The Good Kind of Bad (20 page)

He heaved, his angular face distorting.

‘Looks like I’m not the only pathetic whore. You need help, the kind that comes with medicine,’ I said.

‘I never needed any help from a woman before, and sure don’t need no help from
you
.’

I slid to the floor, slowly, my back to the wall as I kept my distance. ‘
Me
? The loyal
wife
? Good thing I’m not offering.’

Joe kept quiet, pulling himself up to rest against the sofa. After a time his eyes darted over my face, his terrible masterpiece ‒ the forehead gash, the eye swelling and my cut lip. Gulping hard, his gaze was back on the floor, stretching for the vodka bottle within reach.

I’d thought this was nothing but my imagination, a dream where he’d swigged liquor like it was lemonade. Of course, it’d been easier to pretend he wasn’t in a state of pre-hab, but my eyes couldn’t deceive me twice. This wreck, this devastating, violent ignoramus wasn’t the man I married. Hell, if stating the obvious was an Olympic sport, I’d have the gold in the bag.

‘A dream, was it? Your drinking?’

‘Well, I guess you caught me,’ Joe croaked, kicking the now empty bottle across the floor.

‘And you’re a . . . I mean, how long have . . .?’

‘ . . . I been an alcoholic? Get the words out of that pretty mouth. After two years of meetings, I’m down.’ The ashen face and chattering teeth made him look like he’d lived his life twenty times over, the speech rehearsed too many times. ‘Why do you think I was never here in the morning, so you could see me like
this
? Crumbling and shit? Santos let me go, drinking on the job. I’ve been going to Buddy’s,’ he panted, chuckling. ‘You think you’re so smart, think you got it all figured out. Go on. Tell me it’s not working, tell me you’re leaving, make me feel better.’

As Joe left the floor I again reached for the broom, but he wasn’t interested in adding to my wounds. While I remained against the wall he moved into the kitchen, climbing onto a dining chair with his lips curled by a lazy smile. Through the open lounge door I saw him by a dining table over spilling with food. I’d failed to notice it; the kitchen table dressed with breakfast meats, toast and cereals. He’d even dug a table runner out from somewhere.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing to the table.

He puffed out his chest, like he’d won first prize at an AA meeting. ‘I made
colazione
.’

‘And what about your little fire starter incident? Did they even arrest you?’

‘It’s not only bacon and eggs, I got hash browns too. Thought I’d push the boat out.’

It figured. The man I’d chosen to marry thought buying hash browns was ‘pushing the boat out’.

He was now happy enough rocking on the back legs of the dining chair. The shakes soon dissipated, apparently fuelled by the drug they’d craved. I willed Joe to fall, to crack his back on the tiles and feel the pain, but instead his fingernails clung to the table as the precarious balancing act continued. I’d never forget those hands, the scars of his beating, and when my eyes did wander to his face, a hollow smirk had replaced the smile.

‘I don’t care about breakfast. I want my things,’ I murmured.

‘Your
things
? That’s it? No more nagging that feels like a bullet through my brain? “Joe, get your feet off the table. Joe, feed Sybil. Joe, you’re not well, you need some help!”’ Then came the throat clearing and a cachinnation or two as he prepared his lines. ‘I have something to say, and it’s important.’

‘Joe Petrozzi has something to say. There’s a surprise.’

He flitted his eyes at me, almost irked I wasn’t taking him seriously. ‘I’m giving you a choice here, but this is a one-time deal only. You don’t have to be a part of this. I’ll give you one chance to walk away. I won’t tell, it’ll be our little secret. It could all be that easy, but if you stay in the city, I can’t promise you’ll be safe.’

‘Safe from what?’

‘From me.’

After climbing out of the chair and with a renewed vigour, he was now pottering about the kitchen, his shirt removed and Neurotriptyline taken, like he’d not tried to kill me, or himself, thirty-six hours earlier. The silver dog tags dangled over his chest and a pair of ripped jeans hung low. He still looked like Joe but there was something different, something I couldn’t place.

