The Spider Inside (20 page)

“We’re not leaving,” Jim said. “Nobody’s leaving. Cherry,
close the
fucking
door.”

“That’s right,” Frog said, holding the pistol steady. At
first the small circle of steel against his forehead was cold, but now it felt
hot. Jim could feel it burning into him, leaving a mark that would never fade.
He heard the flesh blistering, he could smell the smoke of his cooking skin,
and it didn’t matter that he knew it wasn’t real. That somehow made it worse.
From behind him he hard the door close, then he felt Cherry’s hand in his.

“Can you hurry the fuck up, here, Bobby?” Jim asked.

The use of his given name seemed to shake Two Step more than
seeing a gun held on his best friend, more so even than the option to sell his
other friend had.

“Let’s see this knife,” Frog said, now looking at Two Step,
the gun still digging into Jim’s forehead.

Two Step pulled from his back pocket an old Butterfly Knife.
It squeaked when he flicked it open.

“Oh Jesus,” Cherry muttered under her breath. Her hand still
in his, Jim could feel her whole body shake. He felt like he was going to piss
his pants but refused to. Someone had to be strong for her, god dammit, and it
was going to be him.

Frog laughed at the knife. “No fucking way, man. I wouldn’t
stab a fucking bum with that piece of shit.”

“Oh, okay,” Two Step said. “Well, then, I guess we’ll be
going then,” Two Step said. To Cherry he sounded a little like a kid who opens
up his last present and gets socks instead of what he really wanted for
Christmas.

“No,” Frog said.

“No?” Jim and Two Step asked.

“Oh Jesus,” Cherry said again.

“No, man. We haven’t done our business yet. You said you
wanted to do business, nobody’s leaving until we do it.”

“I don’t have anything else,” Two Step said, then started
checking his pockets as if to confirm this to himself.

“What about that?” Frog asked, finally taking the gun away
from Jim and pointing it at Two Step’s chest.

“What?” Two Step said, looking down.

“That. Your necklace.”

“No, I couldn’t do that.”

“What is it?”

“It’s my St. Christopher--”

“Who the fuck is he?”

“The uh, he’s the p-Patron Saint of Travel. He keeps me
safe.”

“Really,” Frog stared at the small silver medallion. It
couldn’t be worth much, Jim thought. Sure it was silver, but it was small.
Maybe less than a hundred bucks new, and it was nowhere near that. The constant
worrying between Two Step’s fingers over the years had robbed it of most its
glow, had nearly faded the image and words engraved upon its face.

“How much would you take for it?” Frog asked.

“Well, I don’t really want to...”

“A dime bag? I’ll give you a dime bag.”

“I really couldn’t,” Two Step said, his fingers running over
the medallion.

“An eight ball. Two. I’ll give you two eight balls for it.”

“Done!” Two Step took the necklace off as if it were burning
him. It was at arm’s length and swinging back and forth before Jim could draw
one full breath. Jim stared at his friend, and it looked like a different
person standing in front of him. He realized why...he’d never once seen Two
Step without that necklace since the day he’d put it on.

Frog stuffed the gun in his waistband with a smile and went
back to his table. He sifted through the bags on the table and came out with
two eight balls. He dropped them in Two Step’s hand and Two Step, smiling,
handed over the necklace.

“Sweet,” Frog said. “All right, guys! Hey, don’t have too
much fun out there, hear? And come back whenever, my door’s always open.” He
looked at Cherry when he said the last part. She jerked the door open and left,
pulling Jim along behind her, not that he needed much encouragement to leave.

“Thanks, Frog,” Two Step said, his voice chipper, a big
smile on his face.

“Sure thing, man. Sorry about the nigger thing, it’s just,
you know. Business.”

“Oh, sure. Don’t worry about it.”

“You wanna lock that before you go?” Frog asked, putting the
thin silver chain over his head.

Two Step flicked the lock on the door and then closed it
behind him. Jim and Cherry were already down on the street waiting for him.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Cherry said.

“What?” Two Step asked.

