Nothing (10 page)

Iverson grabs my hair close to the scalp. He screams too. Into my face. I join him and scream back. Iverson laughs and turns to Old Cop laughing then gets control of himself. He asks me.

What do you know about Chicago and why Carly was killed?

My eyes have shed tears. My cheeks feel wet. I shake my head. I am weary. Suddenly weary. I tell him what I know. I speak the truth. I say.

I don't know why Carly was killed and what that has to do with Chicago.

Iverson is leaning over me. Close to my ear. My voice must be quiet. I need to breath. Iverson walks away and stands facing a plastic sheet wall with his back to me. He is thinking. Old Cop looks as weary as me. He stands with a cracking sound and rubs his kneecaps. Iverson turns and says.

We're not finished.

Come on. Come on. His foot is fucking mush.

Iverson strokes his chin, removes a cell phone from his inside pocket. I don't feel the euphoria now. I feel pain. A dull ache creeps away from my foot halfway up my shin. Creeping upwards towards my knee.

Iverson turns his back again. I feel my eyes lose focus. I see Iverson's back. In my mind I see an ice-pick in my hand. I feel sharp pain. I see my hand. Close up on the ice-pick. I move up close behind Iverson who has his hand clamped to the side of his head, his voice low. I snatch his head and wrench it back smoothly. In a simultaneous motion I push the pick into his spinal cord. Iverson groans and drops to the concrete covered plastic sheet. Cut to Iverson's face. His pain is like a white light. His eyeballs roll back into his head. A slight moan. Fade to black.

Iverson snaps his phone shut. I blink through my hallucination. My left foot has no feeling now. Numb. I wonder if they have cut the fucker off. I blink again. Iverson says to Old Cop.

He says he's tougher than we think.

Iverson nods in my direction.

Start on the right.

Come on man, come on. Keep fucking pounding and he'll say he shot JFK.

That was Oswald you fucking moron. Keep going.

Old Cop waves his hand dismissing the words. I see them move in silhouette against the misty billowing sheets.

FINAL EXECUTION AND RESURRECTION

I wonder if this is a dream. If the dream is dreaming me? Iverson now moves to the table. I breathe deep through my nostrils. Suck the air in and suck it in hard. I don't feel pain. I know more pain will come, that is the way. I feel the rage. I feel it inside me. Building. Growing. Expanding. My rage is vast before me.

Iverson approaches now with a straight razor. I see Old Cop behind him stroking his stubble. His shirt marked with blood. My blood. I will show them blood. I will swim in their blood.

Iverson says

She didn't feel pain.

I manage to look at him and keep focused. He tells me more.

The girl. The kid. I didn't want to kill a kid but I had to get you here.

My pain Is under control, it remains there, dormant, but I have its measure. I stretch to look down past my knee. One of my toes, not sure which one, is covered in blood. My bloody foot is a lump, a mangled piece of gore. Stretch my neck a little further. I see my instep and up to my ankle blackening. Bruises form mottled potted indigo stains against my skin. I raise my head back and make eye contact with Iverson.

So you killed Carly?

Couldn't leave it to a Mexican pedophile. Santana had ways to lure kids in with that girl he worked with.

Did you fuck Santana over once he started with your dirty laundry?

No, no, I was as surprised as you when he turned up dead. And when it comes to laundry I'm pretty sure I did you a favor. See, Santana didn't want to kill the kid. He wanted to get her into some chicken ranch down ol' Mexico way. Reckoned she'd fetch a good price somewhere down Tijuana.

Did me a favor then?

In a way I suppose I did. Your Mom was the next move, but I suspected you might ship her back to Chicago. I've got you right where I planned. Here. Right here in LA.

You got me here. Big fucking deal.

I keep eye contact with Iverson. I like the way this seems to unnerve him. I can how transparent he is, right into his heart, this coward of a man. He killed, murdered, my sister because of me. I killed her. I didn't pull the trigger but I am as guilty and culpable as Iverson. Iverson straightens himself. Says

My friend on the phone there, he says your tough, I say let's find out.

Yes. Let's.

Iverson smiles and says. I think he is going to enjoy this.

Old Cop says. Wait. I think we should wait.

Iverson calls back over his shoulder.

Wait for nothing.

I say

Nothing?

Iverson lifts the straight razor and shows it to me. Pan to a razor close to my face. My breath fogs the blade.

