Black Hole (17 page)

They're gone now, they're all dead to me as far as I'm concerned, and I'm dead to them. Maybe I'm a picture in a scrapbook no one looks at anymore, or a part of a group-therapy story someone tells and they can't remember my name. I'm a guy they got a tattoo with, the guy who let them into the show when it
was sold out, that one roommate that only lived here a month, what was his name?

For a while, it seemed like everyone knew me and I knew everyone who mattered. Now I know a couple of people here and there, enough to get by, but no one really close to me. I'm stuck in here and no one is going to miss me—someday someone might ask,
Whatever happened to that guy?
and they'll look it up on the computer or phone app or whatever people are using to keep up with those they don't care about, and they won't find out anything.

Now here I am in the psych ward at SF General on suicide watch or some shit. Fuck this. Really. How did I get from there to here? I'm technically homeless now. I'm a homeless drug addict who was covered in shit and is now in the Nutty Buddy.

I'm in the day room watching
Seinfeld
. It's the one where George eats an éclair out of the trash. The walls are the color of a nicotine stain. It smells like Mountain Dew and Pine-Sol in here. Sweet, artificial, over the faint odor of microwave-heated marinara sauce.

They're calling a name over and over on the intercom. I can't hear the show. Dallas Luxury, a transgender nightclub singer, taps me on the shoulder.

Sweetie
, she says,
they're calling your name.

She has a bruise running from the middle of her forearm all the way past the elbow. She fought the cops, and the cops won. She gotten 86'd from a bar and had refused to leave. The cops were called, and she put up a fight. She got slammed to the sidewalk and the full MMA treatment from some meathead cops. She's a pain in the ass, but it's totally unnecessary to hurt someone like that.

I make my way to the front desk.

I pass Larry, who smells like he's been hotboxing cigarettes, although he never has any and we wouldn't be allowed to smoke them even if we were allowed to have them. He has a stash somewhere and a smoke spot. I have to find out where it is.

There's a guy at the front desk waiting for me. He's in a suit and is either a detective or works for the AVN Awards. Has a mustache like a drive-through car wash.

He's saying something, but I can't really understand what it is. Catching one out of every four or five words. Too fast or too loud or something. Fuck, it must be the meds.

He's going to get me out of here. Like now. He signs a paper and asks me something. He repeats it. I finally get it.

Do you have any personal items?

No. No. Nothing. I don't have anything.

Let's go.

I follow him to the elevator. The door opens. We get in.

You doing okay, Chuck?

I guess. Feel a little dopey.

I bet.

We ride the rest of the way to the ground floor. I still feel like it's some kind of trick. He's whistling something I don't recognize; it's shrill to my sensitive ears.

The doors open, and the light of the sky hits me. Fuck, it's bright. Psych ward is dim—fluorescent lights, and half of them are out, maybe more. It's a dark place, full of corners and shadows and doubts. I squint, shield my eyes, but there's not really sun out, it's just glowing clouds. Still, a little hotter than I'd like it.

The air is amazing after being locked up in the psych ward for . . . how long was I in there? That place smelled like cleaning
products and farts. Institutional food farts. The worst kind. No matter what you have to eat, it always smells like onion soup powder.

He drives a Chrysler 300. Not cop issue. Who is this guy? I hesitate.

GET. IN.

I get in. There's a sack on the seat. I feel warm.

There's a change of clothes in there. Plus your wallet, your phone, and your twenty-five. Oh yeah, your gun. I had the report changed to read you had a water pistol full of urine. Keeps with the whole “I'm covered in shit” motif you were rocking. No one gives a shit about your little popgun. You can keep that. You might need it.

Who are you?

I told you already. Agent Hart from the FBI. You've been remanded to my custody.

What do you mean, I might need this?

You do know about Liza, right? They told you? Hell, they thought it was why you had your psychotic break.

What? Liza? What happened . . . tell me.

They found her cut up.

Stabbed?

No. Cut into pieces. With only a few strokes. Just like your old boss, Eirean. That's why I'm here. It looks like it may be a serial killer. Sorry to tell you. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt both her and Eirean?

No.

It's likely someone you know. The chances of both of these being random and you knowing both without knowing the killer are slim to none.

I have no idea.

The murder weapon is what is strange. It has characteristics of a knife wound and an axe wound, while not looking like either. Do you know anyone who collects medieval weapons?

Vietnam John. That fucker. He killed them with that crazy knife. Why? It's hot, but the window won't roll down.

There's another matter.

He reaches in his breast pocket and pulls out a marble.

Tell me what you know about this.

It's a marble?

No, it's much more than that. No time to bullshit me. I don't care about you being locked up.

Can you turn on the air conditioner?

You okay? You're not going to boot in here, are you? You want me to pull over?

Where are we going?

FBI safe house. You'll like it.

Nah, just drop me off somewhere . . .

Where? Where are you going to go? You think I don't know what I'm doing? You're homeless. There's nowhere to drop you off.

What do you care?

I need to be able to find you again. It's hard to find people that don't have a place to live. Plus, I have your meds.

Meds?

Yep. You're on some crazy shit. I don't even know if this is FDA approved yet.

What is it?