“Would you have done it if Jim wasn’t there?” she asked.
“Would you have left me there for a fucking shopping bag full of dope? Cuz it
sure felt like you were thinking about it.”

“Of course not. Come on, let’s go get a burger or something,
cool down. My treat.” Two Step started walking toward the main intersection,
after a moment, Jim and Cherry followed him.

This is it, Jim thought. He’s gone too far out.

He was in the process of making up his mind never to hang
out with Two Step again. Cherry already made that conclusion, upstairs, in the
second Two Step looked at her. She’d never been weighed out like that before,
never had someone, a friend at least, looked her up and down and decided what
exactly she was worth. Her street value, so to speak, and right in front of
her.

They stopped at a corner, waiting to cross.

Two Step was in a fine mood, bouncing up and down like
always, that big grin on his face.

He doesn’t even know he did anything wrong, Cherry thought.

“So where you wanna eat, huh? My treat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Cherry said.

“Neither am I,” Jim said. He was, but wanted to show
solidarity. He was having trouble looking Bobby in the eyes, a guy he’d known
since he was in the third grade, and he didn’t even want to be around him.

Two Step’s fingers were playing with the front of his shirt
just where the medallion used to hang, twisting the fabric, his feet still
shuffling. “Man we can go any fuckin where ya’ll wanna go! We can--”

Two Step took a step backwards off the curb. There was no
time. Jim said his name,

“Bobby?”

And Cherry reached out for him, but before she could get
anywhere near him the city bus slammed into him. A spray of blood and the
clatter of teeth and he was gone, he was no longer standing at the curb,
instead of looking into his bright eyes they were staring at the ad on the side
of a bus blurred with speed. Instead of hearing his soft voice and constant chatter
they heard the screeching of the bus driver locking the brakes. They heard
screams from somewhere else, horns honking in traffic behind the bus, the sound
of a minor fender bender, a car that hadn’t slowed in time rear ending one that
had. Someone called for an ambulance.

Jim looked down. His shirt was misted with blood, hundreds
of tiny specks soaking into his shirt. On the ground were the two small, black
bags, the two eight balls that Two Step had been bouncing in his hand. He
almost bent to pick them up. It was Cherry’s turn to reach out.

“No, Jim,” she said, her fingertips landed on his shoulder
like a butterfly but it was enough to stop him.

Jim looked into Cherry’s eyes and nodded. She was right. He
kicked them into the gutter instead. They walked toward the front of the bus
where the crowd was gathering. Two Step didn’t need an ambulance. All the
doctors in the world wouldn’t have mattered. Two Step was dead.

When he heard the news about Two Step, Nik’s first thought
was what it would do to his bottom line. Two Step had been a good, solid,
regular customer that was heavy into smoking and seemed to somehow always have
money...he’d never been busted though everything he did from the time he got
out of bed in the morning until he crashed two or three days later was illegal.
He would be a tough one to replace.

It was partly because of this that Tattoo Nik decided
against going to the funeral. He wanted to go, wanted to see his friend laid to
rest, but decided he couldn’t have been that great of a friend to Two Step if
he thought what he thought.

Also, and this was the reason he told Jim and Cherry, Xander
had finally contacted him about the new shipment. He had to drive back to that
little motel in the desert and pick up a fresh batch of meth with which to
flood L.A. County.

Plus, from what Nik understood Jim wasn’t really going
either, at least, not in the traditional sense. He was going to show up at the
cemetery and lurk in the background like a pariah, which, Nik supposed, he just
well may be.

The three of them sat on the couch, Nik then Cherry then
Jim. Cherry was looking exceptionally hot in a black dress but Nik did his best
to ignore her sexuality. That chick was so gone on Jim it was pathetic, the
only thing more pathetic was how long it took the two of them to realize it.

Nik looked over at Jim and could see the muscles in his jaw
flexing as he ground his teeth. Jim wasn’t looking so good. He was pale,
sweaty, his suit was nice but it didn’t look good on him. It might have once,
but now it made him look like some kind of imposter, like he was wearing a
Halloween costume instead of just a regular suit. He could change all that with
just a little bump, but he was refusing, on the grounds he wanted to be
straight for the funeral. Nik didn’t point out that Jim, again, wasn’t really
going.

