don't go tellin' no cop you were havin' yourself a little
toke
, ya' know what I mean? For another thing, I'm not
sure
that's what did it. I mean, I can hardly remember
nothin
'
, ya' know? Why put my ass on th' line when I might not've done anything ta' begin with?"

"Man, what if they find out anyway? They got that damn fire marshal guy runnin' around right now."

"Then I say I didn't know an' it was an accident...which is true, 'cause I didn't know
nothin
' last night, an' I sure as hell didn't set my place on fire on purpose. Fuck, I couldn't even
walk
last night."

"Man," muttered Joe. "I don't believe this."

"Well, fuck you then!" shouted Crank. "I don't really
give
a shit! It's over an' there ain't a damn thing I can do about it!" As Joe fell silent, Crank shot to his feet and started pacing beside the table.

For a moment, the three men were silent; then, Rocky spoke up. "So, you guys talk to anybody else yet?"

"Whatta' you mean, man?" asked Joe.

"You know, about findin' a place to stay."

"Nope," answered Joe. "I was thinkin' about some people we could ask, but so far, you're th' first one."

"Well, good luck, dudes. Times are tough, if you know what I mean." Rocky stood and set his empty beer glass on the table. "I guess I better hit th' road. I gotta' be in Bartlett around one, to see about that place. Hey, I'm real sorry about this shit, y'know?"

"Yeah," said Joe. "Don't worry about it."

"If you guys ever change your minds about coming to Bartlett, gimme' a call, all right? If I get this place, you two could stay with me, or I could even help ya' look for one a' your own. Think about it."

"Sure," said Joe. "Thanks."

Rocky slapped Joe on the back. "I'll see you guys around, right? Drop in sometime, or maybe I'll come back an' visit you. Hope everything gets better for you dudes, y'know?"

"Hey, you too," smiled Joe, reaching up and shaking Rocky's hand.

Rocky stepped over to Crank, who was leaning against a dirty window, looking out on the street. "Crank, watch your ass, okay? We'll have to party again, sometime. Good luck, bud."

Crank ignored him like paint on the wall; Rocky started to slap him on the back, then hesitated and withdrew his hand. Drawing himself together, the lumbering jovial guy walked away.

The door to Tap's Bar slammed shut, banging dully in the beery room.