Will Work for Drugs (7 page)

Lubricated with his browning blood, my delicate camellia revolts and tightens, almost tearing, searing itself on his poisoned heat flow. Pummeling me senseless, there is no recourse other than to meet his thrusts with equal dementia. Sticky and slick turns gummy and thicker still. Hideous swell. Horrible explosion. Mutual expulsion. He jackhammers the last few droplets of come and blood into my hollow. Squashed under him, I collapse. Feel myself drain, deflate. He ebbs out slowly. Gagging for air.

But there is no air. It's too thick to breathe. The swampy atmosphere is stained with spunk and plasma. Johnny burrows into the small of my back. Tickling, licking, lapping at my oozing wound. His lips and tongue bathing my bruise. “We're both bleeding …” he baby talks.

I had been running the straight-and-narrow for as long as I could remember. For no good reason other than loneliness hit harder while nursing a hangover. A brain-crushing headache and sour stomach became a tiring way to greet the day. Then came Johnny.

Not that I could blame him for my multiple indiscretions. It just made sloppy easier, more seductive to slip back into. Felt almost criminal crawling around on all fours neck deep in the murky undertow. Dwell inside of someone else's psychic surgery for a while. It felt good to just let myself dissolve. Binge and purge. Choke on excess and suffer the consequences. Not give a shit. Be selfish. Greedy. Disappear into need. Submerge in desire. Crash, get jacked up, and crash again. Johnny and I started getting lubed on coke every weekend. Glut on Friday and Saturday night. Reel and feel like shit until Tuesday or Wednesday. Fuck ourselves out. Spasm into conversations that would begin at midnight and dwindle down hours later, long after the dawn had been blanketed over by dirty sheets that blocked out the sun.

The ritual always began the same. Hack out enough lines to force into cardiac arrest lesser mortals. Preparation for evaporation into a secret place. An undulating womb, which would expand and contract as the walls fell in upon themselves crushing out our breath. Our moods swung to whatever song was playing. Jump-cutting from blues to bebop to trance. Like our mind-set. A distorted juke box cranked full of musty tunes you could almost sing along to, but the melody kept escaping just as you got to the second verse.

Five hours into another Friday-night binge. Slinking into the lull between rushes. A moment of spastic paralysis as the muscles still tremble but the outer shell of the body freezes, locked into an electric rigor mortis.

Johnny was on the couch, one hand grabbing his bulge, the other playing spin-the-bottle with a broken fifth whose busted mouth reflected a smoky golden haze that meant we'd be screwing through another fractured day. I needed to wipe the dribble from my upper lip, comb my hair, grab a coat, search for my keys, and then try to remember how to drive, so I could rescue enough libations to see us through until the spell wore off and we were finally able to pass out in each other's arms again, brittle but still greedy. Couldn't send Johnny. He didn't drive. Couldn't send him even if he did. Didn't trust him. Not in his state.

Tiny's Tight Spot was the only place that would sell after hours. Scuzzy flop on the far end of downtown where only the lifers and ex-cops went to booze. Been paying off the precinct captains in the fifth ward for decades with free drinks, grilled bologna sandwiches, and 150 bucks a week. Stayed in business with what they did under the table. Shots were still fifty cents a round. Had to protect the regulars. Some occupied the same bar stool for forty years running. Three-quarters of a mile going twenty-five should've put me there and back in about fifteen minutes.

I placed my order with Tony, the owner. Two six-packs of Schlitz, Johnny's favorite, and an overpriced fifth. Grabbed the bag and split.

A slice of dirty brown was shredding a crack in the horizon. The electricity bouncing off the streetlights made everything look hollow. Ghostly. Life-sized images of what real once was. I was no longer sure I knew. My high was folding, crumbling. I reached across the seat to pet the paper bag, praying the booty of firewater would by proxy rekindle a small flare-up in Johnny's loins. I'd be back home in a matter of minutes, where I could throw my arms around his neck, slip my tongue in his mouth, and breathe. I was halfway through the intersection before I saw the squad car. Too late to stop, I simply played good citizen and pulled over. Routine bullshit. License, registration, insurance.

“Where you headed?”

“Home.”

“What's in the bag?”

“Schlitz and Jack Daniel's … Fancy a shot?”

“Turn off the ignition.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Do it. And get out of the car. Hands on the hood.”

