The Cocaine Chronicles (4 page)
“Antone? Are you taking food off my tray?”
I looked to Antone for backup, but Molly’s tongue was so far in his mouth that she might have been flossing him. When he finally managed to detach himself, he said: “Um, Grandma? I’m going to take a little lie-down.”
“What about your guests?”
“They’re going,” he said, walking over to the door with a heavy tread and closing it.
“It’s time for
Judge Judy
!” his granny said, which made me wonder, because how does a blind person know what time it is? Antone used the remote control to turn on the television. It was a black-and-white, total Smithsonian. After all, she was blind, so I guess it didn’t matter.
Next thing I knew, I was alone in the room with the blind woman, who was fixated on
Judge Judy
as if she was going to be tested on the outcome, and I was eyeing her potato chips, while Antone and Molly started making the kind of noises that you make when you’re trying so hard not to make noise that you can’t help making noise.
“Antone?” the old lady called out. “Is the dishwasher running? Because I think a piece of cutlery might have gotten caught in the machinery.”
I was so knocked out that she knew the word “cutlery.” How cool is that?
But I couldn’t answer, of course. I wasn’t supposed to be there.
“It’s—okay—Granny,” Antone grunted from the other room. “It’s—all—going—to—be—
Jesus Christ
—okay.”
The noises started up again. Granny was right. It did sound like a piece of cutlery caught in the dishwasher. But then it stopped—Antone’s breathing, the mattress springs, Molly’s little muffled grunts—they just stopped, and they didn’t stop naturally, if you know what I mean. I’m not trying to be cruel, but Molly’s a bit of a slut, and I’ve listened to her have sex more times than I can count, and I know how it ends, even when she’s faking it, even when she has to be quiet, and it just didn’t sound like the usual Molly finish at all. Antone yelped, but she was silent as a grave.
“Antone, what are you doing?” his granny asked. Antone didn’t answer. Several minutes went by, and then there was a hoarse whisper from the bedroom.
“Um, Kelley? Could you come here a minute?”
“What was that?” his granny asked.
I used the remote to turn up the volume on
Judge Judy
. “DO I LOOK STUPID TO YOU?” the judge was yelling. “REMEMBER THAT PRETTY FADES BUT STUPID IS FOREVER. I ASKED IF YOU HAD IT IN WRITING, I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ALL THIS FOLDEROL ABOUT ORAL AGREEMENTS.”
When I went into the bedroom, Molly was under Antone, and I remember thinking—I was a little high, remember—that he made her look really thin because he covered up her torso, and Molly does have good legs and decent arms. He had a handsome back, too, broad and muscled, and a great ass. Brandon had no ass (con), but he had nice legs (pro).
It took me a moment to notice that he had a pair of scissors stuck in the middle of his beautiful back.
“I told him no,” Molly whispered, although the volume on the television was so loud that the entire apartment was practically reverberating. “No means no.”
There was a lot of blood, I noticed. A lot.
“I didn’t hear you,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t hear you say any
words
.”
“I mouthed it. He told me to keep silent because his grandmother is here. Still, I mouthed it. ‘No.’ ‘No.’” She made this incredibly unattractive fish mouth to show me.
“Is he dead?”
“I mean, I was totally up for giving him a blow job, especially after he said he’d give me a little extra, but he was, like, uncircumcised. I just couldn’t, Kelley, I couldn’t. I’ve never been with a guy like that. I offered him a hand job instead, but he got totally peeved and tried to force me.”
The story wasn’t tracking. High as I was, I could see there were some holes.
How did you get naked
? I wanted to ask.
Why
didn’t you shout? If Grandma knew you were here, Antone wouldn’t
have dared misbehaved.
He had clearly been more scared of Granny than he was into Molly.
“This is the stash house,” Molly said. “Antone showed me.”
“What?”
“The drugs. They’re here. All of it. We could just help ourselves. I mean, he’s a rapist, Kelley. He’s a criminal. He sells drugs to people. Help me, Kelley. Get him off me.”
But when I rolled him off, I saw there was a condom. Molly saw it, too.
“We should, like, so get rid of that. It would only complicate things. When I saw he was going to rape me, I told him he should at least be courteous.”
I nodded, as if agreeing. I flushed the condom down the toilet, helped Molly clean the blood off her, and then used my purse to pack up what we could find, as she was carrying this little bitty Kate Spade knockoff that wasn’t much good for anything. We found some cash, too, about $2,000, and helped ourselves to that, on the rationale that it would be more suspicious if we didn’t. On the way out, I shook a few more potato chips on Granny’s plate.
“Antone?” she said. “Are you going out again?”
Molly grunted low, and that seemed to appease Granny. We walked out slowly, as if we had all the time in the world, but again I had that feeling of a thousand pairs of eyes on us. We were in some serious trouble. There would have to be some sort of retribution for what we had done. What Molly had done. All I did was steal a few potato chips.
