Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (19 page)

“So you
did
end up believing her?”

I shake my head. “No—not a hundred percent. I still sensed something iffy. So I did a few things. First, I convinced myself that if I went through with her crazy plan, I’d be doing it for
me
; not her. It was
my
freedom I was after.

“Second, I needed a way to test her supposed loyalty to me. True, the missing teeth were a pretty big passing grade, but I’m talking as far as the money was concerned. For all I knew, this Mr. John had a couple mill at that club, and what was a few missing teeth for a couple mill?—she could buy as many new teeth as she wanted afterwards. So I needed a way to test her loyalty when it came to the money.”

“Which was?”

I hold up a
let me finish
-hand. “And third, I wasn’t about to do a single fucking thing until one little detail was taken care of first. Again, another way of testing her supposed loyalty to me—except this one was
far
more important than money.”

“What was it?” He looks the eager audience again. I’d caught him rolling his eyes a couple of times during the shark story (I can’t blame him; even
I
can’t believe that insanity really happened), but now he’s back, eyes fixed, wanting more without judgment—at least for the moment. No doubt he still thinks I’m a crazy drunk, spinning a good yarn, but I’ve got him hooked again. So I give the hook a tug and guide him towards my now empty scotch glass. He fills it instantly. I’m drunk, but not so drunk as to veer and begin complaining how entitled kids are these days, or that the ’86 Celtics could beat the ’96 Bulls.

So I just grin at him, grant him no immediate gratification, and carry on at my own pace…

The concept remained fairly straightforward: enter; kill bad guys; grab money; leave; yay freedom. Unfortunately, like most basic concepts, there were those pesky
what ifs?
that continuously swarmed in front of me like a bastard cloud of gnats.

What if I shoot and miss; they shoot and don’t? What if they somehow see me coming and get the jump on me? What if it does come down to a fight and I’m left facing two guys who sound capable of bitch-slapping grizzly bears?

What if Angela was setting me up?

For what though?

(
The money.
)

Okay, yeah—the money. But does that even make sense? If it’s all about the money, then why use me? I’m no Jason Bourne. Talk about low odds.

(
Like she said; two birds…except maybe one of those birds is a ringer, has different priorities.
)

You mean money
before
freedom?

(
Why not?
Maybe that’s the genius of it; she figures she’s got nothing to lose. If you carry out the plan, she gets money
and
freedom. If you die, she throws up her hands and feigns ignorance to Mr. John: “I don’t know what he was doing there. As far as I knew, I’d convinced him to stay on board. Must have gotten some kind of vigilante nonsense in his head. Oh well.”
)

No, that can’t be it. Angela could feign ignorance all she wanted; it would never explain how I knew they’d be at that club, how I’d gotten hold of a key.

(
Maybe you tortured her in order to get it. Maybe you pulled out her teeth.
)

What???

(
Maybe Mr. John
didn’t
threaten to kill you right away. Maybe he tells Angela she has a week to convince you and never lays a finger on her.
Angela knows where he keeps his money, wants it, and the prospect of a dickhead like Mr. John dying in the process is nothing short of a delightful bonus. So she yanks her own teeth and comes to you as the victim with a warning. The story she relays is all true
except
the part about Mr. John wanting you dead without pause, and of course, Angela sacrificing her choppers in order to spare you. This builds a sense of trust. Maybe in reality, her disfiguration is
more
than just a trust-builder. Perhaps it doubles as a failsafe in case you fuck up at the club: “I didn’t want to give him the key, Mr. John, but he tortured me. Look what he did to my teeth…”)

That’s insane.

(
It’s a theory.
)

Maybe there really isn’t one—an ulterior motive I mean. Maybe it’s all exactly as she says it is. We keep on analyzing like this and we’ll find a million different conspiracies, each more farfetched than the last.

Except the truth was, no matter how many conspiracies pin-balled inside my head about Angela’s motives, the one immovable truth was that in a way, Angela’s motives were ultimately irrelevant.
My
motives were paramount here: I had to do this or I was dead. The end. Were their other ways to this end? Better ways? Maybe—but I’ll be damned if I knew what they were. Angela was my only source of information when it came to Mr. John, and chances were solid she had weighed every conceivable option that could be carried out during the week’s stay of execution we’d been granted by his unholiness. After all, she wanted him dead just as much as I did—didn’t she?

I am a depressed, confused young man who is likely an alcoholic. I want to drink. Always. It is an
easier
means for living in the now. It allows you to stay in that safeguarded perimeter of your mind where the only true fear you have is the hangover to come the next day. It allows the beer-guzzling redneck screaming at his TV to think he can kick the shit out of the two boxers slugging it out for his entertainment. Allows him his very own safeguarded perimeter, one that acquires more spotlights and towers and snipers and barbed-wire fences with each new drink. And with each new drink comes that blessed acquisition of more assuredness. Because now that redneck goddamn
knows
he can whoop those two boxers slugging it out. Both at the same fucking time! And maybe someday, someone will call his bluff and put him in that ring, and he’ll find himself fucked. Like me. I’m in the ring and I’m fucked. And now I must go and bid my farewells, and then prepare to be fucked hard.

