Compromised (13 page)

We crouch together under the light of the neon pizza sign. And we begin, one letter at a time.

“G
et up!”

The heavy boot lands on my back. Dizzy with pain, I roll away and crouch in the corner. Nicole and Klondike scramble over to me.

“Who left the cage open so these animals could get out?” The skinhead kicks again, his boot crushing Klondike's side. I can hear the sickening crack of bone and pull Klondike toward me. He whimpers.

“Fuck, you're ugly. Nobody should let you out during the day,” a second says. The three of them wear black army boots and painted-on blue jeans. They have chains for belts and their knuckles are chapped and scarred. They all have serpents tattooed on their necks. I stare
at the tattoos, trying to distinguish what snakes they've chosen. It's like they're clones—three of the same being. I wonder which one is the original and which ones are copies. I stare at their tattoos and label them Cobra, Rattler, and Mamba.

“Jeopardy,” Nicole elbows me. “Snap out of it.”

Klondike tucks the scarred part of his face against my chest. “Tallywhacker, asswipe.” He coughs, holding his hand out toward them.

I jerk it back. “Don't touch them,” I say.

Klondike's body trembles and he taps my shoulder frantically. “Asswipe, asswipe, asswipe,” he repeats.

“What did you say to me, you microwaved piece of shit?” Cobra asks.

“Asswipe. Tallywhacker,” Klondike says, cradling his side. He coughs six times, then hiccups.

“Shut up, Klondike,” Nicole says. “Jesus Christ, Klon. Just. Shut. Up.”

Klon snaps his mouth shut and his whole body tenses up until he has another flurry of fits and tics. “I can't help it. Asswipe, tallywhacker. Goddammit.” He clenches his fists tight then trembles all over. Every time he says something, his voice drops to that gravelly, creepy sound.

I try to cover Klondike's mouth, but he jerks away, repeating himself over and over again.

“You're human shit, littering up this place.” Cobra steps forward.

I look down the alleyway. We're at least two hundred yards from the street. Cars trickle by.

Nicole flashes me a look. She has her lighter out. I grab onto my piles of newspaper and twist them together. “Hold on to me, Klondike,” I say. “Don't let go.”

He coughs, blowing on his hands.

The three move toward us, their fists closed. “Now,” whispers Nicole. She lights up the pile of newspapers and each of us holds our torches in front of us. Klondike shrieks and cowers in the corner, blocking himself from the fire; Nicole turns to him and loses her footing. Rattler grabs her hair and throws her to the ground. He punches her in the mouth, blood spattering his shiny black boots.

“Looks like we've got ourselves a prize here, guys.” Rattler starts to unzip his pants. “Breakfast with a filthy slut.”

Cobra and Mamba laugh, their bald heads glistening with sweat.

Nicole's eyes turn dead then. I look from Rattler to
Nicole to Klondike kneeling behind me, whimpering about the fire. The snakes are focused on Nicole, holding her down. My stomach burns. Nicole dropped her lighter, and I edge toward it until it's within my reach. Nicole has turned away from us. Mamba is on his knees, pinning her down.

I take a deep breath, snatch the lighter, and ignite a handful of newspaper. I run at Rattler, putting the burning newspaper underneath his shirt. He stands abruptly and shrieks, fanning the flames. “Stupid bitch. Stupid, stupid bitch!”

Nicole knees Mamba in the groin and scurries away. He rolls around groaning.

The fire burns Rattler's shirt and spreads all over his back. The flames dance and work their way up toward his head. Everything smells like burning flesh. I gag.

He panics and starts to run, his screams deafening.

“Stop, drop, and roll, asshole. Stop, drop, and roll!” Cobra hollers, running after him. “Son of a bitch! Stop! Drop! Roll!” Cobra grabs Rattler and the two roll on the ground together, dowsing the flames.

“Get off me, you flame dick.” Rattler tries to push Cobra off. “Jesus, are you trying to hump me or something, you sick queer?”

“Fuck, man, I'm just trying to put out the fire.” Cobra looks hurt. He and Rattler are tangled together a few yards from us. Everything has a burned smell.

Mamba keeps saying, “My balls. My balls.”

Klondike won't move past the fire—some papers and trash have begun to burn. “Not fire. I can't do, tallywhacker, asswipe. Not fire.”

