The Sin Bin (7 page)

Daddy's Girl

Ben the gimp racked up another bottle of Bud,
leaned over the bar, real conspiratorial, then blurted, 'He was fucking her for
years, y'know.'

I thought, not again. Some guys see you with an
eighteen-year-old in hot-pants, they get off on this shit. I grabbed the Bud,
watched a white head of grog float over the edge and caught it on my tongue.

'Straight up,' said Ben. He eyeballed me real close,
even let a fly settle on the bar, blinked at it, thought about a swipe, thought
again; watching me was obviously more interesting to him.

I slurped the beer. Ben's jaw jutted, a jagged line of
crooked teeth poked up like fence-posts ... and, what was that, drool? He was
drooling as he waited for me to go postal. Riding me for a move; the signs were
more subtle in the Joint.

'So, you, eh ... you know? Gonna take care of it?' he
said.

I'd been out just long enough to know what passes for
shit-stirring on the street. If I was cracking heads through, Ben was topping
my list right now.

I lowered the Bud.

'You wouldn't be making trouble, would you, Ben?'

He swatted at the fly. Missed. Moved back from me real
fast and flicked a bar-towel over his shoulder. 'Fuck off! Trying to be a mate
that's all.'

He did the petted lip thing, my little sister Kimmy used
to do this when she was about eight, nine ... no later than ten, for sure. I
still remembered her ways.

'A mate, eh?'

'Too right, try and do a man a good turn and what do you
get?' He didn't know what he was saying; he was still pumped on the rush from
the job.

'I dunno, Ben, you tell me ... what's a good turn?'

He got that faraway look in his eyes. Slapped palms on
the bar, leaned in again, 'I'm telling you straight down the middle ... that
girl bangs like a truck stop door! She's my sister, I should know ... there's
more to being in this crew than lapping about in my old man's Mustang.'

He wrapped the bar-towel round the pumps; the fly
settled down on the bar again. I swatted it with the heel of my hand; showed
Ben the blood and guts, little legs still twitching.

He turned down the corners of his mouth, dropped brows.

'That's fucking gross.'

'You want gross, Ben?'

There was no one in the bar to see the muzzle flash,
hear the shot or Ben's cry as the bullet lodged between his ears.

****

The Mustang started first time. Beautiful set of
wheels. Always loved these old cars.

'It's junk,' Angie had said when her old man offered it
to me.

'Junk ... girl, this is quality. Genuine piece of
American history, this is!'

She flicked her hair back, those dark-blonde curls
making waves like the ocean behind us, 'I'm hungry, let's eat.'

I took her to Maccy Dees on the Point, out by the
auto-mart. I liked to listen to the crickets at this time of night, smell the
imported eucalyptus breezing in over the burn of gas and burgers.

'What do you want?' said Angie.

'I'm good, thanks.'

'Not even a Coke?'

'Maybe a Coke, small one.'

She smiled as she spoke into the clown's nose, ordered
herself a Big Mac, sprung for the 'Go Large' option when she was asked. As she
leaned over she exposed her lower back above her trackies ... how did she stay
in shape and eat all that comfort food?

We drove to the back lot. Gulls were scratching on the
nature strip. Angie devoured the burger and fries, then set about washing it
all down with the Coke.

'Daddy has some work for you?' She wiped her chin as the
Coke dribbled down the side of the cup.

'Oh, yeah.'

'Yeah, says it's something you'll like—' she opened the
cup, took out an ice cube.

'Like?'

I liked two things, playing the ponies and the other ...
Angie climbed over the stick-shift, popping the ice-cube in her mouth.

'
Mmh-hmh,
' she said, fiddling with the cord on
her trackies, and passing the ice-cube from her mouth to mine.

Was it all just a game to her?

****

I was making good time on the highway. The Mustang
took its time lapping in the 'burbs, but out on the proper roads — no problem.
Had the needle touching 70-mph. Always made me jumpy travelling at speed on the
way to a job. Never on the way back. Amazing how some sirens, few Mars lights,
helps you get your shit together.

I felt hot, must have been a 30-degree day, in country
LA, you remember those with a fondness, mostly.

The sides of the highway, the verges and trees, were
burnt yellow. Not even a bird digging for a feed. Out the back of the car a
trail of dust kicked up.

I could feel sweat forming on my spine. Drops ran down
my forehead, got in my eyes. I took the sleeve of my shirt and wiped.

I was coming into Venice as the cell phone rang on the
passenger seat.

'Yeah, it's Jonny here ...'

The voice on the other end was one I recognised straight
off.

'Why the fuck are you not where you're supposed to be?'
said Patto.

What was I gonna tell him?

I'd thought of blowing him out?

That it was a last-minute change of heart?

I went with: 'I got ... side-tracked.'