He turned to the stove and cracked two eggs on the side of the frying pan. It was then I saw the cuts running his back, gashes that protruded deep. They were raised and sore and appeared painfully fresh.

‘What happened to your back?’

‘That would be telling. All right, you twisted my arm. It was the cops,’ he shouted over, not bothering to turn around.

‘Like they’d do that.’

‘They killed my brother, didn’t they? You don’t think they’d beat my ass too?’ Joe replied, this time grinning mischievously over his shoulder, his teeth like sharpened spears.

Then he carried over the fried eggs, took a seat at the dining table, poured himself three fingers of Jack Daniels and downed the measure in one.

‘Do you know what time it is? You shouldn’t be mixing your drinks,’ I commented dryly.

‘This is a gangster’s breakfast, baby. And don’t worry about Jack and me, we’re buddies, though have you checked
your
watch? The walk of shame back to her husband, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. The neighbours will be so proud.’

‘Our neighbours are junkies.’

‘Don’t mean they don’t have standards.’

Not that it mattered to Joe, but these weren’t even
my
clothes. ‘You know what? You
are
insane.’ I pulled myself up, painfully, and moved into the kitchen, trying not to look at him as I headed for the bedroom and past Joe.

‘Come here and say that again.’ Joe’s smile faded, his bottle of Jack slipping from his fingers. It smacked the floor, leaking a meandering trail of whisky.

‘Why, so you can hit me?’

There was a smash. He’d thrown his tumbler against the front door, expelling a frustrated growl. ‘Go drop the charges, and before I get any ideas. Hell, you can’t report me. I’m respected around here.’

‘Respect? No one respects you, Joe. You opened up my head. You’re sick, Joe. You’re sick in the head.’

Releasing another thunderous roar, Joe yanked the tablecloth; its contents sent sailing into the wall. As he stood panting, I could almost see the thoughts whirring around his head. I couldn’t take any chances. I jumped into the bedroom, pulled shut the doors and slid the lock across. Checking the phone was still safely in my jacket pocket, I reached to the top of the wardrobe and grabbed my case. Would I miss the lukewarm shower, seventies throwback décor, junkie neighbours and live-in alcoholic? Like a kick in the face I would.

‘What’re you doing in there?’ came a voice too close. Banging on the flimsy doors, he’d soon pinged off the lock and forced them open, now hogging the doorway. ‘Looks like you’re going some place.’

My breath quickened and my hands shook, but I didn’t let him revel in my fear. ‘Hell of a guess,’ I snapped, flinging a handful of clothes from the wardrobe into the case. ‘Get that application in for spy school, Joe, you’re coming on in leaps and bounds.’

‘What’s this? A suitcase?’ he snarled, pointing to the bed. ‘When did I say you could leave, baby?’

‘Uh, how about during your little speech back there? Or, I don’t know, when you kicked me in the face?’

‘You mean that ugly mess on your head? I’m not a bad aim, even when I’m smashed, though it wasn’t
quite
the bullseye. Hope you’re not entered into any beauty pageants ’cause, I got to tell you, I may have ruined your chances.’

I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a dirty mug, and flung it at Joe, missing his smug bully-boy face and striking the doorframe instead.

‘Hey, hey!’ Joe sputtered, waving his arms like he was directing a 747. ‘What do you think you’re doing? That was my best coffee mug!’

‘The
Finding Nemo
one? Jesus, Joe, get a grip. Oh, and FYI? I want a divorce. That clear enough for you?’

He stormed over and grabbed me by the jacket. I let out a scream as he wrestled with me, searching my pockets until he pulled loose my phone.

‘You won’t be needing this,’ he spat, throwing me aside.

I was almost sick, his scent like I was breathing in cyanide. I reached for his hand, for my phone in his hand, but he was already heading for the bedroom doors, holding them shut until he could barricade them with the dresser.