Nicole finally drags him away, somehow carrying him in her thin arms. “Grab that.” Nicole points to a wallet that has fallen on the street. I grab for it, then just kick it into a puddle, leaving it behind.

“We'll find you, you Goddamn whores!” One of them calls after us. I look back to see the three of them standing together—Rattler in the middle, holding out a now-melted synthetic-fiber jacket. “You'll pay for this!” they scream.

We run up Main Street, slipping into a casino called Cactus Pete's.

“Find the bathroom,” Nicole barks. I lose my sense of direction with the casino's mirrors and dizzying lights. Klondike moans and whimpers. “Hurry!” Nicole says.

She and Klondike follow me past the hotel reception and we slip into the women's bathroom. We cramp into the handicapped stall. Nicole blocks the door.

“Tallywhacker,” Klondike croaks and hugs himself—his body an eruption of spasms. “I hate fire. I just can't, asswipe, tallywhacker. GODDAMMIT.” Klondike taps his face and blows on his fingers.

“Shut up, Klondike,” I snap. “Just shut up for a second. I can't think.”

With that, Klondike's tics worsen. I lean my head against the bathroom door and swallow back the knot that blocks my throat. “I'm sorry, Klondike. I didn't mean—it's—never mind.”

“Are you”—I turn to Nicole—“are you okay?”

Her lip trembles. “Yeah. I'm okay.” She rubs her arms. “No big deal.”

“I'm, crap, Nic—”

“Capone,” she says.

“Capone.” I try to steady my breathing. What am I supposed to say?

“I said I'm fine. Okay? Just drop it,” Nicole squats on the floor and rests her head on her knees. “Where's the wallet, Jeops?” Nicole finally says.

“I, um. I didn't take it.”

“What? It could've had cash. We could've used it.”

“I couldn't.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“I burned him, okay? He might be”—I lower my voice—“he might be scarred. Forever and ever. It's not like I needed to steal his wallet on top of everything.”

Nicole clenches her jaw and says, “It's good you're considerate about a rapist's things. God knows we wouldn't want him to have a couple of visible scars so he can't hide the monster inside so easily.” Nicole slumps to the floor.

“I didn't—” I stop talking. “Capone, it's not that. It's just…”

She turns to me. “It's just what?”

“I don't know. I'm trying to do things the right way here.”

“What's the right way?” Nicole asks.

“I don't know,” I say.

“Christ.” Nicole chews on a hangnail until it bleeds, her hands chapped from the cold. “Nice time to get all high-road on us. He was a Goddamn prick.”

“I'm hungry,” Klondike mutters between croaks.

Suddenly I feel like we're just stuck in a box with no way out. My fingers still smell burned. I push open the door and rush to the sink—heaving colon cleaner jerky. It burns twice as bad coming back up and my stomach
spasms. I rinse out my mouth, then slump in the corner. The bathroom door sways open and three ladies with mile-high bangs and camel-toe jeans come in blathering on about some cute cowboy. Two pass an aerosol can of spray back and forth, and we're stuck in a sickening fog. The third comes out of the stall and they leave the bathroom, clomping away in wedged heels.

They don't even see us.

“She is so yellow-listed,” Nicole says.

“Huh?” I ask.

“She didn't wash her hands—totally antihygienic. I mean, gross.” Nicole turns to me. “You know what kinds of germs there are on hands?” she says. “I mean you probably
know
.”

Viruses, bacteria, parasites—the correlation between disease prevention and hand washing is irrefutable. I start to go through the numbers in my head, trying to remember what last I had read about it. Nicole looks at me and smiles.

Things are okay.

Then she turns to Klon. “Klon, you've got to keep a lid on it when we're around psychos who want to kill us.”

“I can't.” Klondike shivers, coughs, blows on his fingers,
and taps Nicole's shoulder. “I can't help it.” He tries to cough again but grabs his side when he does. So he replaces the cough with a strange croaking sound that comes deep from the back of his throat. “That's why I have to live alone. That's why”—he puts his hand to his face—“I hate fire,” he says, touching his scars and jerking his hand back. “Tallywhacker.”

We wait for what seems like forever for Klondike to settle down. His breathing evens out.

“Do you think you're badly hurt?” I ask Klondike. “I mean your side.”

Klondike nods his head, jerking it up and down. “I'm fine, though. Just the fire. Asswipes. The fire.” His voice drifts off. Then he croaks.

