Sick City (23 page)

It was later that evening. Spider clutched the phone. He listened to it ring.
Nobody is going to pick up,
he thought,
maybe nobody will pick up
. He was not sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. Suddenly there was a click, and a voice said,
“Yeah?”

“Hey, Jeff. It's Spider. Uh-huh. Yeah, I'm calling about that thing. The
THING
. The thing we talked about, your
MOVIE PROJECT
?”

“Yeah, well, I spoke to Dimitri. Dimitri Barakov, yeah. Uh-huh. Anyway, this dude's interested. Really interested. He's a high roller, man. You know those porn guys. He finances the shit. Uh-huh. Out in the Valley someplace . . . someplace where, uh, rich white people live, I dunno. He doesn't have me over for dinner or anything. Anyway, look—are you interested? He wants to meet.”

· · ·

“Dimitri. D-I-M-I-T-R-I. That's all you need to know. Projector? Yeah, sure, he's got all of that. He wants to meet you first. He wants to talk to you. He wants to see the item.”

“What? I dunno about that. Can't he just come to where you guys are? Mac—Mac—really? MacArthur Park? Come on. This guy don't wanna. He don't. He . . . hold on.”

Spider covered the mouthpiece and said, “They want to meet in MacArthur Park. They're as high as fucking kites right now, all tweaked out and shit. They're paranoid. They wanna do it in public.
‘See the whites of your eyes,'
he said. . . .”

Spider was careful as he recited this, very aware of the gun that was resting on Pat's lap. He got the nod. Took his hand off the receiver.

“Okay, I'll tell him. Lemme get a pen.”

Spider said this even though there was a pen and a notepad laid out for him already. He picked it up and started to write. When he was done he said, “Okay, I got it. When are we gonna talk about my fee? Oh, yeah, this guy's serious. He'll take it right off of you if it isn't bullshit. Okay. Okay. I'll speak to you tomorrow, right after you guys are done, okay? Peace.”

Spider replaced the handset. Everything was silent in Pat's motel room for a moment. Then Trina walked out from the bathroom, clapping her hands slowly.

“Fucking bravo,” she said.

Pat cocked the gun, pointing it away from Spider.

“Good,” he said, “you did good.”

Spider passed the notepad over to Pat. “Tomorrow, at noon. This is the address. It's a fast-food joint.”

Pat looked it over. “Fuckin' MacArthur Park, man. There'll be cops all over the place. This is gonna require some fucking diplomacy.”

Spider shrugged. After a moment he said, “So I guess we're done here?”

“I guess.”

“So is it cool for me to, uh . . . ?” Spider looked toward the door.

“Sure,” Pat said, cracking a grin. “Go right ahead.”

Spider looked at Trina, doubtfully. She smiled at him. Spider stood, slowly, wary of making sudden movements, considering the loaded gun in Pat's hand. Spider shrugged and looked around the room one more time. His eyes fell on the pile of meth that was heaped on the nightstand.

“Hey, Pat, you, uh, mind if I . . . ? You said I could get an ounce.”

Pat grinned even wider.

“Sure, baby. You wanna take it with you now?”

Spider nodded slowly.

Pat gestured to the bureau. “There's some packages weighed out in there. Take one.”

Spider looked at Pat again. Pat was grinning still. “Okay, cool,” Spider said, “thanks, Pat.”

“Anytime. I appreciate the help, Spider.”

Spider walked over to the bureau and opened it. Inside were several fat packages stuffed full of meth. Spider took one, held it up for Pat to see, and then pocketed it. He looked at Trina, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, regarding Spider with curious indifference on her face.

“Well,” Spider said, straightening up and walking toward the door, “I guess I'll see you two around.”

“Lemme see you out,” Pat said. He stood and walked toward Spider. Spider tried the door, but it was locked.

“Ya need to open that dead bolt, up there,” Pat said, pointing upward.

Spider reached up, and as he did so, Pat clubbed him on the back of the skull with the handle of the gun. With a grunt Spider fell to the floor. Pat sat on top of him and smashed the gun into Spider's skull several times, with brutal grunts. The flesh split, exposing bone underneath, and blood sprayed lightly on Pat's face. When he was done, Spider was bleeding and unconscious.

