Roachkiller and Other Stories (18 page)

“Daddy? Are you okay?”

I creak open my eyes. The light is all wrong. It doesn’t smell like the dead man room. The dead man room smells like piss. This room smells like socks. Someone is shaking me.

“Daddy?”

A little girl, shaking me. She’s so pretty.

I made it to Heaven.

*  *  *

Oh, god. Am I dead? Am I dead?!! I’m DEAD! Voices. I hear voices! Angels? St. Joseph? . . . Beelzebub?!

“He should be dead,” one of the voices says.

“Well, he’s pretty close.”

“Shall we hit him again?”

“Any more and we’ll end up with beef jerky.”

“Wait. Backhaus! He’s—he’s coming around? What the hell?”

“Oh, great.”

Something grabbing me, sharp fingers on sharp hands touching me all over, pinching me, pulling me.

*  *  *

“Daddy?”

“Hey, pretty angel,” I say, but it’s not my voice. It’s squeaky. “Daddy’s okay.”

I try to stand up but fall down again. The slim little girl helps me up.

“We alone here?” I ask her. It’s a nice place. Lots of books. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Daddy, are you okay?”

Then a door opens and in walks a sweet blonde, nineteen or twenty. Her hair is dripping wet. Absolutely this is heaven. Where to start?

But then right behind her are two morons, shaking umbrellas.

“Kip, what are you doing in your shorts?” says the short, fat one in glasses.

“Could you be any less ready?” says the other, a tall one in glasses.

“The lightning hit Daddy,” says the little girl. The other girl, the teenager, is holding her.

“What?” says a moron.

“How did that happen, Apple?” says the sweet, sweet teen.

“When he was ironing. It came through the window.”

“Are you okay, Kip?” says the short moron.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying out my squeaky voice. “Apple must be imagining things. That much juice would kill a man.”

“Well, you look all right.”

“You still want to do the show tonight?”

“Of course he’s doing the show. This is his big break.”

“But he does look a little pale.”

“We’ll get him an Irish coffee.”

This is very strange. I could kill them all in under a minute. But something holds me back. Curiosity, I guess. I pull some pants off an ironing board. That’s when I see my face in a mirror. My new face. Tall, curly hair, big forehead, flabby. My new arms feel like fish. But there are no cuffs on these wrists.

The morons lead me outside. They walk on either side of me, like prison screws. I look back to see the pretty girls at the doorstep.

“Bye-bye, Daddy! Good luck!”

“Good luck, Mr. Cordero!”

 I’m looking forward to getting to know them much better.

“See you later,” I say.

In the car, the short moron, whose name seems to be Artie, keeps asking me if I’m nervous. He tells the other one, “He’s so nervous he’s speechless! Give him a pep talk, Dwayne.”

“He doesn’t need a pep talk,” says Dwayne. “He’s a comic genius. He’s gonna kill.”

Artie says, “What bits are you going to do? You going to do the one about explaining to Apple about where animals go bye-bye?”

I am considering making Artie go bye-bye, but he is driving. Maybe at the next traffic light. Heaven sure has a lot of cars.

“Why are you so quiet?” says Artie. I picture his head under the front tire.

“Could you be any more annoying, Artie?” says the other. “Let him concentrate.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about. But I think I am beginning to understand. Maybe this ain’t heaven. Maybe I’ve been what they call reincarnated. But I thought you got reincarnated as a baby something. A baby cockroach, if you were bad. A baby bird, if you were good.

Maybe this is some kind of test before that, some kind of second chance. Why would anyone give Max Mendez a second chance?

*  *  *

Some sort of hospital. I smell bacon. Oh, crap, is that me?

I can’t believe I’m in the hospital! Of all the days, this was not the day! Sammy Lazar was going to be there! Sammy Lazar! I can’t believe that stupid iron! People should just go around wrinkled all the time. Let clothes be clothes, I say. Let them relax. But no, society says everything has to be flattened! I’ll tell you what’s flat—my EKG.

Not a private room, thank god. How could I pay for that? Very dark in here. Hard to see.

Then I notice some movement. From what looks like a closet door.

Three guys, keeping quiet, staying low. What are they supposed to be, ninja night nurses? They creep up to my bed. How many painkillers have I got in me? And where can I get more?