“Take Quarry Road home instead of the interstate,” I told Molly.
“Why?” she asked. “It takes so much longer.”
“But we know it, know all the ins and outs. If someone follows us, we can give them the slip.”
About two miles from home, I told her I had to pee so bad that I couldn’t wait and asked her to stand watch for me, a longtime practice with us. We were at that point, high above the old limestone quarry, where we had parked a thousand times as teenagers. A place where Molly had never said “No” to my knowledge.
“Finished?” she asked, when I emerged from behind the screen of trees.
“Almost,” I said, pushing her hard, sending her tumbling over the precipice. She wouldn’t be the first kid in our class to break her neck at the highest point on Quarry Road. My high school boyfriend did, in fact, right after we broke up. It was a horrible accident. I didn’t eat for weeks and got down to a size four. Everyone felt bad for me—breaking up with Eddie only to have him commit suicide that way. There didn’t seem to be any reason for me to explain that Eddie was the one who wanted to break up. Unnecessary information.
I crossed the hillside to the highway, a distance of about a mile, then jogged the rest of the way. After all, as my mother would be the first to tell you, I went for a run that afternoon, while Molly was off shopping, according to her mom. I assumed the police would tie Antone’s dead body to Molly’s murder, and figure it for a revenge killing, but I was giving the cops too much credit. Antone rated a paragraph in the morning paper. Molly, who turned out to be pregnant, although not even she knew it—probably wouldn’t even have known who the father was—is still on the front page all these weeks later. (The fact that they didn’t find her for three days heightened the interest, I guess. I mean, she was just an overweight dental hygienist from the suburbs—and a bit of a slut, as I told you. But the media got all excited about it.) The general consensus seems to be that Keith did it, and I don’t see any reason to let him off the hook, not yet. He’s an asshole. Plus, almost no one in this state gets the death penalty.
Meanwhile, he’s telling people just how many men Molly had sex with in the past month, including Brandon, and police are still trying to figure out who had sex with her right before she died. (That’s why you’re supposed to get the condom on as early as possible, girls. Penises
drip
. Just fyi.) I pretended to be shocked, but I already knew about Brandon, having seen Molly’s car outside his apartment when I cruised his place at 2 a.m. a few nights after Brandon told me he wanted to see other people. My ex-boyfriend and my best friend, running around behind my back. Everyone feels so bad for me, but I’m being brave, although I eat so little that I’m down to a size two. I just bought a Versace dress and Manolos for a date this weekend with my new boyfriend, Robert. I’ve never spent so much money on an outfit before. But then, I’ve never had $2,000 in cash to spend as I please.
Dieter Auner
KEN BRUEN
is the author of many novels, including
The Guards,
winner of the 2004 Shamus Award, and is currently editing
Dublin Noir
(forthcoming from Akashic). His novels have been published in many languages around the world. He lives in Galway, Ireland, and also calls New York home.
M
an, I’m between that fuckin’ rock and the proverbial hard place. Hurtin’?
Whoa…so bad.
My septum’s burned out. Kiddin’, I ain’t. There’s a small mountain of snow on the table. Soon as the bleed stops, I’m burying myself in there, just tunneling in. The blood ran into my mouth about an hour ago, and fuck, made the mistake of checking in the mirror.
Nearly had a coronary. A dude staring back, blood all down his chin, splattered on the white T-shirt, the treasured Guns n’ Roses one, heard a whimper of . . .
Terror.
Horror.
Anguish.
A heartbeat till I realized I was the one doing the whimpering.
How surprising is that?
The Sig Sauer is by the stash, ready to kick ass. Say it loud, Lock ’n’ fuckin’ load. Is it an echo here, or does that come back as
rock ’n’ roll
?
I’m losing it.
Yeah, yeah, like I don’t fuckin’ know? Gimme a break, I know.
All right?
Earth to muthahfuckah, HELLO…I am, like…receiving this.
The devil’s in the details. My mom used to say that. God bless her Irish heart. And I sing, “
If you ever go across the sea to Ireland…It may
be at the closing of your day…
”
Got that right.
A Galway girl, she got lost in the nightmare of the American Dream and never got home again. If she could see me now.
Buried her three years ago, buried her cheap. I was short on the green, no pun intended. A pine box, 300 bucks was the most I could hustle. I still owe 150 on it.
A cold morning in February, we put her in the colder ground.
Huge crowd and a lone piper playing “Carrickfergus.”
I wish…There was me, Me and Bobby McGee.
Sure.
One gravedigger, a sullen fuck, and me, walking point. For the ceremony, a half-assed preacher. Him I found in a bar, out of it on shots of dollar whiskey and Shiner.
Bought him a bottle of Maker’s Mark to perform the rites.
