Squid Pulp Blues (4 page)

The phone rang again. Robert left the closet and answered it saying, “Yeah, Billy, what is it?”

“Billy? No, Robert, it’s Rick, Rick Scanlon, down at Scooter’s.”

“Oh, what can I do for you?”

Rick said, “Need more of that new shit, man.”

“What? Squid? I thought my boys hooked you up with that like three days ago. What the hell happened, you snorting it yourself?”

Rick laughed nervously. “Nah, Robert, you know how it is. I got five different girls a night dancing for me and I want them all on the shit when they’re up there. Then I try to sell as much of it as I can to the jerk-offs who come in here to get a lap dance. The shit runs out fast, man.”

“You better make sure your girls chill out on that stuff or you’ll be having corpses dancing up there and I don’t imagine many guys want a lap dance from a fucking zombie.”

“I got it under control but thanks for the concern,” Rick said, sweating profusely and appreciating the fact Robert couldn’t see that.

“Well, I’ll send one of my boys around but the earliest is tomorrow morning.”

Rick wanted the stuff tonight but knew enough not to push the issue with Robert or he’d find himself making a home at the bottom of the
Raritan
River
along with the squid. Robert came off as a nice guy but Rick had heard stories about what happens when you piss him off.

Rick said, “Fine, that’s fine, I’ll be here by eight.”

“Okay then,” Robert said. “Bye.”

He hung up the phone and sighed.
Son of a bitch handing out the shit to his strippers like it was candy.
Motherfucker’s
probably snorting it himself. Keeps doing that, he’s
gonna
be more fucked up than that barmaid of his, the one that fucking spits all the time.

Not wanting to hear the phone ring again, Robert quickly finished getting ready. He put on one of his best evening suits and left the house. Parked in his driveway was one of his guilty pleasures, a green 1969 Dodge Super Bee in near impeccable shape. Nowadays people didn’t appreciate style when it came to cars; they wanted bulky gas guzzlers that did nothing but supplement the driver’s lack of self-confidence or dick-size. This fact made Robert appreciate his automobile even more.

Once he started the car, he dug around for a cassette he had made. Robert found it underneath the passenger seat. He popped it in the tape player (that he had installed himself) and drove away listening to Frank
Gorshin
sing “Never Let Her Go”.

Chapter Seven

Marie crawled on the floor, refusing to accept what had just happened.

She could barely remember walking up to the bathroom door. Time had seemed to slow; her body a glacier inching its way toward the noises. She remembered snorting the coke but now she was sure it wasn’t plain coke. As she used her arms to drag herself across the filthy rug, Marie looked to the window and saw a man looking in.

Her recent memory of what happened in the bathroom seeped like oil into the present moment, soaking the motel room in a sepia-toned aura. The man at the window now resembled the thing in the bathroom. What was it? She could barely remember. Everything was going slowly. Her thoughts wouldn’t come quickly.

What’s happening to me?

Marie made another move across the rug and saw the man leave the window. She wanted to remember his face, wanted to memorize it in case she needed it later though Marie couldn’t really come up with a reason why. Her mind just couldn’t process anything.

Shutting her eyes, she tried to focus.
It was a white guy with black hair. No wait, brown hair, looked black though. But it could’ve been red, dark red if there wasn’t enough light. Whatever, he’s a white guy, tall. No. I’m on the ground so of course he looked tall. Fuck.

Marie remembered the man’s eyes being bright, shining into the room like two tiny flashlights. That couldn’t have been right. Were they headlights? Was a car pulling in behind him? Was someone after her? She could feel her heart beating faster and faster as she pushed her mind through to the next thought.

What was he wearing? Couldn’t see the pants but he was wearing a white undershirt. People call them wife-beaters, real charming name. There were stains on it, yeah, stains all across the front in patterns of some kind, like that stupid
Kabbalah
shit that Terry had tattooed on his back.

The thoughts were coming quicker now but with them came the remembrance of what transpired in the bathroom. She turned her head and saw that she had no feet.

