Good Day to Die (10 page)

“Wha’chu thinkin’, man?” he finally demanded. “Think ah’m gon’ take yo money? Shiiiit, this here is my
spot?
Ah’m steady on this block.” He glared up at me, his face set. “How do I know it ain’t
you
come to rip
me
off?”

I fished out my roll, peeled away three hundred dollars and held it in front of his face. “Your move, pal.”

His hand started up toward the money, then hesitated before diving down into his pocket. “Ah shouldn’t do this here shit,” he explained, “but Ah’m gon’ make an exception to the mother-fuckin’ rule.” He came up with three small packets. “Ah’ll hold the money. You hold these halves. Got the rest of my shit down them steps.”

He gestured toward a brick stairwell leading to the basement entrance of a shoe store. Telling me his main stash was down in that darkness, which is exactly what I wanted to know. I dumped the money into my pocket, noting the confused, disappointed look on his face, then hauled out my shield.

His head jerked right, then left, looking for a way out. I tapped him on the shin with the toe of my boot, then drove a forearm into the side of his face. It was my way of explaining that humans can’t fly.

He hit the ground fairly hard, landing smack on his butt, then gripped his right leg as if trying to contain an explosion.

“You goin’ somewhere, mutt?” I asked quietly. “You got an appointment?”

He looked up at me, eyes blazing with pure hatred. Soul food is what I like to call it. I slid my .38 out of the holster clipped to my belt and showed it to him.

“Your hands go in your pockets, they’re not comin’ out again. You understand that?”

He hesitated and I drew my foot back.

“Yeah, I ain’t stupid.”

I might have debated that point, but I didn’t. “Get your ass up. Get on your feet.”

Once he was standing, I stepped in close and pushed the business end of the .38 against his ribs. Then I frisked him quickly, finding a small knife in his jacket pocket. The media like to pretend that every street dealer carries an Uzi, but the truth is that street dealers expect to be busted, and carrying an illegal handgun translates into a lot more time then selling a few half-grams to a narc. A lot more time and a guaranteed dose of curb-side justice from the arresting officers.

“What do I want, mutt?” I pushed him away from me, careful to keep the weapon against my body and away from the eyes of virtuous pedestrians. “No cuffs on you, right? I didn’t read you no bullshit about lawyers, did I? So what do I want?”

He knew what I was after, and he didn’t like it a bit. If I took his coke
without
arresting him, he was going to have a hell of time explaining it to the dealer who’d fronted it to him in the first place. On the other hand, he
damn
sure didn’t want to go to jail.

“This is what you call your basic approach-avoidance situation,” I explained. “And I can see as how you’re having trouble deciding on the best course of action. So allow me to make your choice a little easier. If you don’t give it up willingly, I’m gonna drag you down them stairs and beat you to a fucking pulp. After which I’ll find it myself. Understand?”

He got the point, and a few minutes later I sent him on his way, ten half-grams poorer for his night’s work.

“Life is hard, mutt,” I called to his retreating back. “One goes up, another goes down. It’s called the Law of the Teeter-Totter.”

I gave him a half-block, then turned and walked the other way. The hookers, including more than a few transvestites in full drag, would be out in force on Eleventh Avenue, near the Javits Center. It’d been a while, but I was sure I’d recognize one or two and just as sure those one or two would lead me to others. I wanted to listen to the street gossip, hear what the players had to say. That’s what the coke was all about. The mutt had gotten the vinegar so I could go out and catch flies with honey.

L
ORRAINE CHO DECIDED, TRIED,
and failed to count backward from one thousand; to concentrate all her attention on the beating raindrops; to fully explore the small cabin for the tenth time; to recite every line of high school poetry locked in her memory. She didn’t do any of it. Didn’t complete a single resolve.

What she thought about, with Becky gone and Daddy soon to come, was the chipper.

Becky had been at her bubbly best yesterday, chattering away about her and Daddy’s various attempts to conceive a child.

“Why it nearly broke Daddy’s heart, Lorraine. When the doctor said he could not make any babies? Not now or ever? And all the time he blamed me. Even after the tests. Well, it was not fair and don’t I know it, but Daddy just hates to be wrong. Oh, Lord, he does hate to be wrong. You must never tell Daddy he’s wrong about
anything.
Even now, when life is going along so nicely, his temper just flies out the window if he makes a mistake.”