“Can you believe that motherfucker?” Pat said to Trina as he washed the blood off his face in the bathroom sink. “Thinking he was gonna walk out of here with an ounce of my shit!” Pat laughed his wheezy laugh.

Trina peered down at Spider. Pat was right, she thought, it's easier the second time. Her squeamishness was all gone.

“Stupid bastard,” she said.

“He had balls, though, I'll give him that. I hope to fuck he doesn't have AIDS or some shit. Motherfucker bled all over me.”

“Balls are overrated,” Trina said.

“Gimme the thing. The needle.”

As much as Pat hated to waste drugs, he used a massive overdose of an opiate called fentanyl to finish Spider off. He put the needle into the scarred, bulging vein running down Spider's neck and fed the shit in slow. When Spider stopped breathing, Pat went down to his car and removed a tarp from the trunk. They wrapped the body in the tarp and carried him downstairs. They passed a woman on the stairs, and Pat said, “Howdy, ma'am,” to her as they passed. The woman ignored them and carried on upstairs. They stuffed Spider's body in the trunk.

“Now where?” Trina asked, slightly out of breath.

“First we drop our friend off,” Pat said, nodding toward the trunk. “I know a Dumpster by Fifth and Alameda where homeboy will fit right in. Then . . . you in the mood for Korean food?”

“Sure, baby!”

“Good. I know a kick-ass place down there. We're celebrating. Shit, I don't know much about celebrity skin flicks, but if this thing is as valuable as homeboy said it was . . . we're gonna do all right outta this. Tomorrow, we leave for San Francisco, rain or shine.”

Trina squealed and threw her arms around Pat. She crushed her lips against his.

“I love you, Daddy!” she said.

“I love you, too, sweet cheeks. Now, let's drop this trash off and get some eats.”

——————

Back at the Mark Twain, Randal looked up from the newspaper and said, “All good?”

“Yup. Noon tomorrow. Hey, let me read that shit now!”

They both huddled around the paper, laughing at the picture of Dr. Mike and the glorious header:

The Doctor is Out: Recovery Guru Dropped by Network Over Death of Lover

“I want to apologize to the public, to my colleagues, and most of all to my family.”

“That motherfucker is FINISHED,” Jeffrey said. “Gone!”

“It says there's charges pending for distributing prescription drugs illicitly. Good fucking riddance. You know, you can never trust anybody that straitlaced. At least people like us . . . we're honest about what's inside of us. Assholes like that, they try to keep a lid on it . . . but it's not possible. The pressure builds and builds, and then, one day . . .”

“Boom!” Jeffrey laughed.

“Yeah, exactly . . .” Randal placed a finger on the black-and-white picture of a harassed-looking Dr. Mike fighting his way through a throng of photographers. “BOOM!”

Randal and Jeffrey pulled into the parking lot of USA Donuts and left the engine running. It was twenty minutes before they were due to meet Spider's connection.

“So what are we going to do when we see this guy?” Jeffrey asked.

“Well . . . we check him out. If he seems on the level then we go with him and get this shit over with. Easy-peasy.”

“I don't know, Randal . . . ,” Jeffrey said quietly. “I'm beginning to think we should have just taken that shithead's money, split, and fuck Stevie Rox. I mean, what's he going to do? We'd be long gone. You really think he'd be together enough to chase us down?”

Randal looked over to Jeffrey and said, “We'd be dead meat. Stevie might be a fuckup, but money talks. He could have us taken out like THAT.”

“This feels sketchy. I don't like it. Spider's a total ass-hole, man. I don't trust him.”

· · ·

“That's why we're doing this shit out here. Everything right out in the open. No funny business.”

A kid started hammering on the window, making Jeffrey jump. “Jesus!”

“Chill the fuck out!” Randal said. “Stop being so fucking jumpy!”

He rolled down the window and the kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, stuck his head through and said, “Watchoo need?”

Randal handed the kid forty dollars and said, “Rocka.”

The kid spat a bundle of aluminum foil into his hand and passed the slimy package to Randal. Randal rolled up the window as the kid walked off.

Jeffrey stared at Randal. Randal had a big, dumb grin on his face as he checked the merchandise. “What are you doing, man?”

“You wanna take a blast before we do this?”

“You want to smoke? Now?”