Believe it or not, I know when to quit. Did what was expected. Got out of the car. Typical traffic stop, but with a twist. Everyone was under suspicion now that the Bank Street Boys, a notorious gang of teenage hustlers, were turning up facedown in the Gratz River. Dead bodies were hitting double digits. Downtown hood rats scurried home after dark, turning bored traffic cops into Bad Lieutenants. Tried to make small talk just to distract the bull from looking too close into my pinwheel eyes, runny nose, nervous condition. Not that they'd suspect a woman. Women don't kill for no reason. When a woman murders, it's usually a crime of passion—lover, ex-boyfriend, husband. Not a pack of prostitutes. That's man's work, right? Killing off over and over again, the replicons of their first, their last, their ever-present rejection. Killing again and again, their lousy mother, the haughty cheerleader who snubbed them in tenth grade, the prom queen who at the last minute went to the dance with the football hero, the night nurse, the convenience store clerk, the women who represented to their tortured libidos all those who wouldn't give it up before, but were selling it off in little chunks now, to anyone who could afford it … That's what Bundy and Speck and Ramirez did. That's not what women do. But that's just the coke talking, so I keep it to myself and nod like a good girl, hoping all my papers check out and I won't have to give this creep my mouth, just so I can hurry home to Johnny, who I'll have to suck back up again after being gone now for a good forty-five minutes anyway.

Officer O'Riley, or McKenna, or O'Rourke, or whatever the hell his smudgy badge reads, gets an APB on his car radio as I'm ruminating on my serial killer psychobabble, and without so much as a spit of dismissal, hops in the front seat of his cruiser and speeds off. Good thing. Because I was starting to scare myself. Wondering just how many ounces his Smith & Wesson clocked in at, and just how fast I'd need to be to get away with kicking him once in the nuts, poking him in the eye, grabbing his gun and firing off a round or two, hopping back in my shitty spitfire, and riding the gas all the way back home to that hunky fuck who by now was probably passed out.

I could hear Johnny's panicked ranting before the key was in the lock. Feel the vibration of boots cracking against the door. He'd take two steps forward, check the peephole, kick the door frame, take two steps back, and repeat. He flung the door open with such force he fell backwards and landed on his ass. Sprung up like a coiled rattler, ripe with venom.

“HA! I knew it was you … Where the fuck have you been?”

“Hey, slow down, tiger, I was out getting drinks, remember?”

He towered over me, insisting I look him in the eye. His were red and bulging, dirty tears now dried, streaking his cheeks. A new three-inch laceration over left eyebrow, ruby-red and congealing. A bloody smudge under his left nostril. Caked with coke. Neck ringed with sweat. Wet hair framing his contorted face. Lips cracked and chapped. Beautiful and psychotic. Ripped to shit and gone.

“Well, what the fuck took you so long? Did you blow the fucking bartender for a six-pack?”

“What???”

This shit came out of nowhere. Forty-seven minutes ago we were playing piggy in the throws of a lust which bordered on pornographic. Now he's pissed that I bought HIM beer? I didn't get it.

“Johnny … that's ridiculous … c'mon … cool out. Have a drink.” I reached up to pull his face closer. He slapped my hand away.

“NO!!!” he bellowed.

I headed toward the kitchen, pulling out a tall boy as peace offering, but he was just warming up.

“Don't fucking walk away … Answer me!” He spun me around, grabbed the collar of my coat, and pulled it down to my waist. Manic. “You fucking whore … I knew it. Look at you. Since when do you go out for beer in the middle of the goddamn night with just a slip on under your coat? You smell like you were fucking the whole bar, you cunt.”

“Are you tripping? I went to the bar flying out of my gourd to get you some fucking beer. On the way back I got pulled over. If the fucking cops hadn't gotten another call, I'd be sucking on a Breathalyzer downtown right now. What the fuck is up with
you?
”

I pulled away pissed. Started toward the fridge, passing the coffee table we used as altar for the ceremonial ritual of our drugged communion. It was tipped on its side. Broken glass, ashes, cigarette butts scattershot on the couch and floor. Baggies torn apart at the seam. Blood-smeared straw orphaned on the saucer, which had been licked clean. The last of our stash, a hundred bucks worth, sucked up while I was gone. I was furious.

He trailed after me. “We need more coke. Call your dealer. See if he'll come by.”