“Hey, Mom.”

“What’s wrong?”

Any guesses as to where my pessimism comes from?

“Nothing’s wrong. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I just ate some stew. I made a lot if you want to come get some and take it home with you.”

That thought comforted me for some reason.

“Maybe I will thanks. Mom, do you think you can do me a favor and watch Pele for a few days?”

“Why?”

I wasn’t going to use a going out of town line as it would raise too many questions. I kept it simple.

“I’m getting my apartment bugged for fleas. They’re setting off one of those bomb things.”

“Your cat has fleas? I don’t want him if he has fleas.”

“No, he doesn’t have fleas, Mom. It’s just a precautionary thing.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

“What’s the matter? I thought you liked my cat.”

“I do, I do. You can drop him by today. I can give you your stew then.”

“What time?”

“Whenever. I’ll be home.”

“Okay—I’ll be over soon. Thanks, Mom.”

She said goodbye and hung up.

“We’re almost there, brother,” I said, reaching in back and poking my fingers through his carrier to scratch his head. I expected a swipe or a bite in retaliation for my audacity to cage him like some kind of animal, but instead he let me scratch him; even stopped his incessant howling, perhaps knowing in that inexplicable pet-way that our moments together might be numbered.

That thought didn’t help at all, and I almost lost it right there.

“Calvin? Are you coming in?”

My daze broke, and I turned towards my mother. She stood on her front step, one hand gripping both lapels of her light blue house robe by the neck, the other keeping the front door open.

“Hey, Mom. Let me get Pele and I’ll be right there.”

In case you couldn’t tell from the endearing phone call we’d had earlier, my mother and I were not very close on an emotional level. I never sensed genuine warmth from her in all my twenty-nine years, but I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t reliable. She was. Again, she lived by a set of rules, and another one of those rules was that she catered to her children regardless. She was not a mean woman, nor was she a pleasant woman. I can only remember her smiling a few times in my life, and they were when she was watching television.

Her relationship with my dad was pretty much the same as it was with her kids. She knew my dad was fucking everything and everyone with a heartbeat, but again, whether she cared or not was irrelevant. Her job was to be his wife. Those were the rules. My dad was a piece of shit, but he never beat her or beat us or anything. Hell, the guy was never home long enough to do so. I would wager good money the guy had a mistress in every state in America, and even a handful abroad. When he
was
home, you had to wonder why he even bothered. He would isolate himself in his study, come out for a family dinner that was always eaten in silence—I truly cannot remember a single conversation had between our family at the dinner table—then back to his study with a bottle of scotch, only to be seen the next night for dinner, if he wasn’t heading out of town, of course.

My older sister got the same treatment from my mother, but like my father, she wasn’t home often. Even as a teen she was at one friend’s or another’s most nights. This was fine by me as my relationship with her seemed exactly as expected in our household: grunts hello as we passed one another in the hallway.

If I could use an analogy that lacks creativity, you could say it was like living with a family of robots. They performed as they were programmed to do, but lacked the heart to bring a family close together. I’m not trying to make myself out to be a victim of the classic dysfunctional family.
I
certainly made no effort to make any changes within the robot circle. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have known how. I can remember being at friend’s houses over the years, hanging out with their families. It used to genuinely creep me out when they laughed and joked at the kitchen table, or actually sat with one another in the den and talked out of want instead of obligation. As void as my family was, I was sure I didn’t want what my friends had either. There was a sort of freedom in my family; you could come and go as you pleased. This was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because, well, the freedom; bad because I had no structure. I had no goals and no drives. I was never taught how to pursue, nor was I taught how to give up and blame. I was just taught how to be.

“He looks big,” my mother said, looking inside Pele’s pet carrier.

I joined her and looked inside the carrier by lifting it to eye level. It took two arms; Pele weighed a ton. He also looked very pissed off.

“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. A year?”

I set the carrier down and went in for a hug. She obliged me, but kept her eyes on the carrier. “You sure he doesn’t have fleas?”

I pulled away. “No, Mom, I promise.”

I bent and let Pele out of his carrier. He exited and started slinking as low to the carpet as possible while keeping his nose high and alert for any potential threats nearby. I could actually hear him sniffing anything and everything.

“You’ve still got his litter box?” I asked.

She nodded. “Just filled it. It’s in the downstairs bathroom.”

“Great. I’m gonna show him where it is. He’s a good cat—I’ll show him once and he’ll be fine.”