Patto roared. I could hear the Irish coming into his
voice; most parts, I'd say it was left in the old country, but now and again it
came back ... usually when he was about to go Ned Kelly on someone's ass.

'Now, you listen here ye little gobshite, I will permanently
end your ability to play the hard fuck by removing your tongue and any other
protuberance I find to my feckin' fancy if you are not at exactly where you are
supposed to be in the next fifteen minutes ... do I make myself feckin' clear?'

Those Irish, real way with words.

I clicked the cell to end the call.

****

Patto saw me pulling up in the Mustang and burst a
blood vessel.

'You dumb Yankie fucker, what the hell are you bringing
that piece of shit for?'

I wound down the window, it played on his nerves, kind
of accentuated the car's vintage. 'It's your car.'

'I know it's my feckin' car ... holy mother of God,
that's why ... look, fuck it!' He called over to his feckless son, yelled at
him: 'Ben, get those feckin' plates changed ... and stick a feckin' rocket up
yer arse would ye!'

We were late already. Later now, with the plates change.
I gunned the engine.

Patto and Ben sat silently in the backseat; Patto
running a hand over a Mossberg 12-gauge. I thought it looked a very sexual
movement. Wondered what Freud would say? I saw Ben and Angie watch him too;
they didn't seem to have the same feeling as I did. They didn't see it as
sexual ... it was
fear
I saw in their eyes.

The Mustang was a noisy car to take about town. The revs
attracted glances.

'This will never feckin' do,' said Patto.

I pushed him, 'Want to back out?'

He put the shooter to my head, 'Don't feckin' rile me,
laddie.'

Ben placed an open hand on his father's shoulder, 'Come
on, calm it! We got a job to do, right here and now.' It had the desired
effect; Patto settled. I knew I never had that level of influence on my father.
If I had, maybe Kimmy would still be with us.

I screeched the tyres to a halt.

We dived out — masks on.

Angie was the first. Fearless. I guess she felt she had
the least to lose.

The driver of the security truck had too little time to
react before Ben put a round through the gap in his visor. He turned to his
father grinning like an imbecile as the man twitched in his death throes.

'Drop the fucking box!' yelled out Angie. The second
guard stalled, his eyes fixed on the dead driver where he lay, head contents
spilled on the asphalt. 

'I said drop the fucking box!'

This time he complied. Angie took the box and keys from
his belt, then led the way back to the Mustang.

Inside of five, we were done.

I drove back to Patto's bar.

****

After the gunshot Patto came running through from
the back holding the Mossberg out in front of him. I had my Glock aimed on his
shoulder, dropped him easier than tagging cattle. Angie appeared at his back,
fists full of dollars from each hand fell all over him as she looked down.

I wanted to see her smile.

I wanted to see her sigh, in relief.

I wanted to see her run to me, open arms, shower thanks
on me.

She cried.

'Angie,' I said. I put the Glock in my belt, went to
her. Patto writhed on the floor, tried to get to the shooter. I picked it up.
'Angie, why the tears?'

She couldn't find words. Breath was trouble. She raised
hands to her face.

'He's in pain.'

'So fucking what?' I said.

Patto slapped about on the floor, grimaced in agony.

She started to pat her cheeks and make bellows of her
face. 'He's in pain.'

'So fucking what?' I repeated.

I knelt, put the Mossberg in his face.

Patto yelled out: 'Arggg, Jonny ... you're fucked!'

I wanted Angie to see him in agony, the way he'd seen
her in agony — I hauled her down.

'Look at his face, remember that ...' I grabbed Patto's
hair, he screamed as I smacked at his head, 'see the way he's squirming, trying
to get away?'

She looked, her eyes wide. All colour left Angie's face.
She was white as an angel, just like Kimmy, in her coffin.

'Angie, see him.' I wanted her to see her father in
pain, but more than that I wanted her to see him in terror. The kind of terror
he'd inflicted on her since she was a child.

'Angie, see him ...' She froze. I think she understood.
I took the shooter and aimed it at Patto, but couldn't pull the trigger. I
threw the gun down, it was too easy a way out for him.

'You dirty fucking bastard, your own daughter, how could
you ...? Your own daughter.
How?
You fucking animal.'

I knew the words I wanted to say, they came easily. They
were the same words I'd wanted to say to my own father when Kimmy died; before
he took the easy way out to avoid the back-lash.

'You dirty bastard, you dirty fucking bastard ... your
own daughter.'

I was crying. I could see the tears falling on Patto's
chest. The look on his face was defiant though, he couldn't care what he'd
done.

He smiled, laughed at me, 'You dumb bastard ... the hoor
loved every minute of it!'

I couldn't move as the Mossberg went off behind me.

I felt my ears ring.

One side of me went numb.