Becky had stroked Lorraine’s hair. “I shouldn’t tell you this, Lorraine. And you must promise not to repeat it under any circumstances. Believe me when I say if Daddy finds out, the both of us will be in a whole
heap
of trouble.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “After the doctor told Daddy he couldn’t make any babies? Why Daddy wasn’t able to have sex at
all.
I swear, Lorraine, it didn’t matter how I tried to stimulate Daddy’s appetites (and I did try my very best; it was my Christian duty), Daddy was just as limp as last night’s macaroni.” She had giggled again. “That’s why we started driving.”

“Becky?” Lorraine finally had gotten up the courage to give her plan a try.

“Yes, Lorraine?”

“It gets very cold at night, Becky. I can’t seem to sleep with the shivering and all. Do you think you could get me an extra blanket?”

“Oh, Lorraine.” Becky’s voice had been filled with genuine sorrow. “I have already asked Daddy and he said no. But don’t you worry. It’s spring, now, and it’s going to get a lot warmer.”

Lorraine had allowed a silence to build between them. She’d waited until she could hear Becky stirring before speaking out. “Couldn’t you bring me one on your own, Becky? A blanket, I mean. What I could do is hide it whenever I hear the car pull up. Daddy would never know.”

“Well, you see, Lorraine, I have already thought about that. I mean considering you are my little girl and everything, it seems only right that I take proper care of you. But Daddy says that if I bring you anything without getting his permission first, he’ll put me in the chipper.”

Chipper? A series of associations had floated through Lorraine’s consciousness: chipper, alert, cheery, energetic, bright, cute, perky.

“I don’t understand,” she’d finally said.

“Well, he
would,
Lorraine. No matter how bad it may sound, Daddy would do it.”

“Do what, Becky?”

“Put me in the chipper.”

Once again, Lorraine had failed to make any sense of the message. She’d been about to give up, to attribute the whole business to the manifest insanity of the situation, when Becky, slid her fingers beneath the blanket.

“My, you
are
cold. But I am so afraid of that chipper.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lorraine had been close to crying.

“I’m talking about the
woodchipper.
” Becky’s hands had continued to stroke Lorraine’s body. “Daddy told me all about this man in Connecticut who killed his wife? You must have read about him in the newspapers. He killed her, then he cut her up and froze her, then he put her body through the chipper. And you know what, Becky? They could never prove a darn thing against him. That’s what Daddy said. He says if I give you
anything
without his permission, he’ll put me in the chipper. Only he will not kill me first. He’ll do it while I’m
alive.
Can you imagine, Lorraine? While I am alive. And they will never prove a darn thing against him.”

The minute she heard the car, Lorraine knew that Becky wasn’t driving. The van came fast, the engine roaring in protest as it pushed toward the cabin, then screeched to a stop. Two sets of feet crossed the wet yard.

“Hurry up with the goddamned door. I don’t see why we’re bringin’ her in the first place.” The low, gravelly voice belonged to Daddy.

“Everybody needs recreation,” Becky replied. “Everybody.”

The door flew open, slamming against the wall. Daddy pounded across the room, yanked the blanket away, slammed a ball of clothing into Lorraine’s chest.

“Put ’em on. And do it fast.”

Lorraine noted Daddy’s short, quick breathing. She imagined him wide-eyed with excitement. Standing with his feet apart, his fists balled.

I want to live.

The sentence reverberated for a moment, then resolved itself into a determination to overcome the fear burning in every cell of her body. Daddy, she understood, would settle for nothing less than complete obedience. She could not obey if she was paralyzed by fear. Her hands found the bundle of clothing, fumbled with the different items.

“Now, Daddy, it is just not fair to ask Lorraine to do that all by herself. She’s
blind.
”

“Help her. No, wait a minute.”

The hands that pushed her down on the bed were large and strong. Lorraine felt rough wool against her breasts, heard the metallic hiss of a zipper sliding open.

In an instant, she was gone. It wasn’t happening to her. None of it. Not the scratching of a calloused hand against her breast. Not the indifferent animal grunts that accompanied each thrust. She did not will this reaction. It happened in the only way it could. With her body floating above her body. Listening carefully Actually pitying the woman on the bed.