“Max,” one of them whispers. “Wake up!”

“Sorry, fellas,” I whisper back—then I notice how my throat hurts. My voice is hoarse, but still it sounds different, like it’s coming out of a tuba, being shot out of a cannon. “I’m not Max.”

“Just like I thought. Juice must have knocked his brains around a little,” one of them says.

“Respect, Jerry, respect,” says the one closer. He looks like Robert De Niro in a mullet.

“Where am I?” Cannon fire. I could do great voice-overs with this voice.

“Lieber Correctional. Your home away from home.”

“Where?”

“South Carolina.”

“South Carolina?! I hate the South. The heat!”

“Listen, Max, we gotta hurry. We were doing like you said, taking advantage of all the rigmarole over your, you know, execution, to make a break for it. But when you, ah, didn’t buy the farm, everyone rushed in here, where we was just about to finish breaking through the back wall in the X-ray room. So we had to stay hush-hush. But I says to Jerry, ‘If Max is still with us, we owe it to him to take him out of here.’ Wouldn’t that be something, Max? Wouldn’t that be the greatest escape ever?”

*  *  *

This Artie guy parks, and we get out in the rain and run to the back of some club.

“You’re on in fifteen,” says Dwayne.

The morons run to a table in the darkness. It’s a crowded club, dark, and in front is a tiny stage.

Artie says, “Are you nervous, Kip? If not, I’m nervous for you. I don’t think my stomach can take it!”

I think I get it now. There’s a guy on a stage talking about his ex-girlfriend. Then he starts talking about his dog. Then it’s his ex-girlfriend again. I guess that’s what this Kip character is supposed to do. What kind of test is this? My father, he said I was born bad. He said I was his punishment and that the Lord works in mysterious ways. Then he would give me a good bloody beating.

Artie puts a coffee down in front of me. “There’s Lazar!”

“Don’t point! Could you be any more of an idiot, Artie?”

“So that’s the fella I’m supposed to impress,” I say. Then I get it. This Lazar is the Big G in disguise. God used to go around in disguise all the time, and if this is some kind of test, maybe he wants to be here personally to watch me. Watch me be onstage.

Then the tall ’wipe starts smacking me in the arm. “Earth to Kip! Kip! Hell-o!”

He points to an announcer on the stage. The announcer’s talking. “Ladies and gentlemen, maybe he’s fishing for a little more applause. Give a double extra warm hand to Kip Cordero!”

The new me. Suddenly, I do get nervous. I was nervous once when I killed a postal worker and cut him up not ten feet from a parked cop car with three cops in it, but this is a different kind of nervous. I can think of a million wonderful things I could do with a second chance at life—if that’s what this is about. A million wonderful things. Some of them even legal.

*  *  *

My daughter. Where is Apple? How long have I been out? I could have been in a coma for seventeen years and she’s married to some architect. As long as he’s not in show business. I want to get out of this dream, wake up, go home. Two of the ninja nurses have gotten me out of bed. Feels so real. And so sore. Like I’ve been thrown down a very long flight of very angry stairs. But at the same time strong, really strong, like a giant cup of espresso with a cocaine bagel and amphetamine cream cheese. That’s horrible. Scratch that.

My skin feels tight, taut. But I also feel . . . really tall.

“Where’re we going?”

The mullet guy talks. “There’s supposed to be lead lining in the X-ray room, so they skimped on security, figuring the lead would be a deterrent, you see, but turns out they skimped on the lead lining, too. Funding. So, turns out, this wall is just a few bricks between us and the outside.”

They lead me, stumbling, into a room with a big dental chair thing, which I guess is an X-ray machine, and behind it, behind a credenza, the wall has been opened near the floor.

“I need to see my little girl,” I say.

“I think you might need some butter on those burns for a few days before you think about getting laid. After you, Max.”

They make me bend over and lead me into a low tunnel. I barely fit.
Wake up,
I keep telling myself,
wake up.

“Will he be okay?” another of the ninjas asks, behind me.

“Don’t you worry about it,” the mullet guy says.

“Shut up,” the third one says.

*  *  *

The lights hitting the stage are very bright. But I’m used to that. I can just see the crowd out there. There’s Big G sitting off to the left. He’s really fat. I keep my eyes on his eyes. I’m not sure what to say. But I figure the Lord is looking for some kind of confession. I talk into the microphone and it gives me a little feedback.

