The Cocaine Chronicles (24 page)
Then the cravings started.
I knew she wasn’t coming back, but that fiction kept me alive.
Kept me thinking it was the drug. The drug did me, and not me the drug.
He ruined that conceit, better than therapy ever could.
Trying to avoid contact with my fellow losers at the halfway house, I took to mincing garlic like garlic would keep everyone at bay, like they were all vampires. I guess we are, vampires that suck smoke instead of blood. It worked, everyone kept their distance, except for Asha. I was her reclamation project and she tried to draw me out. I accepted her good attentions, but I didn’t want to be drawn out or in, or anywhere. I wanted to stay lost. Alone would be good, but I couldn’t expect that. I had to get with the twelve-step program, show requisite progress to get these people out of my life. Still, Asha was pleasant and charming, with big luminous eyes that were easy to look into. Good thing she didn’t go for men, because our friendship would have been much more complicated. Finally, I explained a little about myself, and so when she came into the kitchen with this look on her face, I knew I had probably said too much.
“What’s wrong?”
“You. I read about you.”
“What? That I’m a fuck-up? You already knew that.”
She shook her head.
“Yeah, I made a mess of what most people think was a promising career.”
“Don’t you miss that life? Running that restaurant, cooking?”
“I don’t know. I guess I do.”
“My girlfriend works for this famous entertainer. She says he needs a chef.”
I raised an eyebrow, in spite of myself.
“I wouldn’t get past the interview,” I said.
“She’s crazy about me and listens to what I have to say. If you’re interested, you’d have a shot.”
“I’ll think about it,” I replied, without a hint of enthusiasm. I wondered why she wanted to go out of her way for me, she was smart enough to know I truly was a fuck-up. It had to be her nature, trusting and giving, and maybe a bit naïve, coupled with being smart about people and hard-nosed about the everyday affairs of running the halfway house. I guess that’s what you need in order to be in her line of work, skills that contradict each other. Strange how a woman, young and attractive, would choose social work; running a halfway house must be like hanging around unflushed toilets all day, when she could choose so many more attractive occupations. Maybe she wanted to be a Hindu Mother Teresa, and if she could drag me back to respectability, she’d be one giant step closer to sainthood.
Sometimes I think I hear him calling, a sibilant whisper from a satin-lined oak coffin hidden below the sub-basement in a tomb so cold he’d be able to see his rancid breath if he actually had breath. “Living food, that’s what I’m feeling,” he says.
Because he’s feeling it, I’m feeling it, and that’s why I’m drinking that Santa Ynez red, and I’m liking it more than I should.
Backsliding.
No more of this drinking after work, getting silly, having flights of fancy that do me no good.
I’ve still got to deal with living food, no matter how silly it is to consider cooking without fire an earth-shaking invention. Really, you’d think most reasonable people would agree that cooking is a good thing, a good invention, and we should feel good about it. Maybe Monster remembered something about predigestion in high school biology and it confused and disgusted him. Probably, though, it’s the influence of a gastronomic guru who put him on the road to bliss through the chewing of fresh bark. Who am I to stand in the way of his path to enlightenment?
Monster is a freak, a freakish freak, maybe a child-molesting freak, but he’s not a creature-feature villain, no matter how much red wine might insinuate that.
No.
He’s a self-invented American, freakishly fascinating in his attempt at reinvention, and because of it, his self-invention, his desire to live like something out of a cautionary tale of how outrageously famous people go wrong, makes him unique, unique as crazy wealth and an addiction to television can make you. I bet as a kid he rushed home to watch
Dark Shadows
with a chaser of
The
Brady Bunch
, which explains some of it—the blond children running around like chickens shooed about by giddy parents. Really, it’s not Monster or the kids I wonder about, it’s the parents. What must they be like? What do they want for themselves, for their children?
Monster bait.
I’m sure they have lawyers on speed dial, ready and waiting for something actionable. Maybe that’s Monster’s real value: pulling back the curtain on the banality of human perversity. Give somebody like him enough money and power and what gets revealed?
He’s fucking crazy, but it’s okay.
Everyone here knows it. It’s common knowledge living up here on the mountain. When will the townspeople realize what’s up and break out the torches and pitchforks and march on Monster’s
Lair
? Isn’t it inevitable?
I have another glass of wine and try to return my attention to the task at hand—planning Monster’s meals for the week. I figured when I first saw him that the last thing he would be concerned with is eating, figuring him as a man who lived on meth and Twinkies and maybe Diet Coke, because these folks bathe themselves in Diet Coke. For a man over six feet, he must weight 120 pounds, and that’s if he hasn’t evacuated his bowels.
Considering what he wants to eat, he’d be better served by hiring a botanist than a personal chef.
Living food isn’t something a cook makes. No, give a kid mud, wheat, water, and whatever, and let him go at it.