“Are you nuts? It's 7 in the fucking morning, you're tweaked, and we just ripped through 250 bucks worth. Do I look like fucking Noriega?”

“I need more fucking coke … I mean it … I'm on to something here. Crystallized thought. Sharp as ice. I need to ride this out. Everything's just starting to make complete sense. The body as Experimental Canvas, the body as Blood Bank, as Punching Bag, Carving Board, Sack of Pus and Come. Don't cut me off now. Give me his number. If you don't want to call him, I will.” He picked up the phone, raced over to me. Smiling. “Please, baby, please.” Grinning like a twelve-year-old suffering from chronic dementia.

“I WILL NOT CALL HIM! You're out of your fricking mind. They don't deliver on credit, remember? Have a goddamn beer and cool it.”

“I WILL NOT COOL IT! GIVE ME THE NUMBER! GIVE ME THE NUMBER! GIVE ME THE NUMBER!” Kicking holes in the wall with his size-thirteen steel tips.

“NO! Calm the fuck down. You're losing it!” I ran over to him, grabbed one arm behind his back, landed a nerve pinch between his neck and shoulder blade, which dropped him to his knees, and using my full body weight, shoved him head first into the pile of cigarette butts and broken beer bottles.

“Oww! Cut that shit out!”

Right. Okay for him to turn asshole, break up my shit, insult my generosity, and demand I cater to HIM, but fucking forbid the little bitch to give him a taste of his own poison. He starts to freak.

“Fuck you, Johnny … You're way out of line here. Shut up, settle down, or get the fuck out. Now.”

“Fine, you bitch. I'm going out. Piss off.” He stumbles to his feet, flips me off sticking out his tongue, pretends to straighten his filthy clothes, yanks open the front door, and falls flat on his face screaming his ex-wife's name.

Johnny could stubbornly avoid sleep for forty-six, sixty-eight, seventy-two hours at a time. Propelled by alcohol, speed, coke, adrenaline, or just sheer panic, he'd string himself so far out he could barely light a cigarette. Raise a bottle. Trembling hands massaging a leg spasm. Chapped lips cracked by pointy canines. X-ray eyes detecting invisible monsters who'd steal him from me as he night-stalked energy trails, falling stars, fading headlights, meteors, night birds, stray cats. Flashlight cocked to hip, butcher knife in torn back pocket. Sneak-peeping around corners. Frozen in door frames. Glued to the window sill, peeking through a cigarette burn in the fabric. Paralyzed at the foot of the stairs. Paranoid agitation strangled the hours. Fueled his psychosis. Bored the shit out of me.

Forcing me into silence, he attempted to decode the flow of traffic two blocks away, the scampering of rats in the next building, an ant hill under construction in the backyard. An insane reconnaissance mission. The enemy … a sonic surround. Every creaky floorboard, rattling pipe, electrical hum, a forged television static which seemed to leak from his ears out. Filling the room with a reverberating symphony of subdecibel tones only he could hear. A swelling claustrophobia. The cold sweat on his brow expanding like a freak weather pattern which coated the room in a dense fog of atmospheric perspiration.

Sex became impossible. Johnny couldn't focus. I'd be curled around him, one leg snaked high up on his hip, wiggling against him. He'd be teasing me with cool fingers, tickling my inner thighs, whispering about the texture of my flesh. How its plump satin was as sweet as honeyed butter. To be suffocating there, buried alive, inhaling my heat, was heaven, the only place he felt safe. Home. I'd cry for him to take me, give me more, feed it to me, finish me off, do something, anything, More. Please. Now.

A car door would slam halfway up the block. He'd jump out of bed, mute the stereo, turn off all the lights, run to the window. Jimmy it open a crack to get a better look. He'd weave like a punch-drunk boxer attempting to spy a crack in the darkness through which he could narrow his vision in order to locate the intruder. He'd go through this routine six or seven times a night. Sentry at his post for countless hours. Waiting for the imaginary invader to materialize. Forever convinced that whoever was out to get him, for whatever reason, was sure to eventually appear, pull up right in front of my apartment, kick the door in, and take him away. No amount of practical reasoning would sway his dedication to this bizarre night watch. I assumed it was a hangover from digging the graveyard shift at the shitty hotel he used to work at. Try to convince him of that. He wouldn't hear it. Eventually I'd grow bored, begin to fume, leave the room. Frustrated. Pissed off. Dejected.