‘Give me back my phone!’

‘We’re not getting a divorce and you’re staying in there until you’ve thought this through. Petrozzis don’t get divorces, if you know what I mean,’ he sneered before striding the kitchen, grabbing his blood-stained T-shirt from the counter and slamming the front door behind him.

Joe was supposed to have been locked up, and now
I
was the one trapped in the bedroom. Where had he gone, to get a gun? Was this it for me?

I had to get out, before he came back, but my only options were a door barricaded with a dresser or the sash window behind me. After taking a few running jumps at the doors, hoping the dresser might miraculously topple over, I banged on the window, in the hope someone on the street would notice. It was useless. This early on a Saturday morning, there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

Realising the window would open with a
lot
of brute force, I hauled up the sash pane and stuck my head out, checking how far up four floors really was. It was a sheer drop to the concrete, and unless I wanted my leg bones sticking out through my knees, I wasn’t making that jump anytime soon. Butting the frame with my fist, I imparted frustrated pleas for help to a still wind and empty city.

I had to think. I had to focus. I first pulled off Stephanie’s clothes, at least allowing me room to breathe, and changed into chinos and a black vest top from the wardrobe, the perfect run-for-my-life outfit.

After
four
long hours trapped in the bedroom, and after contemplating every macabre scenario Joe could have planned for me, I’d stuffed most of my belongings into my suitcase. Due to the minuscule dimensions of Joe’s apartment, and after living out of my case for most of my residency at
Chez
Petrozzi, most of what I owned was in the bedroom, including my all-important document wallet, secreted down the side of the bed for emergencies. I was thinking burglary or break in, not false imprisonment by Joe.

As the hours passed and the neighbourhood bubbled to life, from the window I tried attracting the attention of a few passers-by ‒ a guy who, as he meandered down the road, looked like he was smacked off his face and an elderly man in striped pyjamas who held his walking stick aloft, shouting at me to quit my yelling. Like the
bastardo
on the street two nights before, nobody wanted to know; not that my two possible saviours were the greatest crack team ever assembled. Sybil would’ve been more help (I’ll come to her in a minute).

Though I did have a plan, of sorts. I’d wait ’til Joe came back (if he ever did), accept his apologies and grovelling (depending on whether Jekyll or Hyde turned up) and then make a run for it/call the police/hit him with the frying pan on the stove and escape, with or without my things. I was even concocting a Lassie-style plan for Sybil to pull the cabinet aside with her bare paws, not that she’d moved from her basket the entire time.

The only thing left was to try the barricaded doors again. Ahead, the dresser loomed like a colossus through the door slats. Maybe a few more shoulder barges would knock it off balance and I wouldn’t have to wait for Joe to rescue and/or kill me. I’d already tried kicking, pushing and shouldering the damn thing. Maybe I could try again.

It was too late. Clunk, rattle, creak, he was back.

My head snapped up as I watched Joe stumble into the kitchen from the hall. Through the door slats I kept him under wary surveillance as he removed his cumbersome boots. In his dirty hand he clutched a bottle of what looked like Everclear as on unsteady feet he headed towards me, my expression about to convey all the information he’d need.

‘Baby,’ he snarled, falling against the dresser and then the door, his nose crushed against it like a boxer’s.

I backed further into the bedroom. ‘You all right, Joe?’ I asked, my voice trembling in my throat.

He was no longer a dribbling wreck. Hyde had returned, along with his strength, but I couldn’t let him know, know how scared I was.

‘I’ve never been better,’ he breathed.

‘What are you drinking?’ I tried in my best sing-song voice, pointing to the bottle as his breath pumped toxic fumes into my cell.

‘You mean this bad boy right here?’ He ran the bottle down the slats like a guiro. ‘Gas out of Satan’s ass. One hundred and ninety proof. Banned in Chicago no less. I got Uncle Tommy to bring back a bunch from KC.’

‘That’s where you’ve been? At Uncle Tommy’s?’