“Think.” I press the palms of my hands to my eyes. “Just think.” God, I wish I had Pepto-Bismol. I look from Klondike to Nicole to the mirror. We're a mess. We look and smell like street kids. That guy probably has second-degree burns all over his back—at least. I hate getting spattered by grease when I grill cheese sandwiches.

It feels wrong that I'm worried about a guy who would've raped Nicole.

I go to Nicole and put my hand out, pulling her up.
“You okay? Really?”

She nods. “Just a little shaky. Thanks,” she says, “for helping me out.” Her lip is swollen where the guy punched her.

I do a superhero stance and salute her. “Well, ma'am, there you have it—just a run-of-the-mill morning in the life of Super Jeopardy. I'll kill 'em with boredom every time.” I exhale. “If the fire didn't work, I was ready to start to recite the periodic table and balance equations. That would've done it.”

Nicole laughs. “I owe you one.”

I shrug. “I hope I never have to collect.”

“Me, too,” Nicole says. She turns to Klondike. “You okay?”

He coughs, then midcough changes it to a low, thundering croak. “There has to be evil so that good can prove its purity above it.” Again he touches his burned face.

Nicole and I both look at Klondike. “Where do you get that stuff?” I ask.

“Pa's sermons. Pa says that…” He strains his neck and lets out a long, steady croak. “Evil is always possible. Goodness is a difficulty, and he that spareth his rod hateth
his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes. Always showing me the business end of a stick. Then”—again he touches his face—“it was the demons.”

My head pounds. Klon talks in Bible-Appalachian-who-knows-what speak. Nicole's stuck in some black-and-white make-believe Mafia world. And they both look to me for answers. “Okay,” I finally say, and turn to Nicole. “Nic—”

“Capone,” she interrupts.

“Oh yeah. Capone, can you get one of those
DO NOT ENTER
,
RESTROOM BEING CLEANED
signs?”

“Sure, Jeops. Your lesson last night was stellar, but we're just getting through the vowel sounds.” She rolls her eyes.

“Okay. Crap.” I rub my eyes. “Just get one of those yellow triangles that you see cleaning people have.”

Nicole nods. “Give me ten minutes.”

“We'll wait here.”

About five minutes later she comes back with five different signs—
WET FLOOR
,
DO NOT ENTER
,
KEEP LEFT
,
WATCH YOUR STEP
,
RESTROOMS BEING CLEANED
. I put the last one outside the door and try to jam the lock. “Well, you're thorough. And fast.”

Nicole shrugs. “Ha. Ha.”

“We probably have about ten minutes, okay? We need to clean up,” I say. “Strip down.”

Klondike points to the stall. “You wait there. When I wash, you wait there,” he says. “I'm not gonna be without a stitch in front of a couple of girls.” He points to the stalls.

“We don't have time.” I motion to the door. “Somebody could come in at any second. So let's just get cleaned up.”

None of us moves.

“I have one ball,” Klondike finally says.

“Huh?” The light in Nicole's eyes comes back a little.

He blushes and scowls. “One ball, nut, gonad, tater, nugget, testicle. One.”

Nicole and I burst into laughter.

“It's not funny. Tallywhacker. It's not,” he says, lip quavering. Then he croaks four times and taps his groin.

“I'm sorry, but”—I hold my stomach—“it's just that…” Then I cry. I let the hot tears spill out. I blow my nose on the scratchy toilet paper. “Let's get cleaned up,” I finally manage to say, and put my head under a stream of lukewarm water.

“First memory,” Nicole says.

“What?”

“Theme of the day. First memory.”

I scrub my hair with the liquid soap, pulling at the tangles, wishing for the bazillionth time I had straight hair. “Do you really think now's the time?”

“What's the diff whether it's now or later in the day?”

I clench my teeth when I pull my fingers through the knots. Chunks of hair come out. I think back to when I was little, trying to piece memories together. It seems like the memories I have of my mom are a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing. I never get the complete picture and only remember random things about her.

“Playing sleep,” I finally say. “My mom liked to play sleep. She'd wrap herself in blankets and say, ‘Let's play sleep.' And to play, I had to be very, very still and close my eyes. Then she'd let me lie next to her. Sometimes she'd even hug me. That was nice. When she'd hug me.”