Perform he did and fast, as he wasn’t getting the Mark till the deal was done.
Galloped through the dying words. “Man, full of misery, has but a short time.”
Like that.
Even the gravedigger gaped at the rapidity, the words, tripping, spilling over each other.
“Ashes to ashes.”
I was thinking David Bowie. The first pound of clay was shoveled, and I went, “Wait up.”
Didn’t have a rose to throw, so what the hell, took my wedding band, a claddagh, bounced it off the lid, the gold glinting against the dirt.
Caught the greed in the digger’s eyes and let him see mine—the message: “
Don’t even think about it.
”
I get back down that way, he’s wearing the ring, he’s meat.
My current situation, fuck, it just, like, got the hell away from me, one of those heists, should have been a piece of cake.
Cake with shredded glass.
Take down a Mex named Raoul. A medium mover of high-grade powder. Me and Jimmy, my jail buddy, my main man.
Simple score, simple plan. Go in roaring, put the Sig in Raoul’s face, take the coke, the cash, and
sayonara
sucker.
No frills.
Went to hell in a bucket.
Raoul had backup. Two moonlighting Angels. We never thought to check the rear, where the hogs were parked. Jimmy had sworn Raoul would be alone, save for some trailer trash named Lori.
And so it had seemed.
We blazed in, I bitch-slapped Raoul, Jimmy hit Lori on the upside of her skull—then the bikers came out of the back room. Carrying. Sawed-offs.
The smoke finally cleared and I was in Custer’s Last Stand. Everyone else was splattered on the floor, across the carpet, against the walls. Improved the shitty décor no end, gave that splash of color.
Jimmy was slumped against a sofa, his entrails hanging out. I went, “You stupid fuck, you never mentioned Angels. This is way bigger than us.”
The coke, too, more than he’d known. I needed two sacks to haul it out of there, and a bin liner for the cash.
Shot Jimmy in the face. Did him a favor. Gut shot? You’re fucked.
So, bikers, cops, and some stone-cold suppliers from way south of Tijuana on my tail. I covered my tracks pretty good, I think, only made a few pit stops. A bad moment when I saw a dude give me the hard look, but I’m fairly sure I shook him.
I’m holed up in the Houston Airport Marriott. Who’s gonna look there?
Checked in two days ago, leastways I figure it. Living on room service and the marching powder, thinking I’d have one hit, but it kinda sneaks up on you and you’re doing a whole stream without realizing. Got me a bad dose of the jitters, real bad.
The first day, if that’s the day it was, I was nervous as a rat, pacing the room, taking hits offa the coke, chugging from the Jack D. Had made the pit stop for essentials, loaded up on hooch and a carton of Luckies, oh, and on impulse, a Zippo—had a logo if not the edge.
Yankees, World Champions, 1999
. Like that.
Made me smile, a good year for the roses. The year I almost made first base. McKennit, met her in a bar, I’d been drinking Lone Star, nothing heavy, and building a buzz, almost mellow. Hadn’t even noticed her.
Me and the ladies, not a whole lot of history there, leastways none of it good.
She’d leaned over, asked, “Got a light?”
Sure. Got a boner, too.
Bought her a drink, figuring, a fox like she was, gotta be a working girl. I could go a couple of bills, have me a time.
I was wrong, she wasn’t a hooker.
Things got better, I took her home and, hell, I didn’t make a move, hung back, kissed her on the cheek, and she asked, “So, Jake, wanna go on, like, a…date?”
Two months it lasted. Had me some fun, almost citizen shit, even bought her flowers and, oh god, Hershey’s Kisses, yeah, like, how lame is that?
Got me laid.
I’d a cushy number going, a neat line in credit card scams, pulling down some medium change. I was on the verge…fuck…I dunno. Asking her something. Telling her I’d like to set us up a place…Jesus, what was I thinking?
We were sitting in a flash joint, finishing plates of linguini, sipping a decent Chianti, her knee brushing mine.
I can still see how she looked, the candle throwing a soft blush on her cheek, her eyes brown, wide, and soft.
Before I could get my rap going, the layout, the proposal, two bulls charged in, hauled me out of the chair, slammed me across the table, the wine spilling into her lap.
The cuffs on my wrists, then pulling me upright, the first going, “Game’s up, wise guy, you’re toast.”
The second leered at her, spittle at the corner of his mouth, asked, “The fuck a looker like you doing with this loser?”
And her body shaking, she stammered, “There must be some mistake.”
The bulls laughing, one went, “Nickle-and-dime con man, penny-ante shit, never worked a day in his goddamn life, he’s going down, honey, hard. You wanna spread your legs, baby, least get some return.”
They weren’t kidding about the hard bit. I got two years on that deal, fuckin’ credit cards. They call it white-collar crime, meaning they do not like you to fuck with their money.