“Oh god,” Marie said. It surprised her mostly because she felt no pain, no phantom limb tingling or itching. All the time she was dragging herself across the floor, it hadn’t occurred to her as to the reason why she was not walking. Now it was clear.

She looked at the window, wanting the man to come back and help her. Why did he look in the room if not to see if something was wrong? Now she went through the shards of memory of what had happened in the bathroom.

There had been a naked woman there; she remembered that. Naked and covered in dirt. She was sniffing Marie’s shoe, holding it to her face like an oxygen mask. On the floor was some sort of machine, something that looked to Marie like a combination of a manual meat grinder and a cappuccino maker. Then what? She couldn’t remember.

The woman looked at me and then she put my shoe down, yeah. She put it down and held out her hand. Her fingers were filthy, gross and then…

Something to do with the machine, Marie thought. Her feet were gone with no trace of blood, pain, or scars. It was as if she never had any feet at all. Marie’s mind refused to delve into the past any further. There had been a filthy woman in her bathroom who was nude and smelling her shoes. Then something happened to her feet and she was left to crawl out of the bathroom and across the room.

So now what?

She listened for the man at the window. He had gone but maybe he’d come back with some help. At this point she wasn’t worried about the police, wasn’t worried about being caught with the drugs in her purse. The rug below her was stained like the man’s shirt: 11 circles and a myriad of
criss
-crossing lines. The stains kept Marie’s attention focused for a few seconds and then she dropped her head on the design below her. She sniffed each circle.

Mustard.
Pickles. Beer. Ketchup. Semen. Menstrual Blood.

Her nose hairs tickled.

Bleach. Wine. Mayonnaise. Urine. Jelly.
 

Marie’s head shot up when she heard the voices outside the door. This was it, she thought; they were coming in for her. The man with black/brown/red hair had gotten help. She had never been so happy in her life.

Her head went down to the rug in relief and her nose pressed up against the stains again. She looked at it closely and saw the design was disappearing, morphing into tiny dots that swirled like drunken insects.

There was the sound of a door opening and Marie breathed a sigh of relief. She looked up but the door was closed and the room was empty. There were voices, loud ones but they were coming from the room next to hers.

“
Goddamnit
,” Marie said right before sinking into sleep.
           
 

Chapter Eight

Eddie Ford stood in front of the motel room door and watched as that scumbag Grant
Minissi
slowly made his way over. The guy looked exactly like the type of element that Henry Hooper should not be bumming around with being that he’s out on parole and all.

He waited for Grant to get to the door and then smiled. “So, you must be Mr. Grant
Minissi
, did three years in
Rahway
for armed robbery,
paroled
a year and a half ago. Guess you haven’t been keeping on the straight and narrow, now have you?”

Grant stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the man standing there, knowing who he was, but not wanting to believe it was real. Of all the times that Ford could’ve shown up, this was one of the worst possible. Grant was high, there was something fucked up going on in the other room which he probably would get blamed for and there was a gun in his motel room.

“I’m talking to you, son. Can’t you hear me? Or are you so high you can’t even hear yourself think?” Eddie scratched his beard and shook his head. “I can’t believe
Hooper’d
be so stupid as to hang out at this shit-hole with a known jerk-off like you. Can’t wait till he gets back so I can have a little chat with him. When’s he due back, huh?”

Grant looked at Eddie dressed in his shirt and tie, both probably bought on sale at J.C. Penney’s or Sears. The shirt was stained with ketchup, the tie too thin for Eddie’s chest. He felt sorry for the man, busting his ass for less money in one month than Grant, Dix, and Henry would make after one job. The guy was a sucker.

“I don’t know,” Grant said, “He didn’t tell me.”

Eddie put his hand on Grant’s shoulder. “No worries. I’ll just hang around till he gets back. You got something to drink in there,
doncha
? Soda maybe? I imagine you guys aren’t drinking any beer, am I right? Wouldn’t want to get drunk and do something stupid, now
wouldya
?”