Jim held in his hands a silver medal and chain, the exact
twin of the one Two Step had traded to Frog. Jim thought of the day Step’s mom
had bought and given the necklaces to them. They had been little, shit, nine or
ten maybe, but she’d sat them down and told them about St. Christopher and how
he would always protect them. Jim thought it was a bunch of shit because of
Davey--no one had been looking out for him--but Step ate that up man, hook,
line, and sinker. His mom could have told him diamonds were the tears of Jesus
and he would have believed it. She could do no wrong in her son’s eyes, as Jim
guessed, even back then, it was supposed to be. He wore his until after high
school just because he saw her practically every day and it made her happy to
see him wearing it. Plus, it wasn’t like his own mother was waiting to give him
gifts or anything else.

Jim’s hands were slick with sweat and he didn’t want to wipe
them on his pant legs because he didn’t want sweat stains on his only suit even
though if everything went like he planned it, no one was going to be seeing him
anyway. He wanted a fucking line. A bump. A hit. Something. He’d taken a Valium
earlier but it wasn’t doing what he needed it to, but there was no way he could
go to this thing all fucked up on meth. He would be lucky to make it through
the small amount of the proceeding he was planning on attending with a straight
head, but get the meth-monsters jumping off and the shadows moving and all
those little hidden wheels that were never supposed to be turned cranked up and
firing random synapses in random directions, making connections that were never
supposed to be made...well, who knew how his mind would react? Jim didn’t and
he wasn’t eager to find out.

Cherry squeezed his knee. He looked at the new clock on the
wall and saw it was almost time to go. Jim was grateful that Cherry at least
was coming. Fucking Nik should be going too, but he made his position clear on
the matter, telling them both that funerals really freaked him out, that ever
since he was a kid he could never go to a funeral, couldn’t handle it.
Whatever.

Jim contented himself with looking around the empty
apartment. It seemed so much bigger with nothing in it. Jim supposed there was
no way Soup could even know what had happened, he was up in Portland or
whatever by now, selling all Nik’s shit and smoking it up. Maybe he and Doug
were shooting it by now. Jim didn’t know and he didn’t care. If he ever saw
Soup again he would...what? Probably nothing, and certainly not what Nik would
do if he ever got hold of him. With a heavy sigh he looked over to Cherry.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded. Together they stood up and walked outside.

Jim stood beneath a tree with Cherry next to him, although
he didn’t really know she was there. He really didn’t know anything. He looked
down the long gentle slope of the hill and saw the tight cluster of people with
the hearse parked near them and, even further away, under the shade of another
tree, the big yellow piece of equipment that would come in when everyone was
gone and push the dirt into the hole.

Even from here Jim could see her, Bobby’s mom. He recognized
her immediately. She had always been a big woman, but not in an obese or
disgusting way. She was just a little overweight but carried it well, but she
came across as one of those people that actually did have big bones. Even her
hair was big. And her voice, her voice had been huge. Jim smiled a little,
thinking of when he would stay the night over at Bobby’s house when they were
kids and no matter what they were doing they could hear her singing. Mostly
gospel but some Motown too, whether they were playing Nintendo in Bobby’s room
or playing with GI Joes in the front yard, or having a water fight in the back,
her voice had always been there, a constant, warm presence. It had been like
the sunshine.

Jim had always liked Bobby’s mom, had loved her in fact, in
a way he never had loved him own mother, and finally admitting this to himself,
standing here in some cemetery, watching them bury what was left of his friend,
this wiped the rest of that little smile off Jim’s face. He felt like he was
going to be sick. After what had happened to Davey his own mother had just kind
of tuned him out, it seemed. Had tuned
everyone
out. She’d been there,
she didn’t beat him or anything, and physically she had always been next to
him, too close, often, more like she was watch-dogging than mothering, but she
just…wasn’t…there

The wind carried her voice to him, the sounds of her sobs,
the sounds of her grief were like huge waves of emptiness crashing into Jim’s
heart, because for all the hours he had spent under her roof and eating her
food, for all the cuts and scrapes she’d cleaned and bandaged and kissed, all
the bad dreams she had hugged away from him, for all the fucking love he had
for her, and her son, he was now afraid of her. He was terrified.

