Sick City (15 page)

“That's your titty,” Pat said. “It could be your teeth. Or your dick. Or your nose. It could be anything that can fit between these fucking pinchers, an' that I can rip off of you. I'm gonna remove your gag now. I don't wanna hear shit from you, except for where the money is and where the drugs are.”

Pat ripped the tape from Tyler's mouth and pulled the bloody rag from him. Tyler gasped. He hung his head and made a noise that sounded like it should come from a dying animal.

“The safe. The safe. It's behind the
Scarface
poster. The combination is 42068. Please stop. Please stop. Please.”

“Good boy,” Pat said, getting off of him. “You see? That's all you had to say.”

There was a knocking on the bathroom door. “You can come out now,” Pat cooed. “We're all done here.”

A few moments later Pat emerged from the bedroom victorious, with Trina trailing after him like a puppy dog. He had the briefcase in his hand. The case contained almost ten thousand dollars in cash, the useless handgun, and a lot of drugs. A lot of fucking drugs. Tyler sniffled and stared at Trina balefully. She was looking anywhere but at him. The hole where his nipple used to be burned with an icy kind of fire. He could feel the blood congealing, still trickling down his chest in places. Trina's eyes were glued to Pat. The bitch was going to die. The fucking conniving, greedy, junkie bitch was going to die. There was a moment of silence before the next song, “Sussudio,” kicked in. Pat silenced it by retrieving his CD from the stereo.

“Okay, let's go,” Trina said, taking Pat's arm. Tyler felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. The pain was not receding but he was getting used to it now. He felt tired. Terribly, terribly tired. He watched them walk toward the door with heavy, out-of-focus eyes. They stopped, Pat's firm hand on Trina's shoulder. They whispered, frenziedly. Pat shot a glance toward Tyler, as hard as stone. Trina looked like a guilty child. She was sniffing a little, moving anxiously from foot to foot. Pat was whispering meaty, wet words into her ear. She nodded slowly, as if feigning understanding of a complex mathematical problem. She looked at Tyler with something approximating sadness, and then turned her back to him. Smelling death, Tyler began to thrash about madly.

Pat crouched down and removed the knife from the sheath concealed in his boot, straightened up, and walked over to Tyler. She did not look. She sensed the two of them behind her. She heard the bangs of the chair's legs against the floor, and Tyler's frantic grunts as he tried futilely to escape. She sensed the sudden movement of the knife. And then a sound, like piss splashing against porcelain. The thrashing intensified, and the grunting and groaning also. The rhythm slowed, slowed, and then a moment of silence. Pat's feet made a schlupping sound against the bloody floor. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

“Let's go,” he said. She almost turned to see for herself, but Pat stopped her with his firm hand. “Don't look. Just walk away.” She did as she was told.

Trina was silent as she and Pat grimly walked back outside. They had barely gotten in the car when Trina said, “Why did you have to do that, Pat?” She was breathing funny, sounded like she was on the verge of some kind of panic attack. “Seriously—why did you do that? You didn't say you were going to do that!”

“You wanna do time?” Pat said, glaring at her. “ 'Cos I don't
think
you wanna do time.”

“Pat—you fuckin' killed him! You shouldn't have done that, man! He already told you where the shit was and you killed him! I mean, Tyler was an asshole, but—FUCK, Pat—”

Without another word, Pat backhanded Trina across the face. The sudden blow silenced her. She cowered away from him, holding her hand to her burning cheek and shaking in terror. Pat was staring at her with eyes like black holes.

“I'm gonna write that one up to you bein' in shock or some shit. You ever talk back to me like that again, bitch, and you ain't gonna like what you'll get.”

“Pat, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Daddy!”

“Don't be getting overfamiliar with me, girl. Nobody talks to me like that. Not you, not nobody!”

“Pat . . . I . . .”

Trina's mouth hung open for a moment. She was staring right past Pat now. Pat turned to follow her gaze. A car was pulling up in front of Tyler's apartment. “Shit!” Pat hissed. “Get down!” Trina hunched down, and Pat slid his ass to the very edge of the driver's seat so that only his eyes were peering over the steering wheel. He watched as Jeffrey got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

“Can you see that motherfucker?” Pat hissed. “Who is he?”

“Oh, shit,” Trina said, “that's Jeffrey. He's one of Tyler's friends. Fuck!”

“He's a junkie?”

“Yeah. He just got out of rehab. I guess he came back for his bag. . . .”

“What bag?”

“He left his shit with Tyler when he checked in. Tyler said he left a bag of dope, valuables, all of his shit there.”

Trina sensed Pat's body coiling tighter, a cobra about to strike.

“He was supposed to pick it up last night. That's why I didn't say anything, Daddy!”

They watched as Jeffrey rang the bell. Getting no answer, he pushed the door softly. Then he walked inside, leaving the door ajar.

· · ·

Trina watched from the corner of her eye as Pat put his hand to his motorcycle boot, feeling for the handle of the blade. She kept her goddamned mouth shut this time.

“One Mississippi . . . ,” Pat was breathing, “two Mississippi . . .”