But I’m a professional, and if that’s want Monster is into this week, I’ll give it to him straight, with a sprig of fresh rosemary on that sunbaked gluten ravioli.
Breakfast: Oatmeal with coconut milk and raisins.
Snack: Cracked-barley porridge with fresh strawberries.
Lunch: Vegan, sunbaked pizza with three kinds of tomato and Mexican salt from Oaxaca.
Snack: Fresh greens in a lemon sauce.
Dinner: Veggie sushi.
Snack: Unsweetened cider.
That’s what my life is now; feeding Monster shit he calls food.
If I had more integrity, if I had that kind of character, I’d get my ass off of the mountain, face the consequences, and preserve my dignity.
Fuck yes. The first step on the road to recovery is to know yourself. I’d best start whipping up some sun-baked potato pancakes for Monster’s snack, or find a crack pipe; maybe both if I know me, and I do.
Mary Ann Heimann
GARY PHILLIPS
writes in several mediums, including comic books, novels, and screenplays, seeking to tap the primal. His published works of fiction include
Bangers, The
Perpetrators,
and
Monkology
, a collection of stories featuring private investigator Ivan Monk. Phillips won the Chester Himes Mystery Award, was short-listed for a Shamus Award, and is on the national board of the Mystery Writers of America.
W
ild Willie stumbled backward, knocking against the rickety kitchen table, sending the two plastic bricks of coke somersaulting to the floor.
“Goddammit, Spree, pay up.” Wild Willie wrenched hard to get the six-shooter free from the other man’s grasp.
“Fuck that, Willie!” Spree Holmes blared. “I did.” He had both of his hands clamped around Wild Willie’s gun hand, his fingers tugging on the barrel of the revolver, even as Willie beat the shit out of his arm with his free fist. “You fuckin’ reneged, man,” he added, gritting his teeth.
Holmes sprung from a tiptoe position so as to maximize his weight bearing down on the heavier but flabbier Wild Willie. It worked, and the two went over and down onto the worn linoleum. They slid against one of the lower cabinets, busting off its handle.
“Shit!” McMillan hollered from the doorway, ducking and diving beneath the wind of the Samurai sword Crider swung at the top of his thinning hair. McMillan flopped onto his stomach in his vintage Hawaiian shirt atop the ratty shag carpet. But for once he wasn’t worried about keeping his clothes neat. He twisted around onto his back, kicking and flailing his legs like an angry turtle, just as Crider chopped at him with the blade. A piece of the heel of McMillan’s two-tone shoe was sliced off and he instinctively shut his eyes as if he’d been gored in the heart.
“Ugh,” Holmes grunted after Wild Willie yanked the gun free. He’d been partially straddling him but flung himself sideways as the other man righted the piece. Desperate, Holmes reached out and latched onto anything he could off the counter. With brutal force he slammed alongside Willie’s head a glass container used with a blender. Its impact caused Willie’s shot to be misdirected and singe past Holmes’s head—but not into it.
“Motherfucker,” Wild Willie swore. A thick piece of glass was embedded in the meaty part above his eyebrow, and he had no choice but to grab for it to relieve the pain. As he did so, Holmes shoved the heel of his hand into the shard, driving it deeper. Willie’s legs twitched in agony as he tore off another blast at Holmes’s chest.
In the dining room McMillan keenly registered the shot but was concentrating on throwing a porcelain statuette of a trumpet player he’d plucked off a shelf with as much shoulder as he could put behind it.
“You throw like a little girl,” the silver-toothed Crider taunted. A cut had opened up on his face as a result of the miniature musician hitting him. He was on one side of a round dining room table and McMillan opposite. Crider held his gleaming sword in both hands, the bulk of it poised over the table.
“Which you want to lose, man? Hand or ear?” Crider made a quick back-and-forth with the steel, letting it whistle in the stifling air of the little house.
“You ain’t man enough to take me without your chop suey prop,” McMillan said, inching to his left.
“Come on, I’ll make it nice and clean and fast.” Crider made a vicious swipe that caused McMillan to tense but not be so stupid as to start running and get the back of his neck severed.
Holmes and Wild Willie tumbled out of the kitchen, entangled. When Willie had shot at him the second time, Holmes was in the process of lowering his upper frame, and as the bullet funneled into the bone of his shoulder blade, his momentum carried him forward and he’d rammed into Wild Willie’s chest, stunning him. Battling tears and doing what he could to ignore the stars exploding behind his corneas, Spree Holmes had pressed the fight, knowing if he let up, the next shot from that old Colt would blow his guts out.
Instinctively, Crider bounded over to the wrestling forms to give his homeboy Willie a hand. He turned to refocus on McMillan, who was now pushing the dining room table toward him. Crider dodged to one side but McMillan followed his movement and upended the table onto the swordsman’s feet.