“Sure. Why not? You got other plans?”

Jeffrey sighed, resigned. Now that the crack was in the car, his modicum of self-restraint was gone. “I don't even have a pipe on me. You have a pipe?”

“Hold on.”

Randal got out of the car and walked past the doughnut stand, over to a convenience store on the far side of the parking lot. The gaggle of dealers by the pay phones regarded him blankly. The bell over the door tinkled as Randal walked into the gloomy, cool interior. He walked around the narrow aisles as tinny speakers blasted Arabic house music, and a security camera recorded his every move. There was no Chore Boy on the shelves. He walked over to the counter. A fat Turk sat back with the bottles of liquor and the lighters watching
The Price Is Right
, his shirt soaked through with sweat. A fly landed lazily on the back of his hand, and he waved it away. Randal cleared his throat.

“Hey. You got any Chore Boy?”

The guy looked at Randal for a moment and then reached underneath the till. He retrieved the Chore Boy and tossed it on the counter. “Two dollar.”

“You got any Love Roses?”

The clerk looked at Randal for a long time. Randal had not slept in many hours. He emanated the lonely scent of by-the-hour motel rooms. His clothes, wrinkled and unkempt, reeked of ammonia and desperation, and his lips were chapped and bloody. The clerk smiled coldly and reached under the counter again. He produced a four-inch glass tube, a cork in each end, and a tiny, dried rose inside.

“You need lighter?”

“No. I'm good.”

“Five dollar.”

Getting back in the car, Randal threw the paper bag over to Jeffrey and said, “Hook this up, will you? I'm gonna drive around the block.”

Once they'd pulled out of the parking lot Randal sighed. “Fucking clerk was giving me the eye. They're all nervous 'cos some asshole reporter did a story about the whole Love Roses thing. Saying how they're selling crack pipes under the counter. Everybody's howling and now the cops are trying to bust them on paraphernalia charges.”

“Jesus Christ. That fucking sucks.”

“Right? Like if they get rid of all those fucking pipes people are gonna stop smoking crack or something.”

“Uh-huh. They'd have to stop people from selling ballpoint pens and fucking lightbulbs next. You can make a pipe out of anything. If I got dropped on a desert island with some crack I could find a way to smoke it.”

“What would happen if you shoved it up your ass? Would you get high? I mean, if you shove heroin up your ass, it's fucking wild, man. Hits you like a fucking Mack truck.”

Jeffrey laughed. “I don't know. Crack is one of the few things I haven't got around to shoving up my ass yet.”

As they talked, Jeffrey had removed the corks from each end, shaken out the rose, and started ripping a section of the Chore Boy away so he could stuff it into one end of the tube. The crack pipe was assembled in a matter of moments. He said, “Ready to rock.”

“Cool. I'll pull over here. Keep an eye out for the five-oh, man.”

——————

Jesus and Angel were standing at the counter, waiting for their food, when Pat walked in. Jesus glanced over at the tall, muscular guy with the Hawaiian shirt, and then looked back to the counter with a sniff. He pinned him as another
viciouso
, come into the neighborhood to meet a drug connection. Angel's gaze followed Pat as he took a table by the window, looking out over the chaos of Alvarado Street. Outside vendors were selling cheap, imported trinkets. Baby turtles splashed about in a plastic tub of green, filthy water. A Bolivian cholita, wearing a tiny bowler hat and a pleated skirt, sold Mexican antibiotics from a child's stroller. An LAPD prowl car sailed past, making sure that nobody was killing each other. The sun beat down, furious and indiscriminate.

Angel looked away and barked at the guy making the tacos
“¡Para ir!”
The old guy nodded and wrapped them to go. He placed them on the counter, and Jesus said, “Put them on the tab.”

They walked out to the street. Angel said, “You see ese chango? The blanquito in the ugly shirt?”

Jesus went to look over his shoulder, and Angel elbowed him in the ribs. “Don' look, dumbshit! You saw him—yeah or no?”

“Yeah. I seen him.”

“You see what he was wearin'?”

“Yeah. An ugly ass shirt. So what?”

“Nah, pendejo! The fuckin' chain homeboy was wearin'. You see it?”

“No. What's the big deal?”

“He was wearing a Malverde pendant.”

