L a Requiem (1999) (25 page)

The cat still squirmed. Joe smelled the turpentine.

"Let it go."

The girl said, "Fuck you, retard. You watch how this thing's gonna jump."She bent to pick up another match.

Joe hoped they would just leave. Just set the cat free and go because they'd been caught. He stepped forward. "Can't let you burn that cat."

Daryl"s eyes went to the stick, then Joe, and he smiled. "Looks like you already had your ass kicked, shitball. You want, I can bust your other eye. lean kick your fuckin' guts out for you."

The cigarette boy laughed.

Purple-and-green bruises were fading from Joe's left eye, the remains of the beating his father had given him six days ago. He thought that these big boys could probably beat him, too, but then it occurred to him that he'd been beaten so often, another beating wouldn't matter much. That struck Joe as funny, and he wanted to laugh, thought he might just roar with laughter, but all that came out was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The little cat's eyes found Joe, and Joe thought that his eyes might look like that when his father was beating him.

He stepped toward Daryl. "Only an asshole picks on a helpless little cat."

Daryl grinned wider, then glanced at the girl. "Light it up, goddamnit. Then I'm gonna kick this turd's ass."

The second match flared, and the girl hurried toward the cat.

The world as Joe Pike saw it receded as if he was looking through the wrong end of a looking glass. He felt calm, and absolutely at peace as he lifted the stick and ran at Daryl as hard as he could. Daryl shouted, surprised that Joe was really going to take him on, and rose to meet the charge. The cat, suddenly free, streaked between the trees and was gone.

The girl screamed, "It's getting away! "Like her little show was over and she'd missed the best part.

Joe brought the stick down as hard as he could, but the stick was half rotten and broke across Daryl's forearms with a wet snap.

Daryl threw a wild windmill of punches, catching Joe in the forehead and the chest, and then the other boy was behind Joe, punching as hard as he could. Joe felt their blows hitting him, but oddly felt no pain. It was as if he were somewhere deep within himself, a small boy alone in a dark wood, watching the action without being apart of it.

The fat girl had gotten over her disappointment, and was now jumping up and down, pumping her fists like she was rooting for her football team to make the game-winning score. "Kill him! Kill the motherfucker!"

Joe stood between the two older boys, punching wildly. The cigarette boy hit him hard behind the right ear, and when Joe turned to meet him, Daryl kicked him in the back of the leg, and Joe fell.

Daryl and the cigarette boy leaned over Joe, throwing a flurry of blows that rained on Joe's face and head and back and arms, but still he felt nothing.

They were big kids, but his father was bigger.

They were strong boys, but his father was stronger.

Joe rolled onto his knees, feeling their punches and kicks even as he lurched to his feet.

Daryl Raines hit him hard in the face again and again and again. Joe tried to hit the bigger boys, but more of his punches fell short or missed.

Then someone tripped him, and, again, he fell.

Daryl Haines kicked him, but his father kicked harder.

Joe climbed to his feet.

The girl was still screaming, but when Joe was once more erect, Daryl Haines had a strange look on his face. The cigarette boy was breathing hard, winded from throwing so many punches, arms leaden at his sides. Daryl was breathing hard, too, looking at Joe as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. His hands were covered in red.

The girl screamed, "Beat him, Daryl! Beat him real good!"

Joe clawed at Daryl, trying to gouge his eyes, but missed and fell, landing on his side.

Daryl stood over him, blood dripping from his hands. "Stay down, kid."

"Beat him to death, Daryl! Don't stop!"

"Stay down."

Joe pushed himself to his knees. He tried to focus on Daryl, but Daryl was hazy and red, and Joe realized his eyes were filled with blood.

"Areyoufuckin'nuts? Stay down."

Joe lurched to his feet and swung as hard as he could.

Daryl stepped outside of it, then jumped forward and hit Joe square on the end of the nose. Joe heard the crack and felt it, and knew that Daryl had broken his nose. He'd heard the sound before.

Joe fell, and immediately tried to get up again.

Daryl grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him down. "You little shit! What's wrong with you ?"

The cigarette kid was holding his side like he had a stitch. "Let's get out of here, man. I don't wanna do this no more."

Joe said, "Gonna beat you." His lips were split and it was hard to speak.

"It's over!"

Joe tried to hit Daryl from the ground, but the punch missed by a good foot.

"It's over, goddamnit. You're beat!"

Joe tried to hit Daryl again, but this time he missed by a yard.

"Notover. . . untillwin."

Daryl stepped back then, his face a raw mask of rage. "Okay, you dumb shit. I warned you."

Daryl reared back, kicked Joe as hard as he could, and Joe felt the world explode between his legs. Then there were stars and blackness.

Joe heard them leaving, or thought he did. It seemed like hours before he could move, and when he finally worked his way to his knees, the woods were still. His groin ached, and he felt nauseous. He touched his face. His hand came away red. His tee shirt was splattered with drying blood. More blood streaked his arms.

It was several minutes before he smelled the turpentine again, and then he saw the one-earred cat, staring at him from beneath the rotten branches of a fallen tree.

Joe Pike said, "Hey, cat."

The cat vanished.

"That's okay, girl. You're okay."

He thought she was probably scared.

He wondered why he wasn't.

After a while he went home.

Three days later Daryl Haines scowled at the envelope and said, "Fuck this shit."

It was five minutes before 8 P.M. at the Shell station. Daryl was sitting on the hard chair he kept out front by the Coke machine, leaning back the way he did, snug in his down jacket, but pissed off about the letter. It was a notice from the goddamned Army to report for his induction physical.

Daryl Haines, eighteen years old and without the luxury of a college deferment, was 1-A infantry material. He had to take the bus down to the city this Saturday just to have his ass poked and prodded by some faggot Army doctor so they could ship him over to Vietnam.