A gunshot. A single pop. Iverson hears it too. He starts. Looks around. Old Cop looks unfazed, almost confused. A scarlet flower slowly blossoms on Old Cops shirt near his heart. Another pop. A lump of meat flops across Old Cops face. A strip of hair and flesh hang down above his eye. His jaw drops, a monotone croaking sound echoes into the plastic mist. Iverson panics. Eyes large, pupils dilated. He screams into the darkness.

I'll fucking kill him. Right here. Right n —

A bullet slaps into his elbow. He drops the razor. Yelling he staggers into the folds of the plastic mesh. I hear sound behind me. Iverson flaps and flaps frantic. It sounds like the beating of a giant plastic wings. He sounded like he was ripping his way out of the place. More pops. Louder cracks as the weapon moves closer, it fires into the darkness. A bullet tears through the fabric where Iverson and McFadden had their tools laid out. Loose sheaves of the plastic sheeting drift and billow as people seem to be moving behind. Between the slices in the sheets I can see the construction materials and shadows. I see the concrete beneath the chair has a large sheet of plastic taped to it. I come to the conclusion that this was to be my shroud when these 2 men, these 2 cowards had finished with me. My bloody carcass would be rolled into the sheet with a cinder block or chains at my feet. Taken to Santa Monica and drifted out into the ocean. Pacific Ocean. My final destination. It has no memory.

I hear Iverson's voice. More a plea. They always plead.

He doesn't know shit. I didn't say a thing. You owe me --

A crack. Cordite drifts into my nostrils. This was close. Real close.

I feel someone behind me. See a shadow slide across the floor. I hear breathing. In front of me, shined shoes. I smile.

Largo.

Fuck. What'd they do to your foot?

Smashed it with a hammer.

Fuck.

Largo takes a tube of Advil from his jacket pocket. Pours 2 out. Takes a bottle of water puts the pills into my mouth and pours the water. The water is warm. I don't care. Swallow.

Get this tape off me Largo.

Largo turns and walks back to McFadden flattened out on the concrete. Blood has spilled from his head into an almost perfect crimson disc.

I say louder.

Largo, rip off the fucking tape. We got to get outta here. The rescue operation was on the loud side.

Largo is on his haunches staring at the dead Old Cop.

Largo, he's dead. Let's fucking move.

Largo stands with no speed. He speaks softly.

You know Doug was my cousin?

I stare at his back and say nothing. Largo turns to me. His face hangs, red and puffed out. His eyes dead and wet.

As kids me and Dougie were real tight. Real tight. Best laid plans and all that crap.

What plans? What the fuck you talking about?

He turned back to face me. My mentor. My friend. My brother in arms. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Rubs it on the leg of his pants. He tells me.

It was you. Always you. The blue eyed boy. Mikey told me he was bringing you in. Right to the top. Why the fuck would he do that?

Fuck that. I don't want that crap.

Too late. It's way too late. You know how long I worked alongside Mikey?

Years, but why this?

I look around at the bloody mess that surrounds us. His body slumps.

I'm old. Look at me. Mikey wasn't bringing me in. Taking me up. I'm too fucking old for all this shit. You're the prize boy and Mike could see it. He'd pay real good to get you back to Chicago in one piece. No muscle. No power out here in Yama's back yard. No one knew Dougie was just down the coast in Orange County.

Please Largo, don't tell me that all this ... Carly ... dead over money. Please?

I'm really sorry. I didn't know this Iverson guy. I sorta worked out he was wrong ... but it was too late.

The rage rose and escaped. I am out of control. I feel a sound in my chest that escapes my mouth. It is an animal feral sound. A cry. A screech. A moan. I'm not sure. I do not care. I am out of control. My muscles shake and shudder. I try to raise from the chair. I feel pain. Hard white pain. The chair lifts an 1/8th of inch. I howl. The animal sound. The chair lifts again and topples onto its side. My shoulder slams into the concrete. It's enough to soothe the rage. It's enough pain to pull the rage back inside. I breathe hard. My shoulder feels broken. It is good. My smashed foot dangles in the air creating a strange hot throbbing sensation that creeps up to my knee.

Largo is sat on the ground crying. His jacket has edged into the circular pool of the Old Cops blood. His piece is limp but balanced in his hand which is crested on his knee. My vocal chords realign. Move. Slide. Move. Slide back to where they should be. My voice hoarse. I ask.

