Shella (13 page)

“Members only,” he told me.

I turned to walk away. I was going to wait until the place closed, talk to Shella when she came out.

“Membership costs twenty bucks,” the man said.

I gave him a twenty, went inside. It was dark, like a cave. A woman was standing next to a post, hands wrapped in leather straps high above her head. A little red ball was in her mouth, a strap around the back of her head like a gag. She had no clothes on. Another woman stood next to her, high black boots that came almost to her knees, a black
corset pulled tight around her waist. When I walked past, she said “Fifty bucks.” I kept walking over to the bar, asked the man for a rum and Coke like I always do.

I sipped the Coke, watched. Two women came over to the girl tied to the post. They gave some money to the woman in the corset. She picked up a leather handle with thin straps attached to it, whipped the other woman three times.

People were all in costumes. Masks, chains. It smelled like a hospital where somebody was going to die.

A stairway in one corner. Doors to rooms on the side. It felt like the ceiling was very low but I couldn’t see it.

I looked around some more. No stage. No dancers.

When the bartender came back, I asked him if Roxie was on tonight.

He looked at me close, for just a second. Told me she wasn’t—wait there and he’d find out for me, when she was coming back.

A man sat down next to me, another man with him, a studded collar around his neck. The first man held a leash to the collar. He asked me for a match.

I gave him a little box of wooden matches. He said thanks. Struck a match, held it against the hand of the man on the leash. I could see the flesh burn, but the man on the leash didn’t say anything.

The bartender came back. Said Roxie would be coming back on Tuesday. I thanked him, left ten dollars on the bar.

I walked out. When I got on the sidewalk, I turned left, looking for a cab. A man in a raincoat came out of the alley. I was on him before he could get the sawed-off out of his coat—I heard the shotgun go off as my fingers went for his eyes, felt a stinging against my legs, twisted my body against the wall, and pulled him down with me. Shots came from
in front of me, chipping the brick wall. The man’s body caught a couple of them, one nipped the fleshy part of my arm.

A siren ripped out. I heard shoes slapping on the sidewalk. I bent down to make sure the shotgun man was finished. The sawed-off was on a leather strap around his neck so he could swing it free when he needed it. A photograph was taped to the inside forearm of his coat. My picture, black and white. I pulled it free.

I left the man’s body there, kept moving through the alley. Came out on the next block. Started walking.

I walked for a long time. A black girl came up to me, asked me if I wanted to have a party. I asked her how much. She said twenty-five, ten for the room.

I told her okay, gave her the money. She took me to this hotel, signed the book for us. We went upstairs.

Little room, one light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The sheets were yellowish, washbasin in one corner. There was no chair. I sat on the bed.

“You want some half ’n’ half, honey? Get your motor started?”

“Unbutton my coat,” I told her.

She did it. My shirt was red around the muscle. “Take it off,” I said.

She knew what I meant. Was real careful about it. There was a slash across my arm—the bullet hadn’t gone in.

“Can you get some hot water here?”

“Down the hall, honey.”

“Here’s what I want. You get me some hot water, okay? Real hot. I’ll put my arm on the windowsill, you pour the
water across it. Then you tie my shirt around it. Tight. Tight as you can. Then I’m gone. I’ll give you another fifty bucks, okay?”

She nodded. I gave her the fifty. Opened the window with my left hand in case she didn’t come back quick.

But she did. She poured the hot water over my arm. It ran off clean, but it was bleeding a lot.

She took some stuff out of her purse. Kotex. “It ain’t much, but it’ll be better than just that shirt, okay?”

I told her thanks. She put the Kotex on my arm, tied the shirt tight around it, helped me on with my jacket.

“Where’s the nearest city?” I asked her.

“Big city? Akron, I guess.”

“Want to make a couple of hundred bucks?”

“Doing what?”

“Can you get a car?”

“No, honey. I ain’t got no car. My man, he’s got a car. Nice big car. You want I should …?”

“No. Just give me a hand downstairs, hail a cab for me.”

She did it, standing on the sidewalk in her bright-blue dress.

I got in, told the driver to take me to the bus station.

I caught the next bus out to Chicago.

In Chicago, I found a room near the middle of town. The Loop, the cab driver called it.

By the next day, my arm wasn’t bleeding anymore. I changed the dressing, used my undershirt.

I went out, found an army-navy store, bought a couple of sweatshirts, a pair of pants.

I got a razor and some other stuff in a drugstore.

When I was clean, I took a cab to the airport, bought a ticket to Philadelphia.

I took a bus from there to Port Authority, then I walked to the hotel.

When I let myself into the room, I could feel how empty it was. Misty’s clothes were gone from the closet. There was a note on the bed.

I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes. Thinking, I have to go see Monroe before I start looking for Shella again.

I’m not a plotter. Shella always said the only thing that kept me from going to jail all the time was patience. Because I always know how to wait.

I tried to think it through. Monroe, he never knew where Shella was. He could never find her—it was all talk. Liar’s talk. Big, boasting talk, showing off. But it worked on me. He was my hope—I made him into something and he just played it out.

He used me. Then he got scared.

Monroe would know I got away in Cleveland. He paid them for a body and he didn’t get one. He’d be afraid now. I don’t like it when people are afraid—it makes them smart. He didn’t know where I was, but that wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d know I’d be coming for him. And all I knew was the poolroom where he’d be.

So what he’d do, I thought about it, what he’d do is be afraid. Have a lot of people around him, watching for me. I didn’t know where he lived. Nothing.

If I went back to the bar where I first connected with him, he’d know. They’d send me someplace and there’d be more people waiting for me.

I have to kill him. He lied to me. He made me lose time when I could have been looking for Shella. I did work for him and he didn’t pay me. I have to kill him. I tried to talk
to Shella. In my head. I couldn’t see her, but I knew what she’d say.

It didn’t take me long to pack. In the top drawer of the dresser, where I kept my underwear and socks, there was a picture of Misty. A big picture, black and white. In her dancer’s costume, smiling. On the back was a red kiss, in lipstick. Tiny little writing under it, in pencil. “In case you ever want to look for me, I’ll be there.” And a phone number. The area code was 904. There was a phone book in the room. In the front, it had a map of the country, with little spaces marked off. What the area code covered. 904 was the top part of Florida.

Nobody paid any attention to me when I walked through the lobby—the room rent was paid. I got my car out of the garage, paid the man, and drove through the tunnel to Jersey.