Grant pushed the door open, kicking the bible into the room. Eddie was right behind him but then pushed his way in front and picked the book up. Then he walked into the bathroom.

“
Gotta
drop the kids off at the pool if you know what I mean,” Eddie said, leaving the door open. Grant heard a whispery fart and then a few heavy plops. He stared uncomfortably at the wall where he saw only shadows of his grandfather’s evisceration. Those shadows pushed him forward to bed where he searched underneath the mattress for his gun. It wasn’t there.

Fucking guy went in the room when I was in the office. He’s got the gun.

Eddie called from the bathroom, “Hey, you’re
kinda
quiet out there.
Whatcha
doing? Don’t start jacking off till your friends get back.”

Another fart came out of the bathroom. Grant dug into his pocket and got another pill. He crushed it with the bottom of a beer can and scooped up the dust with his index finger. The green pill dust looked like candy and reminded him of spending Easter with his cousins.

Grant stuck the finger under his nose and inhaled. Tiny rockets of drug matter burned through his nose up to his brain. It hit him faster than he had expected, a brutal cold shiver that sent his eyelids fluttering and his teeth shining with iridescent light. He giggled and said, “Grandpa.”

Meanwhile Eddie sat on the toilet, reading one of his favorite passages from the Good Book. He leaned forward and held the book with one hand.

 
Hosea chapter 13, verse 16. “
Samaria
shall become desolate; for she hath rebelled against her God. They shall fall by the sword. Their infants shall be dashed in pieces, and their women with child shall be ripped up.” Ah, some good old fashioned vengeance. That’s what the world’s missing now with all those feminists and homos running around, all those kids disrespecting adults. God’s
gonna
come in and take care of that, mark my words.

He listened and again didn’t hear a thing from the room. That idiot Grant couldn’t be so stupid as to run off. “Hey, what’s going on in there? I’ll be done in a second.” He farted one last time and put the bible down on the sink. There was a creak like a weak floorboard and then he looked up in the doorway.

Grant was standing, smiling widely. His hands were behind his back.

“Let me see your hands, asshole,” Eddie said, standing to pull his pants up despite not having a chance to wipe.

With a high-pitched squeal, Grant lunged forward and brought his hands out. Each held one half of a torn beer can. Eddie reached his hand back to the side of the toilet where he had put down the gun he found but was stopped by the sharp edges that started to rip at his torso, chest, and throat.

The parole officer tried to defend against the addict; his arms coming up to block but were cut to shreds by the beer metal. His pants fell to his ankles and Grant made a slash at Eddie’s crotch splitting open the penis at the root. Eddie screamed and fell backwards but Grant kept coming, slashing and stabbing his way into the man’s body.

All Grant could see was a Japanese spider crab flailing its arms while it screeched and struggled in between the toilet and the bathtub.
Poor little thing looks helpless.
He wanted to put it out of its misery so he slashed even harder in order to break its shell completely and dig into the soft meat and whatever organs crabs have. He wasn’t too familiar with crab anatomy.

Then he saw the gun on the other side of the toilet.
What’s a crab doing with a gun?
He stopped attacking for a second and picked it up. It was his gun; he vaguely recognized it as drug-sparks bombarded his brain cells. Wanting to end the suffering of the creature, he thought about using the gun but decided he didn’t want to take the chance of anyone hearing the shots. So he found what he thought was the crab’s throat and slit it open, lifting the head up so it bled into the bathtub.

Grant left it there twitching while he went back to the bed and sat down. He grabbed a beer and put his head back. On the ceiling there were snowy scenes of violence; someone was getting murdered in an alley. There was a donkey.
Like in that comic book the guy had back there in the office. Shit, at least give the donkey a cape or something.
 

The warm beer put him at ease and reminded him of those nights he spent alone in his trailer with nothing to do but drink, smoke, and watch porno movies he ripped off from the guy down the street. He didn’t have a fridge so he drank warm beer like they do down in
Mexico
and
England
. At first he hated it but soon got used to the taste and was content to watch
Chubby Cheerleaders
3
while sipping a Budweiser at room temperature.