“Bastard!” Crider yelped. He got his left foot free but the right, in its snakeskin boot, wasn’t so easily extricated. McMillan held onto the edge of the table and lifted it up quickly and then brought it down again on the right’s instep. Crider gritted his teeth and wielded the blade toward McMillan’s hand. The other man lunged out of the way and the sword sliced into the table’s rim and held fast.
McMillan laughed and, putting effort behind it, shoved the table, sending Crider into a wall as he attempted to free his weapon. “I got your girl,” McMillan said, and plowed a fist into the opposing man’s nose as the sword came loose.
At that same moment, Holmes and Wild Willie were digging into each other’s faces with their fingers. Holmes’s thumb was gouging into the corner of Willie’s mouth. The latter shifted and bit down on that thumb like it was fresh steak.
“That ain’t gonna help you, Willie,” Holmes said, leveraging forward and causing Willie’s head to rattle against the doorjamb. Willie reached for the six-shooter, which was now lying on the kitchen floor, but Holmes wasn’t about to allow that to happen. Holmes took hold of what material he could of Wild Willie’s T-shirt and, jerking him up, head-butted him, opening the gash wider over Willie’s eye.
“Ke-rist!” Wild Willie screamed, and tried to scurry away. Holmes was on his feet and stomped on the escaping man’s side like he was a bothersome cockroach. He then pressed the barrel of the gun onto Willie’s thigh and shot him.
“That ought to slow you down,” Holmes said over Willie’s whimpering.
Behind him Crider had his sword but was keeling over from a rocking blow delivered via the dining room chair hefted by McMillan. The chair was rusted metal tubing and a torn leatherette-covered seat, but it served McMillan well as a shield. Like a lion tamer from an old Saturday morning serial, he had it up and was using it to fend off the blows from Crider’s sword.
“Put it the fuck down,” Holmes ordered.
Crider and McMillan both turned and stared. McMillan then grinned broadly, stroking his goatee with his long-nailed hand. “Shoot him,” he said.
The Colt in Holmes’s hand didn’t waver, even though the burning in his shoulder intensified.
Crider made a guttural sound and pivoted toward Holmes. The sword was at his side, the blade pointing outward—a Mississippi Samurai in pointy-toed cowboy boots and worn Lee jeans.
“I’m not fuckin’ around, Crider.”
“Smoke his ass,” McMillan repeated. He still held onto the chair.
Crider cocked his head to the side, waiting and wondering. He grasped the sword by two hands on its hilt.
“Get the shit,” Holmes said.
“On it.” McMillan scooted into the kitchen, not letting go of the chair until he was in the other room. Wild Willie was curled into a fetal position and moaned softly, his leg leaking profusely.
“Something broke?” McMillan teased cruelly, as he scooped up the two keys of flake. “Or is it indigestion from trying to cheat us, you cheap fuck?” Spittle dotted McMillan’s graying goatee. “Huh, Willie, that it?” He leaned over, feigning like he was listening for a response.
“You …” the man on the floor began.
“You what, you fuckin’ Shylock.” McMillan planted his two-tone Nunn Bush shoe in Willie’s stomach, making him wince and gurgle crimson. “You gonna try and play us, man? After the business we done together, making your own thirty-percent-state-disability-retard-self phatter than you deserve to be?”
Holmes called from the dining room: “Come on, let’s hit the road!”
“Yeah, yeah. Can’t have no more fun.” He kicked Willie in the ribs, a bone giving way. As McMillan started to walk out, Wild Willie suddenly gyrated his body and reached for the exiting man’s legs. McMillan reacted but still got tangled up as Willie continued to paw at him, and he fell forward.
Holmes knew better than to be distracted by his partner going timber. The problem was McMillan whirligigged his arms to stay upright, causing Holmes to reposition himself, and Crider took his opening.
There was a flash of silver and the sword swiped downward at McMillan’s tilting head. “Oh, fuck me,” the goateed man exclaimed and put a hand to the side of his head.
Crider turned on the balls of his feet, bringing the sword level like a batter going for a sliding pitch. Holmes cranked off a round even as he peddled backward to ward off being hacked. The shot blasted into the swordsman’s forearm and he dropped his weapon.
McMillan was on his knees, his eyes saucers from fear. “Finish him, shit, finish him, Spree.”
“We’re done here,” the calmer Holmes declared, already heading toward the front door. He carried the Samurai sword, the peacemaker tucked into the hollow of his back. Redness soaked into his shirt and blood dripped onto the carpet.
“You sure?” McMillan stared at Crider, who was crumpled into one of the other chairs where the dining room table had been. He was holding his useless arm by his opposite hand. The .44 slug had entered at such an angle that it exited through his elbow, shattering the joint.