Daryl said, "This sucks."

Maybe he should join the Air Force.

Daryl's older brother, Todd, was already over there. He had a cushy job working on trucks at an air base near Saigon and said it wasn't so bad. You got to screw around a lot, smoke all the pot you wanted, and fuck good-lookin' gook women for twenty-five cents a throw. His brother made it sound like goddamned Disneyland, but Daryl figured with his rotten luck he'd probably have to carry a gun and get shot. "Fuck."

At eight o'clock, Daryl shut the lights, turned off the pumps, locked the station, and headed down the street, wishing he could stop in a bar. Eighteen years old being old enough to kill gooks, but not old enough to down a beer when you were thinking about it.

Daryl was thinking that he could drown his sorrow between Candy Crowley s legs if the fat psycho bitch would ever come across. He was almost there last Sunday, when the nutty bitch got it in her head to burn a cat. You just had to shake your head sometimes, where she came up with stuff like that. But it seemed to get her righteously damp, and Daryl thought he'd finally get the old ball between the uprights, as it were, when that weird kid spoiled the deal. Anotherfuckin'nut. That kid had taken the best beating that Daryl Haines ever dished out, and he just wouldn't quit. Didn't cry, either, not even after Daryl scrambled his eggs for him. You'd think the goddamned cat belonged to the kid, the way he carried on, but Daryl had stolen it from Old Lady Wilbur, his next-door neighbor.

You just had to shake your head.

Daryl was still thinking about it when this voice said, "Daryl."

Daryl said, "Yeah?"

The kid stepped out from behind this big azalea bush, his face swollen and lumpy with bruises. A big piece of tape covered his nose, and black stitches laced his lip and left eyebrow like railroad tracks.

Daryl, feeling righteously cranky because he'd been drafted, said, "You want some more, you little fuck, you picked the right time. I'm goin' to Vietnam."

But that didn't impress the kid, who suddenly had a Louisville Slugger baseball bat in his hands and hit Daryl on the outside of the left knee as if he was swinging away for the green wall at Fenway Park.

Daryl Haines screamed as he fell. It felt as if someone had sewn an M80 in his knee and touched the sucker off. Daryl clutched at his knee, still howling as the kid brought the bat down again. Daryl saw it coming and raised his hands, and then a second M80 went off in his right arm. Daryl screamed, "Jesus Christ! Stop it! Stop! Don't hit me again!"

The kid tossed the bat aside and stared at him. The kid's face was empty, and that scared Daryl even more than all the gooks in Vietnam.

The kid kicked Daryl in the side of the head, kicked him again, then leaned over and punched Daryl three fast times in the face. Daryl's sky filled with a million little sparkly stars against a black field, and then Daryl puked.

"Daryl?"

"Uhn..."

"It snot over until I win."

Daryl spit blood. "You win. Jesus Christ, you win. I give up."

The kid stepped back.

Daryl was crying so bad he felt like a baby. The kid had broken his leg and arm. Jesus, it hurt.

"Daryl"

"Please, Christ, don't hit me again." Scared the kid was gonna bash him some more.

"How could you want to hurt something so weak?"

"Jesus. Oh, Christ."

"You ever do that, Daryl, I'll find you and kill you. That cat would kill you if it could, but it can't. I'll kill you for it."

"I swear to Sweet Jesus I won't do that! I swear!"

The kid picked up his bat and walked away.

Twelve weeks later, after the casts were removed and the last of the stitches had come out, the Army doctors finally did their examination. Daryl Haines was determined to be 4-F due to a permanently disabled left knee. Unfit for military service.

He did not go to Vietnam.

He never tried to burn another cat.

Chapter 21

His eyes opened, and Pike was as alert as if it were the middle of the afternoon, not two in the morning. Sleep would not come again after the dream, so he rose and pulled on briefs and shorts. He thought for a moment that he might read, but he usually exercised after the dreams. The exercise worked better for him.

He put on the blue Nike running shoes, then buckled on a small fanny pack, not bothering to turn on the lights. He was comfortable in the dark. Years ago, the Marine doctors told him that his excellent night vision was due to high levels of vitamin A and "fast rhodopsin," which meant that the pigment in his retinas which responded to dim light was very sensitive. Cat eyes, they called it.

He let himself out into the cool night air, and stretched to loosen his hamstrings. Even though he often ran forty miles a week, his muscles were loose from the years of yoga and martial arts, and responded well. He settled the fanny pack on his hips, then jogged out across the complex grounds, through the security door, and into the street. The fanny pack held his keys, and a small black .25 caliber Beretta. You never know.

Much of his running was done early like this, and he found peace in it. The city was quiet. When he chose, he could run on the crown of the street, or through parks or across a golf course. He enjoyed the natural feel of grass and earth, and knew these feelings were resonances from his youth.

He ran west on Washington Boulevard toward the ocean, taking it easy for the first quarter mile to let his body warm, then picked up his pace. The air was cool, and a ground fog hazed the streets. The fog caught the light and hid the stars, which he didn't like. He enjoyed reading the constellations, and finding his way by them. There was a time as a young Marine when his life depended on it, and he found comfort in the certainty of celestial mechanics. Two or three times every year, he and his friend Elvis Cole would backpack or hunt in remote terrain, and, during those times, they would test themselves and each other by navigating via the sun and moon and stars. More times, Pike would venture out alone to remote and alien locales. He had learned long ago that a compass and GPS could fail. You had to look to yourself. You could only depend upon yourself.

Images came. Flashing snapshot pictures of his childhood, of women he had known, men he had seen die, and men he had killed. Of his friend and partner Elvis Cole, of the people he employed in his various businesses. Sometimes he would ponder these images, but other times he would fold them smaller and smaller until they vanished.