As soon as the door had opened, Jeffrey knew that something was wrong. He stepped into the living room and almost slipped in the not-yet-congealed pool of blood that had spread out over the hardwood floor. He saw the body, lying there, duct-taped to the chair. He didn't even check if Tyler was still alive. There was so much blood. He was covered, fucking
drenched
in blood. His eyes were open, turned up toward the ceiling. Jeffrey choked back a yelp. He turned away quickly, before the image could be etched onto his psyche too deeply. He looked at his feet, but when he did he became aware of how much blood was on the floor. He fixed his eyes on the bedroom door and tiptoed toward it.

Inside, he saw the safe, yawning open, obscene and empty. The entire room had been turned over. Drawers hung open, clothes lay in piles on the floor. He looked up to the ceiling, toward the entrance to the crawlspace. It was still closed. He stood on the bed, leaving bloody footprints on the duvet. He reached up to the crawlspace entrance and pushed it aside. He put his hand there and felt around, thinking for one heart-stopping moment that the bag was also gone, before he touched the strap and pulled it down on top of himself. He found himself momentarily confused as he stared at a picture of Eddie Murphy in a space suit. Then he remembered Tyler's spiel about how this tote bag would be valuable one day. The memory sent Jeffrey's stomach lurching again. Tyler was dead. He was dead, right here, lying in the next room.

He felt the weight of the bag's contents and stepped down to the floor again. He didn't hear the front door creaking slightly as he peeked inside of it. Everything was there. The film canisters. The Ziploc baggies, stuffed with drugs. The handgun. He reached in and rested his hand upon the weapon.

“Don't fucking move,” said a voice from behind him. “Don't fucking breathe. Listen to everything I say, or there's gonna be two dead motherfuckers in this house.”

Jeffrey felt his guts turn to ice. He had the cool, heavy gun in his grip.

“When I say so,” the voice said, “you're gonna turn around slowly, with the bag in your hand. Okay? Then you're going to throw the bag over to me. Do you understand? Say YES if you understand.”

Jeffrey tried to say yes, but it came out as a dry croak.

“Pick up the bag.”

Jeffrey slid his right hand with the gun still in it through the strap. He lifted the bag up, with the gun pointing forward.

“Now turn around, slowly.”

Jeffrey did as he was told. He had never pointed a gun at another human being before. He knew that the thing was loaded, because Bill never kept an unloaded gun in the house. But he did not know if the safety catch was on, or if it was, how to take it off. He knew that the gun's only real use was as a prop to intimidate the voice that was behind him. When Jeffrey rotated 180 degrees, he found himself staring at an unfamiliar figure.

The man was tall. Very fucking tall. He was dressed in grease-stained Levi's and scuffed motorcycle boots. His torso was muscular, with not an inch of fat on it. He wore a wifebeater that exposed a lot of that sinewy frame, and flapping open around his shoulders a gaudy Hawaiian-print shirt. There was a gold pendant around the neck, encrusted with jewels. The face was stony and emotionless, and there was no mistaking the lack of humanity in the eyes. They burned straight into Jeffrey. They were the eyes of death. In his right fist was a six-inch bowie knife, the blade curved upward slightly at the tip, and the backside of the blade had vicious-looking serrated teeth. Jeffrey's mind flashed to the bloody remains of his friend, out in the living room. Barely breathing, he stood there, dangling the bag from his right hand, keeping the handgun pointed at Pat.

There was no movement for a moment, as each man took in the other. Jeffrey waited for Pat to say something, but he did not. Pat seemed unperturbed by the grinning visage of Eddie Murphy looking at him. The eyes registered the gun—pointing straight at his chest—with barely a flicker.

“I want the knife,” Jeffrey said.

Pat did not move. Jeffrey raised his voice a little and said, “Drop the fucking knife.”

Pat extended his hand and held the knife between his thumb and forefinger, the blade pointing straight down. Every movement was painfully slow, as if he were still toying with Jeffrey despite the fact that there was a gun pointing at him. Jeffrey tried to control the twitches and shivers that threatened to tear through him. Pat tossed the knife, and it clattered against the wood floor. It spun around, finally coming to rest between the two of them.

“Now back away. Slowly,” Jeffrey said.

He watched as Pat started to walk backward, glaring at Jeffrey the whole time.

“If I was you, I wouldn't do anything . . .
stupid
,” Pat said.

“If I was YOU,” Jeffrey hissed, “I'd shut the fuck up in case I got myself shot.”

Jeffrey walked toward Pat, keeping the gun on him. When he was standing next to the knife, he bent his knees slightly and picked up the knife slowly. He straightened up again.

“I'm going to back out of the apartment now. If I see you trying to follow me, then I'm gonna kill you. Now keep your ass put.”

With that, he walked slowly out of the bedroom. He kept his eyes on Pat, who was as silent and still as a statue. Pat tilted his head slightly and followed Jeffrey's gaze out of the room like a hawk watching a mouse. Walking backward out into the living room, Jeffrey felt himself almost slip again on the blood. It was congealing, he could feel the soles of his feet sticking to the floor. He briefly considered shooting Pat just to be sure, but he knew that if the gun didn't go off on the first attempt he would be dead before he could figure out how to get the weapon to work.