How much?

5 million dollars.

That's all. You killed for a promise of 5 million. And you were gonna kill me for that?

That's all. I had a decision to make.

Largo's body seems to have gained some composure. The sobbing stopped. Largo's eyes look more focused. More trained. He speaks.

You're coming with me.

That's going to be tough. Your gang made that a problem an hour ago.

You don't need to walk where we're going.

He pushes his old bones and muscles to standing.

I say.

You know consciousness is a curse. If we were dumb fucking animals we wouldn't have the awareness to act with greed or envy. We'd just fuck, shit and then in the end die. Somehow hoping that our offspring might be a little smarter than we were first time around.

Largo slots the 9mm to chamber a round. He says.

It's a shame we didn't have offspring then.

Good thing we didn't have kids? That's the problem, Larg. Carly wasn't my sister she was my daughter.

You fucking liar.

Largo points the barrel toward my face.

I got a girl pregnant in high school. I loved her in some weird way. As close to a sense of love as I'll ever get. Didn't know shit at that age. She came from a piss poor black family in the neighborhood. They kicked her out. My mom was around then and took her in. I tried to keep it quiet and be some kind of a family man. Soon after Carly was born she OD'd. Couldn't take the mommy angle. Post partum maybe? Who the fuck knows. My mom brought her up as her own ... I'd left by then any way. But she was my blood. I got my mom to come out here as my profile and exposure got bigger. I knew someone was inside this. Only a small number of people knew where Carly and my mom were, so it had to be someone in Chicago. No coincidence.

I can hear Largo sniff. Feel his sorrow. Feel his tears.

Another voice behind Largo says.

I have him.

I say.

Take him.

2 pops. Largo falls to side then lays on the ground. His eyes open looking straight into mine. Blood gently pools near his temple.

Grunting effort as I'm pulled to an upright position. Gravity draws hot blood into my bludgeoned foot and shoulder. I gasp at the immediate sensation. Tape is ripping. Arm hair ripped away. A smiling face with a large port wine birthmark covering one side. I say.

Good to see you.

Pilgrim smiles. It ain't pretty. Says.

Cool.

How long you been here?

Got here soon after you. Stairs come in at the back. Largo used them. I followed the cunt here. You were right, he had turned. I expect guys to flip from time to time, you know, bargain a plea. I don't see it too often when they flip with dirty cops.

Money. It's always money.

I stare at Largo's flaccid carcass and wonder. Was it money? Was it just that Mikey chose me? Envy. It's a simple answer. Too simple? We would never know. Pilgrim speaks.

You want me to clean this?

Sure.

He says.

Usual plus 10G for taking out the trash.

He nods down to where Largos body lay. I say.

Least I can do. Fuck it. Add another 5G to the 10 and get me the fuck out of here.

Pilgrim helps me. I stand. I feel pain. Pure simple pain. I grunt and hop but manage only 3 maybe 4 yards. Sweat beads on my upper lip and forehead. I tell Pilgrim.

Shit. I can't fucking move. You have any Advil?

Pilgrim looks at me.

Not on me no.

The elevator doors slide apart. Light spills into the dimness. I whisper.

Give me a piece.

Pilgrim drifts from my shoulder. I grunt with the pain. He fishes out a small revolver, checks the chamber and hands it to me with a nod. Pilgrim props me up ready to go. Dallas steps from the light. I can see him clearly. He holds a semi-automatic machine pistol. He's ready to fire. I nod to Pilgrim. He moves silently away from me and is eaten by the darkness. Dissolving away. I stare. Pilgrim is gone.

I shout.

Don't fucking move. I'm not in the mood.

Dallas turns his head slowly toward me. Says.

I'm going to put this on the ground.

I breathe hard. I struggle to draw air through my nostrils. Dallas leans forward placing the machine pistol on the concrete. I tell him.

Don't move in any way that would resemble speed. Okay?

He laughs. Says.

I thought you'd be dead. I knew something was wrong when I didn't hear from you. Something didn't feel right. You know that feeling?

I do. Come over here.

Dallas walks around one of the plastic sheets and a carpenters bench. Sawdust flecks his black Armani suit. Slowly slowly. Dallas's hands are raised and wide open fingers slightly spread. He looks around me, makes a face.