Read Roachkiller and Other Stories Online
Authors: R. Narvaez
Tags: #mystery, #detective, #noir, #hard-boiled, #Crime, #Brooklyn, #latino, #short stories
Roachkiller and Other Stories (19 page)
“I hope you don’t forget your buddies. The people you knew back when. Hint hint.”
“Could you be any more of an ass kisser, Artie?”
I let the martini warm my throat and order another one and down it right away.
“Whoa, there, fella,” says Dwayne. “We know we have to get you home to celebrate with Apple. But we’ll do the town big tomorrow!”
Like screws again, they herd me into the car. I play it cool.
It’s still thunderstorming, and the drive takes forever. Especially with the morons clucking like chickens.
That’s when I see it from blocks away. It’s the house of the guy whose skin I’m in. On fire. Flames eating up the whole side of the house. It looks goddamned beautiful.
* * *
Movement. Shots. Mullet Guy’s face splits and disappears. Blood splattered on my chest, my face, my lips. The other two are on the ground, facedown, not moving. I pee a little on myself.
“Don’t move, Mendez,” says a man with a gun pointing right at my face.
Frying pan. Fryer. Fudge.
“Wait, wait! I’m not who you think I am. I’m not
Mendez
,” though as I say it, I look over, and I can see someone looking over in the side-view mirror, holding his hands up. “Oh, my god.”
“Very funny, Mendez. You trying to play like surviving the chair fried your brains and made you crazy? I don’t think so.”
He’s got a uniform on, some kind of officer.
“Listen. Sir. Please. I just want to go home to my daughter.”
“Home is through that hole right behind you.”
“Los Angeles?” I say.
“Nope, L.A. is three thousand miles away,” he says.
“But my daughter—she needs me, I need her,” I say, and I start to choke up. My face seizes, like it’s never done this before.
The officer takes a step forward, looks into my eyes, blinks. He’s thinking. Maybe . . . Maybe . . . But then he says, “You sick bastard. You’re going back to Lieber. I should make you crawl back through that hellhole your friends dug for you.”
He’s close. In my mind I see something bad, and then—then my hands flick out incredibly fast, his gun flies, my hands are around his throat. Huge hands, ham-sized palms, pork loin fingers. I have to get home to Apple. I need to get home. I squeeze and squeeze.
He whispers one more word before he stops. “Monster.”
I do it for Apple. I’m crying like a baby. I do it for Apple.
When he stops, I get into the car and drive.
* * *
Now the chickens are screaming. The car brakes hard. For some reason I jump out. The chickens stay behind. This body is jelly, it’s slow, it’s weak. The door takes five kicks to come down. I hear the little girl screaming and coughing. I move.
An electrical fire. I can tell. It smells like a hair dryer on too high for too long.
Another door comes down. They’re on the floor behind the bed. Teddy bears. A doll that looks like Oprah. The little girl sees me. “Daddy,” she says. I grab her. She clings to me like I’m an angel. The babysitter sprawled next to her, unconscious, so vulnerable. I grab her wrist and toss her up. It takes three tries. I catch her around the waist and run through black, acrid smoke.
I reach the downstairs and see an exit.
Yes.
I run outside and into the rain.
* * *
I killed. I can’t believe I killed.
I drive all night. Through the day. Into night.
I killed.
That guy. Probably had a family.
Definitely had a gun at my head.
A dream. That’s right. This is just a dream. A window into my mind. Working out guilt issues, daily drama. All figments of my imagination, evil spirits sent to stop me.
I need donuts.
Whatever this is—a dream, or hell—I know I have one thing to do and that is to get home. Nothing will stop me. Not sleep. Not hunger.
I’ve never had this kind of energy before. This body—it feels so powerful.
On the radio I hear all about this me. All about what this
me
has done. Murders. Tortures. Rapes.
Forget the donuts!
I have to get to Apple. No one can stop me.
* * *
Apple resting in the hospital bed. She looks so young and pure and small and still. Machines all around, one to wake up her heart, another to make her breathe. She inhaled a lot of smoke. Things were touch and go for a while. The babysitter is fine. They sent her home hours ago.
Was this fire another test? If this is some kind of limbo, and saving this little girl was my golden ticket through the gates of heaven . . . Or maybe this is hell, where a second chance will flash at me again and again like a nut in a shell game.
God knows what I would do with a second chance.
Apple stirs, she’s waking up. I put a hand on her arm.
I could have a family, a normal life. With Apple. Get a kitten or a puppy. A nicer place. And then, after a time, I could go out again. I could find morons. I could train this weak body and make it a weapon against all the morons.