· · ·

When he was across the room and Pat was in danger of disappearing from his line of vision, Jeffrey made a break for it. He slammed the front door shut and sprinted across the sidewalk. He wrenched open the car door, tossed the bag inside, and took off with a squeal of tires.

Trina watched, dumbfounded, as a gun-toting Jeffrey made his escape. When Pat didn't come racing out of the house, she thought for a brief, mad moment that Jeffrey had hurt him. As she thought this, Pat burst out of the building and jumped into the driver's seat.

“What HAPPENED?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Pat hissed. “Where did he go?”

Trina pointed dumbly to the corner where Jeffrey had made a left moments ago and disappeared from view. With a squeal of tires, they took off. Gripping the wheel with white knuckles, Pat made a vain attempt at catching up with Jeffrey. Trina, hysterical, kept demanding to know what was going on. At the corner, Pat made a left and sped down the block before reaching another intersection. There was no sign of Jeffrey. Trina was still whining, and talking, and demanding to know what was happening. When he could take it no more, Pat locked his arms straight ahead to absorb the impact and slammed on the brakes as hard as he could. The car screeched to a halt, and Trina smashed face-first into the dashboard. She hit it with a sickening crunch and bounced back again into her seat.

“Jesus fuck! Jesus fucking shit fuck!” Pat was screaming.

Trina was holding her nose. The backs of her hands were slick with her blood. The shock of the impact made her mute for a moment.

“He's GONE. He's fucking GONE!” Pat hissed.

“I dink I boke my dose,” Trina said.

“Shut up! I lost the bastard! Shit!”

Pat stuck the car into Drive again, and they took off. Trina started to sob as she felt the blood seeping between her fingers. The pain in her nose was almost unbearable. It felt as though she had hot needles inserted between her skull and her flesh. Her vision blurred, went gray. Pat looked at her, cursed, and then back at the road again.

“Now we got a problem,” Pat muttered. “Now we got a real fuckin' problem. Fuck!”

——————

In some faceless Hollywood bar full of yuppie scum, tourists, and dental assistants from the Valley, Jeffrey raised the glass to his mouth. He drained it. His hand was still shaking.
Jesus Christ.
He clutched the
Pluto Nash
bag tight to his chest. Feeling its weight against him comforted him a little. The bourbon burned at his guts, and nausea tore through him. He held it in. A woman laughed unexpectedly behind him, and he jumped as if he had heard a shotgun's blast. He took the bag into the bathroom and locked himself in the stall. He opened up the envelope full of heroin. He stuck his key in it and allowed himself a generous blast in each nostril. He sat with his head against the cool tiles, waiting until he felt the heroin come on, taking the edge off of the terror that burned inside of him. He started to feel anxious indoors, so he walked out into the streets again, holding the bag with trembling hands. Warmed over inside from the dope, he wandered Hollywood Boulevard, like a shell-shocked ghost. He needed to be surrounded by people. Anonymous, dull, unthreatening people. He found himself smiling at them. Smiling at the fat tourists who thronged around Mann's Chinese Theatre. Smiling at the street people, and the buskers, and kids out on dates. He did this for an hour, just walking, and smiling that lobotomized smile, and holding the bag to his chest like it was his own child. And then the shaking started, an uncontrollable shaking that wracked his entire body, and he walked as quickly as he could down a darkened side street. The whiskey vomit came, a violent purging. He vomited, and vomited, and when there was nothing left, he retched hopelessly while supporting himself against a skinny palm tree. When he was done the tears were streaming down his face, and he felt lightheaded and euphoric.

Oh God, oh God,
he thought.
That is what Sharon Tate must have looked like when Bill saw her. Smeared bloody crimson. The smell of copper and death and fear. Ripped apart, gutted like a fucking animal. This fucking film is cursed,
he thought,
jinxed. I killed Tyler. He fucking died because of me. I should have left this fucking thing in Bill's safe. Walked away and never come back. Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

He knew that there was only one thing to do. He had to go get as high as possible.

——————

When they finally pulled into the motel Trina asked in a little-girl voice, “Are we dill goi-g do Dan Fra-disco?”

Pat glared at her.

“No. Now we got something I have to take care of. . . .”

“We deed to get out of down, man! We can't day around here. . . .”

· · ·

The blood was everywhere. It was all over her shirt, her hands, and her face. Goddamnit to hell. Pat shook his head.

“Where does this faggot live?”

“I dunno. Uh, shit, I don't know. He's dust a dunkie. He scores from Dyler. I don't know much aboud him.” Trina was crying.

“He saw my face. He pointed a gun right at me. He took my knife. He's dead fucking meat.”

Pat rolled the car into the parking lot. He killed the engine. He said, with something approximating tenderness in his voice, “Let me look at you.”

In the gloom of the car, he removed her hands from her face. The nose was swollen grotesquely and was now pointing to the left.

“Iz id bad?” Trina asked in a whisper.

“No, baby. It's gonna be fine.”

“Do I need do see a doc-dor?”