I turned to see Angie holding the gun. She was
motionless.

Her face was cold, firm.

Dark blood pooled on the floor under Patto's groin.

Enough
of This Shit Already

Shopping is, like, my way of
getting over Steve ... until the meds kick in anyway.

I'd been to Wal-Mart buying stuff I don
'
t need or want
—
picked up my fourth pair of Ugg boots for Chrissakes
—
had them under my arm as Brad Johnson squeezes beside me in the elevator to
math class, starts his shit again.

'Been trappin'
?'
he says, leaning in close enough to let me know he
'
d sprung for a second chilli-dog at lunch.

'Excuse me.'

'What Dad calls it when my mom comes
back all bagged up like a fur trapper,' a laugh on his last word, like, for no
reason. This jock shit has me weirded out, but I'
ve got
good cause.

The elevator jolts and Brad rocks
forward on the heels of his Nike Airs. I get a feel of his semi and I
'
m thinking, whoa ... that stuff about me
putting out is such fiction already. But my heart
'
s racing. Pounding and pounding because this is my first day back
after ... The Incident. Brad and I haven
'
t even spoken about The Incident.

'This is my floor!' I say, edging away
real fast, I'
m sweating, shit, this is too full-on.

'Your floor, my floor ... I don'
t mind one bit!'

That
'
s not even funny. Six weeks past, at Trish Jacob
'
s party, Steve caught Brad on top of me,
doing stuff. I was way out of it, can
'
t remember a Goddamn thing. But Steve and me are so over now. And
Brad, I just feel way too strange around him. Real strange.

I
'
m shaking as I turn to push the button and he smiles at me, moves in
close, all slimy-like. In the polished elevator door I see him eyeing my ass,
pursing his lips and flicking out his tongue like a snake or a lizard or
something. It
'
s all for his
jock buddies, they high-five, and I want to hurl. No shit, I want to throw
chunks here and now.

Brad
'
s hot hands grab my hips, pull me back. His semi feels more like a
hard-on now. I can
'
t move, I
want to say something but I
'
m
too choked, what a wimp-out!

'You remember this, Alana?' he says,
smiling, laughing.

My heart goes from flat-out to stopped
in a second. I feel chills all over me. But I remember nothing.

Ding
!
The elevator stops
—
a judder passes through me.

I shake off Brad
'
s hands and run out.

I'm in such a rush I nearly drop my new
Ugg boots.

****

'Hey, someone'
s been to the stores, let
'
s see,' says Louisa. She comes running over and takes my bag with
the boots, 'Oh my God, Alana, these are so awesome!'

I
'
m too pissed to respond, my heart is, like, racing as I think of
Brad and his buddies laughing at me. What the hell were they saying?

'What the fuck is this?' cries out
Louisa, she holds up a little white box I took from the pharmacy. I mean
took
,
I'd never stole before but I couldn'
t bring myself to
buy it. I
'
m acting real strange
since The Incident.

I snatch back the box, tuck it away.
'It
'
s ... you know, a test.' I
whisper on the last word.

Louisa
'
s eyes widen, she drops her voice lower than mine, mouths the shape
of the word: 'Pregnancy?'

I nod.

Louisa rolls her eyes, 'But, you and
Steve ... I thought you never did it!' I can take hearing his name from Louisa,
she
'
s my friend, she makes me
laugh, but I still don
'
t like
it.

'We never.'

Louisa sticks her tongue in her cheek,
rolls up her eyes again, 'Oh.'

I don
'
t think she understands.

Shit, I don
'
t think I do.

****

I sit through math but I don
'
t think I
'
m learning a frickin
'
thing. My head is full of Steve and how I
'
d promised he
'
d be
my first and the way his face looked when he said about catching me with Brad.
He roared and cried and said I was like all the other dumb chicks jumping in
the sack with an asshole just because he gets
'
Daddy
'
s Porsche on
weekends.

I cry, too, when I see the little white
stick go blue. I cry and it hurts because I don
'
t know why I
'
m
crying. Is it because that
'
s my
life, like, over already? Or is it because I
'
ve done one more thing to hurt Steve? I don
'
t know anything anymore.

'Alana, you dumb bitch,' I say. I'
ve been sitting in the girls
'
john for an hour; it took me so long to build up the courage to pee
on the little white stick but now I have the answer I wish I didn
'
t. I wish I was never born, Christ, how did
this ever happen?

I pull up my panties and take Mom
'
s gun from the strap thing on my leg. Mom
loves this little gun; she saw it in a movie once and Dad bought it for her,
strap thing and all. She laughed and laughed that day. That was a long time
ago. All the happy days seem a long time ago now. I look at the gun, it
'
s small, says Beretta on the side but Mom
calls it her Bobcat, like, why? I dunno. I don
'
t know anything. I don
'
t even want to think about anything.