“Hello, everybody,” I say in my new voice. “When I . . . when I was growing up my father used to tell me I was made to be bad. So I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove him right.” Some lady laughs in the front row. What a gorgeous neck she has.

“At Boy Scout camp some kid took my favorite knife. So I beat him to death with a rock. I woulda stabbed him—but he had my knife.” More laughs.
Why are they laughing?

“My first girlfriend was really beautiful, but she refused to marry me. You know how hard it is to get rid of a body? It’s not easy, folks. And she was a big girl.”

And now God laughs. He’s enjoying this. I get it now. Make God laugh.

“Of course, you live the kind of life I do and, well, you run into a lot of trouble with the cops. Any cops here?” Two guys in the back raise their hands. They’re smiling. “Oh, you guys are pushovers. I used to eat guys like you for breakfast. Literally. I mean, with toast and coffee. Sometimes with a grapefruit. Just to be healthy. Because you guys eat crap all the time. Donuts and coffee, coffee and donuts. I have to watch my weight. You guys are all fat and sugar.”

I see you, God, I see you smiling now.

“It’s not easy being, well, the kind of animal, maniac, killer that I am. Seriously. One time some guy catches me stuffing a body in the trunk. And what am I supposed to do? Wave, and say, ‘Hi, neighbor’? No, I have to go after him and his whole family. Talk about inconvenient.”

That breaks them up. There is a lot of applause, and I feel warm and happy. I feel alive. This is some kind of heaven.

I go on for a while, till I run out of stories, and go back to the table.

“Um,” says Dwayne, “unusual set for you. Interesting new material.”

“Edgy,” says Artie. “He’s edgy.”

They lead me to the bar in front and someone puts a beer in my hand. I give it back and ask for a French martini. I know it’s a lady’s drink, but it’s my favorite. Lots of people are smacking me on the back. Does this mean I get my second chance?

Dwayne turns me around—I don’t really like to be touched but I’m calm about it—and there is God, grinning, looking happy. He shakes my hand and says, “Good job.”

I passed my test. The morons talk to him—maybe they’re angels—and I’m too high to pay attention. Then God walks off, and me, I’m flying.

Then I hear something on the TV above the bar that catches my attention. The news.

“. . . an execution in South Carolina went awry tonight. The infamous Butcher of Bushwick, Max Mendez, was scheduled to be executed at midnight. Mendez was electrocuted—but miraculously survived. Authorities blame complications with the electrical chair system. Mendez remains in critical condition in the prison hospital, but once he recovers, he is scheduled to be executed again. Turning to sports . . .”

No.

*  *  *

“Head for the light,” they tell me.

The tunnel was long, dirty, smells like . . . like . . . I don’t know, just bad. Finally, there is light.

A car, parked. Headlights shining on the hole we just came out of. The ninjas come out behind me. One of them opens the trunk.

“Come on over, Max. We got something to show you.”

“He ain’t gonna fit.”

“Shut up.”

“What is this?” I say.

The mullet guy talks. “You killed Mr. Donald Rump’s wife and Mr. Rump’s kids, you might recall, and Mr. Rump has a lot of money. I’m sure he was disappointed you survived the chair and would pay a lot of it to see your corpse. Into the trunk.”

This is not a nice dream.

“Listen, I’ve never killed anyone in my life,” I say. “Not even . . . okay, maybe some flies. I don’t know who you think I am.” And then that’s when I get a glimpse of something, someone in the side-view mirror. Standing where I should be standing. That looks like an animal.

“Hold it right there, douches.” A shout from behind us.

We all turn. Mullet Guy says, “Backhaus!”

*  *  *

No.

I’m thinking, that flashy Lazar dude was no more God than I am Abraham Lincoln. This is some kind of big joke on me. I get juiced in a prison on the other side of the country and end up here, in some idiot’s skin. For what reason?

Artie and Dwayne are giggling like girls, like the cops who finally snagged me. I was chained up like a wild elephant in the back of a police van, but I could hear them whooping and hollering.

I feel like doing damage, going berserk, seeing blood. But I play it cool.

“This could mean sitcom, Kip, sitcom! Do you know what that means?”