Did the max, the whole jolt. Never saw McKennit again, used my one phone call to try and reach her, heard, “This number is no longer in use.”
Sent a letter, got “
Return to sender.
” Like the bloody song.
So, so fuck her.
The two years, in maximum-security penitentiary, trying to sidestep the gangs, the Crips, the neo-militia, the Brothers, the Mexs—mother-fuckahs, would put a shiv in you for two bits or a pack of Camels.
How I met Jimmy. Hooked up the first week, walking the yard, my hands in the pockets of the light denim jacket, a north-easterly howling across the stone, freezing my nuts off.
Wasn’t one of those movie deals. He didn’t, like, save me from the white supremacists or prevent some buck from turning me out.
Slow burn.
A favor here, a nod there, a gathering of little moves, till we had the buddy system cooking.
Guy could make me laugh, and on the block there wasn’t a whole lot of…what’s the word I want…heard it on
Regis
…or
Leno
…yeah,
frivolity
.
He got early release, and when I finally got out, he was waiting in a Pinto, some speed, a six of Miller (ice cold), and a wedge, said, “Some walking ’round bills.”
A buddy. Am I right or am I right? We had one album in the joint, belonged to Jimmy, Patti Smith’s
Horses
. Fuck, goes back thirty years. How old is that?
Thing is, I flat out loved it, still do. The reason why, in this tomb hotel room, I have the new one,
Trampin
.
Fuckin’ blinder.
Dunno is it cos Jimmy’s dead, or the whole screwed-up mess, but the goddamn songs speak to me.
You’re on the zillionth floor of the Airport Marriott, with the sole view being the runways, planes moving 24/7, you better have something talk to you. I’m chugging Jack D., singing along to “Mother Rose.”
And is this weird or what, I sound like Roy Orbison. My mom, when she wasn’t whining along to Irish rebel ballads, would play Roy endlessly.
Man, I don’t know politics from Shinola, but Radio Baghdad, hearing that, watching CNN and the body count, I’m weeping like a baby. Like what? Some kind of loser?
Loser? Me?
Hey, shithead, look in the corner, see that hill of coke, the bag of Franklins? Who’s losing?
My mom, her wish was to get back to Ireland, walk the streets of Galway, have oysters near the Spanish Arch, do a last jig in the Quays, but money, yeah, never put it together. So I’m, like, gonna make the pilgrimage for her—why I’m at the airport, got the documents, ticket, the whole nine.
Only worry is the beer isn’t cold there. How weird is that? But hey, I’ll drink Jameson. A few of those suckers, I might dance a jig my own self.
I rang a guy to offload the coke. Can’t really bring that shit to Ireland, and I’m worried he might sell me out, but we’ve done business before so had to tell him where I’m at, thinking maybe that was stupid, but I wasn’t focusing real hard when I dropped the dime.
Gotta get my shit together.
So I jump in the shower, blasting in the scald position, and I freeze. A knock at the door.
The Sig is where?
Think, fuck.
Another knock. Louder. Insistent.
And I’m stumbling outta the shower, hit my knee against the sink, that mother hurts, hobble to the bed, grab the Sig from under the pillow, shout, “With you in a sec.”
Slide the rack, my voice coming out croaked, sounding like, “Wiv y’all.” Texas, right?
I look through the peephole, and it’s the maid, fuckin’ room service. I shout, “I’m good,
muchas gracias
.”
Hear, “
De nada
.”
And the trolley moving on, oil those goddamn wheels. My body is leaking sweat, rivulets down my chest, back, thinking,
Gotta…get . .
. straight.
Rest of the day is purple haze, must have ordered some food as I came to on the floor. It’s dark, the only light coming from the runway, throwing an off/on flicker across the wall.
Half a turkey hero is on the floor, close to my mouth, smothered in mayo. The Sig is in my right hand and, yeah, my nose is pumping blood again.
The carpet is, like, fucked.
I have clothes on, 501’s, and, naturally, a white T with the bloodstained logo.
Redemption Road.
Almost illegible, it’s stuck to my chest.
I get to my feet, stagger a bit, so do a quick hit of the snow to straighten out, no biggie. I’m sitting on the bed, waiting for the rush, the phone rings, I pick up, figuring reception.
A voice goes, “You’re dead, sucker.”
Things to do in Houston when you’re dead.
I slam it down, hurting the palm of my hand.
I’m waiting. Let ’em come. I’m, like, ready…ready-ish. I’d play Patti but I’m listening to every sound, for every sound…a 747 about to take off…
Wonder where that’s bound?
Kurt Hegre
DONNELL ALEXANDER
smoked crack for about six weeks in 1985, before the drug’s warning labels were printed. When his buddies started pawning their shit just to get another hit, dude figured that scene was not his. In 2003, Crown published his memoir,
Ghetto Celebrity.