Daddy stood up as soon as he finished. Lorraine noted his indifference as she came back into herself. She was surprised to find her body wracked with sobs.

“Let me help you, Lorraine.” Becky’s voice had lost none of its perky cheer. “Now, I have to tell you that we are going to tie you up in the van. We simply cannot have you jumping out into traffic. I don’t want to lose my little girl now that I’ve found her.”

Ten minutes later they were on their way. Lorraine’s chest and arms were lashed to cleats in the plywood lining the van’s interior and a coarse rag covered her mouth.

She tried to memorize the route. Or at least get some grasp of its character. The van whined and bounced over the rough ground; branches scratched and tore at the side of the vehicle. Once, they plunged into a stream, rode through the water for a moment, then lurched onto the bank.

Did we go upstream or downstream? she asked herself. Followed by, I should have kept track of the time. The time is more important than the route.

But it was already too late, and she resolved to be alert for anything suggesting a human presence. A dog barking, cooking odors, anything.

Sometime later (half an hour, an hour—she couldn’t be sure), they bounced onto a level surface and sped up. She had neither heard nor smelled anything of interest.

“My Lord, but that was a rough ride. I hope you are not
too
uncomfortable, Lorraine. Daddy is a real cowboy when it comes to the driving.”

Lorraine, unable to answer, nodded her head.

“Would you like to listen to the radio? If it’s all right with Daddy?”

“Great idea, Baby. Get us some music.”

Lorraine heard the radio click on. Heard quick, sharp jabs of sound punctuated by static as Becky flipped the tuning knob, finally what sounded like a church choir.
Jeeeeesus loves me.
Followed by a slap and a choked cry from Becky.

“I’ve told you about that Jesus shit before, Baby.” Daddy’s voice was dead flat, as offhand as if he was commenting on the weather.

“Well, I just figured this one time we could make an exception, Daddy. For Lorraine’s sake.” Nevertheless, she flipped the dial again, tuned in a rock station.

Lorraine listened eagerly, though she’d never cared for rock music. She was waiting for the station to identify itself; she was waiting to get some idea of where they’d taken her. Despite knowing the information was useless.

The radio faded in and out as the van rose and descended through what had to be mountainous terrain. The signal was at its strongest when they stopped for the infrequent traffic lights; at its weakest when they dropped down into the valleys. Finally, a woman’s voice announced, “This is Robin Love with the Voice of Love. WLOV-FM in beautiful, downtown Pottersville.”

Lorraine began to cry, silent tears running from her eyes into the gag covering her mouth. She’d never heard of Pottersville, and the sense of having sailed over the edge of the world became nearly unbearable. Perhaps she’d been kidnapped by aliens. Maybe she wasn’t on Earth anymore; maybe she was on Planet Crazy. Maybe she was going to die tonight.

She pulled gently against the ropes that tied her to the van. Tied her like a side of beef or a crate of machinery that couldn’t be allowed to slide. Her bonds were not terribly tight. She might even escape.

But, no, that wasn’t right. She might get free, but she couldn’t escape. She was blind.

She wondered what Daddy would do if he found her with her hands free. Then imagined Daddy putting her frozen body in the chipper. Imagined what would spew out the other end.

“Daddy, I have to pee real bad.”

“Damn.”

“Well, I do. I can’t help it. When we go driving, I get so nervous I just have to go.”

“Yeah.” Daddy voice was resigned, the voice of a parent with a predictably annoying child. “What about that chink bitch in the back there?”

“Don’t call her that, Daddy.”

In an instant, they were fighting. Slapping, screaming, cursing at the top of their lungs. Lorraine felt the van weave back and forth across the road; she felt the insanity, the chaos, as well. When she finally began to sob, they stopped abruptly.

“Do you see what you have done?” Becky’s voice whistled between her teeth. “You and your filthy mouth?”

They drove for hours; Lorraine slept and woke and slept again. Rock music pounded continually, Becky dutifully working the dial as individual stations faded out. Occasionally, they stopped for burgers and Cokes, or to use the bathrooms. Lorraine’s needs were taken care of a few yards off the side of the road, but she appreciated the opportunity to stretch her cramped body. To breathe something besides the stink of Daddy’s cigars.