I put the gun in my mouth and close my
eyes but I can
'
t pull the
trigger. All I see is, like, my mom and dad and grandpaw crying and crying and
crying and the tears are just too much. I don
'
t want to cause anymore tears. I didn
'
t want to cause any tears, ever.

****

'Hey, Alana ... how '
bout a replay?' shouts Brad to me.

Am I, like, underwater or something? My
mind feels all fuggy, could be the tears but I feel changed. My thinking just
doesn
'
t work. Dr Morgan said I
'
d feel different when the medication kicked
in, but I don
'
t think this is
what he meant.

'Are you talking to me?' I shout back.

Brad
'
s jock buddies slap him on the back, there
'
s white teeth lighting up the whole corridor as all the queen
bitches stop to stare and you could hear a fuckin
'
pin drop, like they always say.

'That night at Trish Jacob'
s place was, ehm, y
'
know
...'

I sure as hell don
'
t know.

'Was what?'

More back slapping, one of the
goofballs gets so excited he drops a folder, papers swirl about when the door
to the schoolyard opens and the breeze takes them.

Brad puts his hands out. 'What, you don
'
t remember?'

I shake my head. I
'
m just so glad Steve
'
s moved to Lincoln High and can
'
t see any of this.

'Well, how about I give you a re-run
tonight?'

This is, like, tennis or something,
eyes flitting up and down the hallway to catch what I
'
m gonna say next. I don
'
t even know, only, I
'
ve said it before I realise.

'Okay, sure.'

The silence breaks into uproar.

'Woop-woop-woop,' carries down the hall
and Brad'
s buddies try to lift him up. The noise brings
out Mr Martinez from the history department and he smacks his hands together to
get everyone to shut the hell up.

Soon all I hear is the queen bitches
slipping past me and muttering 'slut' over and over.

Like I give a fuck, now.

****

The black Porsche 911 is sat
outside our front porch for, like, maybe a minute before Brad
'
s hitting the horn and yelling.

'Who is that?' asks Mom.

'No one,' I say.

'Don'
t you lie
to me, missy!' She goes to the window, pulls back the drapes. 'What in the name
... who do you know drives a car like that, Alana?'

'No one!' I'
m
pulling on my Ugg boots and then I
'
m running for the door when Mom starts to flap.

'Now, just you hold on a minute my girl
... I know you'
ve been a little out of sorts but
remember what Dr Morgan said about taking things easy!'

'Mom ...'

The horn again.

'Alana, I don'
t
think running about all over town is the way to get your head together.'

'I'
m not
running about, Mom ... I
'
m just
...'

'Alana, I never ... I didn'
t mean that.' She looks concerned, starts to undo her apron strings
at her back, then moves towards me with her hands reaching for my face.

'Mom, please.'

She clasps her hands round my face, her
eyes are all misty as she says, 'You
'
re such a pretty, pretty girl my darling ... You could have anything
you want, anything in the whole world.'

I want to say, 'Anything?' Like it
'
s a real choice or something, but I know it
'
s not. I can
'
t have Steve.

I pull away and run for the door.

I can hear Mom yelling after me as I
get into the Porsche.

We drive, like, forever. Brad talks and
talks about a whole heap of crap, what the Dodgers need to do next, how his
daddy knows President Obama, his vacation in France and England and wherever.
Eventually, we
'
re parked out by
the flats. They have crags and rocks out here and they say some serial killer
used a scope-gun to shoot kids who were making out way back. I dunno if that
'
s true, but it
'
s what they say. I think about that a little as Brad turns off the
engine and swivels round to face me. He has that shit-eating grin of his on. I
never noticed before now but the grin
'
s crooked, too.

'So, here we are,' he says.

'Yeah.'

He sits on the edge of his seat with
his crotch facing me, like maybe that serial killer
'
s scope-gun once looked.

He touches his lips, sways a bit. Goes
on and on. Says Steve
'
s name,
like three, maybe four times, I lose count. I
'
m, like, hearing Steve,

Steve,

Steve,

Steve, and I
'
m thinking, why? Why
'
s he keep on him?

Enough. Enough already.

All the while I just look into him and
want to hear this is all, like, a nightmare or something. That my life
'
s a bad dream I
'
m soon gonna wake from. But I don
'
t hear it. Nothing like it.

'Hey, c'
mon,
you know I wanna fuck you again, Alana, and I know you ain
'
t getting none from old loverboy Steve, so
I
'
m guessing you could do with
the action.'

This is the best he can do?

I
'
m tuned in to what he
'
s saying and I
'
m,
like, is that it? We done? You had your say already?

He reaches out and tries to pull me
towards him but I pull away.

'Oh, I get it.'

'You do?'

'Yeah, you want some stuff.'