“What’s he going to do,” Holmes said derisively, “call the cops?”
“Still …” McMillan ventured.
“I gotta get patched up. And I’m hungry and I’m hurting.” It occurred to him that the money they’d brought wasn’t in his hand. No sense leaving it now, it wasn’t like there weren’t going to be hard feelings between him and Wild Willie.
He found the small gym bag beside the couch and tucked it under his arm like a football. With that, Holmes made for the front door, not particularly concerned with whether a nosy neighbor or the local law was on the other side. It was getting on toward dusk and he wanted to be out on the highway, away from Wild Willie, Crider, and this shitty town of Greenwood.
“You think this is over, Holmes? You know it’s not.”
McMillan pointed at Crider. “Shut up.”
“Scared, McMillan? Scared I’m going to put my red magic on you?” Crider said, his sunken eyes swallowed up as if his face were caving in on itself.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut.” McMillan smacked the wounded man with the plastic Circle K shopping bag he’d placed the coke bricks in. This upended Crider and he crashed to the floor, wailing as he landed on his exposed bone.
McMillan laughed and couldn’t resist standing over the hurting man. “You know, Crider, I never did cotton to you.”
Holmes called from the vicinity of the front door: “Stop fucking around!” McMillan grinned at him and looked back at Crider. A burst of a sparkling brown cloud engulfed his face.
“Hey,” McMillan said, hitting Crider hard, twice in rapid succession, as he lay on the floor. Crider went limp but still wasn’t unconscious.
McMillan put his angry face close to the still man. “Why don’t I just shoot you?”
“I’m leaving, Mill.” Holmes stepped through the door and into the coming darkness.
In the car, plowing across the gravel of the driveway and onto the residential street, each assessed the other’s damage.
“How deep is it?” McMillan looked but didn’t touch the wound atop Holmes’s shoulder blade.
“I can feel the bullet grind when I move my arm.” Despite this, Holmes was at the wheel. He glanced sideways. “How about that chunk Crider took off?”
McMillan blinked and felt along the top, or what had been the top, of his right ear. “Ain’t that some shit? I got so excited I forgot that motherfucker chopped this off.” He leaned so he could see his lobe in the rearview mirror as he gingerly fingered the flesh. “Can it be sewn back on?”
“Sure, want me to turn around so you can get the piece?”
McMillan gave him a lopsided look. “Shit,” he finally said. “So where to, drive across the border to Arkansas? I used to know a cat there in Little Rock who can help us out.” McMillan was reaching into his back pocket for his cell phone.
“Too far, and even though we ain’t gushing out, I don’t want to go that long without attention.”
McMillan nodded, understanding his meaning. “You just lookin’ to get your dick wet.”
“Ain’t you? We just scored enough coke that once it’s broken down to crack in the ’hood, it will keep us in dead prezs for months.”
McMillan indicated the trunk where their cash kept company with the snow. “And the discount we got it at. I still can’t believe after we’d already agreed to the price beforehand that Wild Willie tried to jack it up once we got there. What the fuck, huh?”
“Exactly,” Holmes said, heading toward Highway 49. “Probably some static from his supplier. But that’s his worry, not ours.”
McMillan clucked his tongue. “Man didn’t want to listen.” He sneezed and coughed. “Goddamn ju-ju powder Crider blew on me. What was that about, huh?” He plucked at his nose.
Holmes tried to shrug but his shoulder was already stiffening. “Some kind of Indian thing, I guess.”
McMillan looked blank.
“He’s part Choctaw,” Holmes illuminated. “Crider was always into hoodoo shit, casting spells and chanting and all that to protect him when we were about to do a job.”
“You two used to run together?”
“Yeah,” Holmes said, but didn’t elaborate. He gave a number to McMillan and the other man handed the phone over when the line connected.
“Uh-huh,” Holmes said, after saying hi and listening for a bit. “I know I have some nerve, Janey, but I’m hurtin’, baby, and I need a safe port in the storm.” He didn’t dare look over at McMillan or he’d start laughing at how thick he was slathering it on and screw it up for sure. “Baby, I know, but I promise you we’ll make it worth your effort.”
He listened some more as Jane Corso chewed him out, but he could tell she was softening. What they had once was too strong and too real for either of them to pretend otherwise—and being able to help her with car and utility payments was certainly an added incentive. She was a practical woman, after all.
“And, uh, if it’s not too much bother, maybe you could ask what’s-her-face, you know, the one with the green flamingo, to help you out.”
McMillan brightened and considered just where Corso’s friend had that flamingo tattooed.
“Okay,” Holmes said, after another minute or so of negotiating. He hung up. And even though his shoulder was starting to burn worse, he winked broadly. “We’re set, man.”
“Righteous.” McMillan settled back, wondering how much reconstructive surgery would cost.