I don't know the medical term, but everyone's calling it whiteout. It's the latest thing they're coming up with to counteract this black hole shit that you fuckers are all smoking until you go crazy and smear yourselves with shit.

All what?

All you fuckers. There's one or two a day in the Bay Area now. The DEA is trying to keep it contained, but it's only a matter of time. If this spreads out to the rest of the US, we're in deep shit, no pun intended.

He keeps talking. Sounds like real conspiracy shit. They know everything, but everything they know is wrong. A bunch of people who don't smoke it who think they can get in our heads. They can't. They have to smoke it. They have to be one of us. But of course, they're no longer them at that point.

All through South Beach, shit has changed. Used to be warehouses; there was even a weird trailer park down here on Townsend Street back in the day. Now it's all luxury condos and upscale restaurants. All people do here is work at tech jobs, sleep in million-dollar condos, and eat for entertainment. I guess they drink, too. There are bars that pop up down here that serve nothing but top-shelf mojitos and appletinis or whatever the trendy drink is at the time.

Agent Hart's place is all glass and views above the Bay. Everything is new. Everything is nice. Everything looks like it fits together. It's so clean, I can immediately smell myself.

Take a shower
, he says, pointing in the direction.
You smell like the psych ward.

I'm so used to tiny flats stuffed with roommates in every corner, under the stairs, in the pantry, in bunk beds, with old plumbing that hasn't been replaced in forty years that I have no idea how most of the city is living.

The shower is clean. It doesn't drip. When I turn the hot faucet, hot water comes out. I bet I could flush in here and it
wouldn't change a damn thing. I scrub as much as I can, trying to get the institutional stink off me.

The meds are like eating a hot pepper, if your entire body was your mouth. They're keeping me rooted in time. I'm clean, more or less, for the first time since . . . seventeen? I take the meds when I'm naked and standing in the shower. Once they hit, I feel like Johnny Storm flaming on. I sweat immediately and my heart punches through my chest. But I don't have withdrawals.

Agent Hart isn't a bad guy. He's like the class president in high school. Popular but not an asshole, but nothing interesting about him, either. The guy who gets A's and plays three sports. The guy whose hair is always in place, drives a cool car that was handed down to him, and has a girlfriend who always says hi and smiles at you but will never really talk to you. The couple you picture having functional sex for the first time on prom night and mutually climaxing.

He watches
CSI
and
Law & Order
and a few other cop shows I don't recognize. We watch
Casino
and
Goodfellas
,
Scarface
,
Menace II Society
,
Road House
, and
The Big Lebowski
. His favorite movie is
The Shawshank Redemption
. This guy is the living average guy in his age group. He's a demographic. He's a walking pie chart off the Life page of the
USA Today
. How do you get like this? How do you get to be an average guy with an above-average job and do everything you're supposed to do, like contribute to your 401(k) and shit like that?

He eats everything but in moderation. He has a beer sometimes and drinks a bit of scotch but that's it. I tried sneaking some of his scotch, but it's not working with the meds I'm on. Makes me instantly nauseous.

This is the best place I've ever lived. It has everything I need. But it's weird, not going outside. It's a prison cell with a premium cable package and a fully stocked fridge, a Tempur-Pedic mattress and a showerhead with multiple settings. I'm restless. I want to go outside. I think of bolting out of here. But I also know I'll never live this well again.

Time for us to go,
he says, turning off the TV.

Go? Go where?

You've gone through sufficient detox. I can take you outside out in the real world.

What for?

I need you to spot for me. You see a world out there that I only know exists in theory. I'm looking for what I think is there, and not only do you know what it looks like, you also have a name for it.

What are you looking for?

The killer with the axe or the halberd or whatever it is. A broadsword. Also, the black hole source is somewhere in the Tenderloin, from looking at the occurrence of . . .

Shit zombies?

For lack of a better word.

No. This is death. I just want to go into witness relocation or something.

That's for witnesses in federal cases. You're not in one of those yet. Yet. We make a case, and I can assuredly get you set up in a new place with a new name.

A sweet pad like this?

Yeah. You should see what we have in Miami.

Fuck Miami. Fuck Florida.

Okay then. We'll set you up in a state of your choice. But we have
to get a case going first before we make you a witness that we have to protect.

No. No, it's death. For sure. These guys are bad news.

What about Liza?

What about her?

You loved her. Right?

It wasn't really love, per se.

Fine, whatever. But you were in each other's lives and she cared about you, and some asshole chopped her into lunchmeat. Don't you want to see justice done?

Liza. Hell. She was nice to me. She swiped a bunch of my drugs, but I probably would've done the same in her situation. Fuck.

This is one last hustle. Do this, this last bit of dirt, and then retire wherever. Alaska. I could go to Alaska. Live off the grid in some cabin getting a check from the government. I could get a seaplane or some shit. Solar panels and Netflix and I'm good. Or Montana. Raise llamas.

Fuck, everyone snitches. Everyone rolls eventually. That whole thing of never ratting out is fiction. It's only in movies. It's not real. Everyone gets caught doing something dumb like shooting dope and nodding out in the getaway car or their girlfriend gets mad and calls the cops and drops dime. It's my turn.

I don't owe these fuckers anything. I'm just a means to an end. I'm an ATM you put drugs in and money comes out. Well, no more, jack—this ATM is offline.