And then come home for spaghetti.
“Daddy,” Apple says, finally, after a very long time.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“How was the show?” she says, weakly.
“The show?” I say. “You go through a house fire and the first thing you ask about is my show.”
She coughs out something.
“What was that, sweetheart?”
“I’m your greatest fan,” she says, in the voice of a lifelong smoker.
She falls asleep soon after, and, watching the news, I see I broke out of prison last night.
I can hear God laughing. Story of my life.
And if what I think is going to happen happens, it’s a very twisted joke indeed.
* * *
APPLE.
The house burned. Huge black stains jut up from the front windows, looking like a pair of mocking eyes.
My Apple. Is she—?
“Are you all right, mister?”
An old man setting out his garbage. Mr. Williams from next door, the spy. He once peeked in the window and caught me snorting a line of cocaine in the kitchen—Apple was at school. He never said anything. Been waiting for the day to lord it over me.
No one’s around. He’s always been such a pain in the ass. I could—
APPLE.
“What happened here?” I say.
“Horrible, isn’t it? But they got out.”
“Where’s . . . ?” I ask.
“Cedars-Sinai. You know, buddy, it looks like you should see a doctor yourself.”
“Fudge off,” I say, and slug him in the face. I hear a crack but I don’t stop. I get into the car and speed off. No one can stop me.
* * *
The nurses have been so nice. I wonder if they’d like something from the coffee shop. I could use some coffee.
Oh—the door opens. Here it is. Here I am.
I don’t look so good. Head shaved, of course. I never liked the shape of my head. Too pointy. I’m covered with dirt. I’ve got blood on me. Nothing new. Is that powdered sugar, too? All around the edges of me, though, I look burnt, like toast that you just saved from turning to carbon at the last minute.
I knew I would show up sooner or later. Because it’s exactly what I would do.
“You,” I say.
“Howdy do?” I say.
* * *
Apple is alive! Asleep. Then there is that monster, in my body. My face! My chubby cheeks!
I scream: “You m-m-monster! Get out of here!”
“Why? I have a right to be at my daughter’s side.”
“She’s not your—”
In my mind I see something bad, and then—
* * *
Standing over myself, I blot out the light. I don’t look very happy.
* * *
| FUDGING MOTHERFUDGER! | WAIT. |
* * *
I charge, I pounce. | Right in the room, right near my Apple! |
* * *
Toppling on the bed. Apple underneath him. The nurses watching. The doctors. Running in. Vicious hands. My hands! Cardiac defibrillator. HELLO. It all makes sense. “STAND CLEAR!”
WAIT!
Something’s not right.
Ow.
Apple.
* * *
Thunder. There is thunder. And voices. I hear voices!
Angels?
* * *
There’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news is I got my old self back. Flabby and schlubby, schlubby and flabby. It’s good to be home again. Skinwise, at least. The bad news is I get ten years for electrocuting a man who was already sentenced to die—by electrocution! Now that’s a joke.
Speaking of jokes, here’s my lawyer. He walks in with his tie and jacket and . . . nothing. There’s nothing funny about him.
“Is she here, Jack?”
“Right outside. Be patient. Don’t make a bad impression for Social Services.”
“I’m doing my best, but I’ve been going crazy.”
“Please don’t use that word, Mr. Cordero. The jury didn’t believe it, and . . . Well, all right, here she comes now.”
A social worker brings her in. My little girl looks older. They grow so fast.
“You know who you are?” I say. “You’re the prettiest girl.”
She looks at me with eyes as flat and dead as my first stand-up set.
“I’m not your pretty girl,” she says in a grown-up voice. Then she says, “Kidding!” Her smile is big and bright like always, like it always was. But her eyes, her eyes stay flat and dead.
About the Author
Nuyorican writer R. Narvaez was born and raised in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. His mother came from Ponce, Puerto Rico; his father from Naranjito. Narvaez received his master’s degree from the State University of New York at Stony Brook and later attended the Humber School for Writers on a scholarship. He has taught at the high school and college levels and worked in magazine publishing and advertising. His fiction has been published in
Mississippi Review
,
Murdaland
,
Street Magazine
,
Thrilling Detective
,
Indian Country Noir
,
Long Island Noir
,
Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery
,
and
You Don’t Have a Clue: Latino Mystery Stories for Teens.
His stories have been submitted for Edgar Award consideration on three different occasions. He blogs at Nuyorican Obituary.
Contents
In the Kitchen with Johnny Albino
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