He knew he should be down there with her, but he couldn’t do
it. What if she didn’t want him around? What if, like his own mother, she
simply didn’t recognize him? That would be bad, but worse would be to see him
and know him and blame him for what had befallen her son.

No, better she always wonder why he hadn’t been there when
they buried Bobby, better she feel that pain and always question it, better she
hate him a little for it, than see what he had become. The last time he’d seen
Mrs. King Jim had been a healthy, happy young man. It had been just about a
week after the first time he’d used meth, in fact. He’d been over there for
dinner. She and Mr. King had made hot dogs and cheeseburgers and bratwurst and
sweet potatoes and a huge salad and a chocolate cake and they’d ate and laughed
and talked until after the sun went down and there had been fireworks for some
reason, but Jim didn’t think it had been the fourth of July.

A fresh wave of her grief cascaded through the center of Jim
as he searched his memory for why there had been fireworks. He remembered
specifically sitting between Bobby and his mother in a plastic lawn chair and
looking up and watching them, he remembered looking over at Bobby’s mom and
seeing that big smile he’d grown up with, seeing her face light up blue and red
and green and how she jumped a little and laughed every time a really big one
went off. But it hadn’t been the fucking fourth, he was sure of that, so what
other holidays did they have fireworks? New Year’s? Had it been New Year’s,
maybe?

Jim could see his own mother down there in that crowd of
people, standing next to Bobby’s mom in fact, had her arm around Mrs. King’s
big shoulders. There was no way he could face that scene.

Cherry said nothing, just watched Jim for any sign that she
should touch him or take his hand. She knew he needed to be alone inside
himself right now, and when he thought of this day later, he would always be
thankful for Cherry, who always seemed to know when leaving someone alone was
best. She understood that being comforted didn’t always mean talking or hugging
or handing someone a Kleenex. She understood that it was just being there,
being near, that counted.

Jim looked around idly for Soup, already knowing he would
never see him there. He was pretty certain he would never see Soup again, in
fact.

The words of the preacher were a low hum on the wind,
nothing more than a cadence, really, a bass backbone to the whisper of the
wind. There was the distant creaking of the coffin being lowered into the earth
and Mrs. King’s voice was so close it was as though she were crying in Jim’s
ear: Bobby, oh my Bobby! My Baby Bobby, she wailed, and Jim smiled. He knew Two
Step would shit if he were here. He didn’t mind his mom calling him that, Baby
Bobby, not that he had a choice, but he always acted like it bugged him, but if
you watched him that little smile he got, so much like his mother’s gave it
away…so long as there wasn’t anyone around to hear the nickname she’d given
him, that was.

The people finally left.

Before the yellow machinery could move forward Jim started
down the hill, once the limo carried Mrs. King off.

As he walked he dug his hand in his pocket and found
instantly what he was looking for. He wondered if it would be okay, or if it
would be stolen out of the grave.

Jim knelt on the bright green astro-turf looking down into
the hole and looked from the coffin to the gleaming silver of the chain and the
medallion hanging from the end of it.

He said a silent prayer to whatever was out there,
listening, to whoever was minding that light that was supposed to be at the end
of the tunnel and Jim understood that the tunnel wasn’t death, the tunnel was
life. The light at the end was not the afterlife but death, it was freedom from
pain and worry and illness.

The tunnel was life. He dropped the St. Christopher’s medal
onto the lid of the coffin and even down there away from the sun it seemed to
glow white hot and Jim heard the rumble of the bulldozer or whatever it was
coming to do its job, so he left. He stood, took Cherry’s hand in his, and they
walked back up the hill the way they’d come.

Before they got back to the car Jim was wondering when
Tattoo Nik would be back, and how good the new batch was. Cherry had been
thinking much the same thing since they’d left Nik’s apartment, but of course
she would never tell Jim that.