They walked in silence toward Sixth Street against the tide of people. Jesus looked toward Angel, who was tearing at his taco de lengua hungrily and said, “Iz that silence because you iz thinking, or because you a dumbshit?”

Angel scowled, his mouth smeared with salsa verde. “So he was wearing a Malverde. So what? Those fuckin' gabo hipster stores on Melrose sell pictures of Malverde now.”

“¡Pinche hijo de puta de mierda—shingado pendejo!
What I'm saying is it looked familiar. All the fucking jewels on it and shit. It was a custom job. It looked a lot like the chain that got taken from Xavier, ese.”

“Oh, shit! You think that's the fuckin' guy that fucked Xavier up?”

“Yeah, genius, I do. They said it was some crazy fuckin' white dude smashed his face in an' stole his shit. This has to be the same dude. Vamanos! We'd better tell Gordo before this puto splits.”

Pat sat there, checked his watch again. Ten minutes before they were due to show. A girl brought Pat a beer, and he clicked open his cell and dialed the room. Trina picked up after the first ring. She was sitting on top of a suitcase, smoking a cigarette and absently watching
The Young and the Restless
.

“Hey, Papi,” she said, “is everything okay?”

“Dandy, baby. I'm just waiting.”

“Call me as soon as you're done, okay? I got everything packed up, ready to go.”

“Good. We'll be in Frisco before the day's out. Just sit tight and wait for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pat clicked the phone off. The gun, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, put a subtle pressure on his gut. It felt good. His mind was cool, emptied of all thoughts but the upcoming confrontation. He drained the beer, burped, and checked his watch one more time.

——————

“What's this puto look like?” Gordo said, squinting his eyes against the sun.

“White. I dunno. He looks white. He has the Malverde on. Wearing some fucking ugly ass shirt, like the shirts that retired gringos down in Florida wear.”

“Has he got hair?”

“Nah, he shaved it. Gotta mustache, though.”

Gordo looked around. The street was quieter than usual today. Something in the air had scared the junkies. He said, “That sounds like the guy. Fucked Xavier up good. Grabbed him by the fucking throat, pulled his head into the car, and took off. Dragged him four blocks before the chain busted, and he let him go. Smashed homeboy's fucking teeth out with the handle of a fuckin' hunting knife.”

Angel puffed his chest out. He knew that locating this fucker for Gordo, even by accident, would have to be good for an ambitious kid like himself. “Well, he's there. Right now. He just walked in an' ordered a beer.”

Jesus shuffled from one foot to the other. He was ready to get the fuck out of here. Gordo was an unpredictable motherfucker, and being around him made Jesus nervous. There was only one reason why a young kid like Gordo could rise up the ranks so quickly—utter ruthlessness. Gordo scared the shit out of a lot of people, and Jesus was no exception.

“Good. You did good, Angel.”

When Gordo said this, Angel nudged Jesus in the ribs. He gave him a look that said:
“Told you so. Stick with me and you'll go far
.
”
Jesus just smiled ingratiatingly, looking dumb, as usual.

“Come here,” Gordo said, putting his arm around Angel's shoulder. They walked a little farther up the street, to a raggedy palm tree that had a gang marking spray-painted on the trunk.

“You did good, man. I need you to take care of something for me. Here.”

· · ·

They were standing in the shade of the tree. Gordo looked around one more time, and then bent over, retrieving something out of a hole in the dirt that was covered with a brown, dry palm leaf. It was wrapped in a rag, but the moment Gordo placed it in Angel's hand his guts fluttered at the recognition of what it was.

“Take the dummy with you if you like. Either way, I don' wanna hear that this motherfucker walked away from here again. Bring the pendant back to me. And don't get caught, okay?”

Angel held the gun in his hand for a moment. He felt nauseous, and his chest became light and fluttery. He said, “Sure,” and stuffed the piece into the waistband of his jeans. His baggy T-shirt concealed the weapon easily. He walked back to Jesus and said, “Come on. We gotta go.”

As they walked back toward Alvarado, Jesus said, “What's up? What did Gordo say? Is he happy?”

“Yeah. He's real happy. We gotta do something for him, though.”

“What?”

“We gotta take care of this dude.”

Jesus stopped. “What? Out in the open? What are you, fuckin' crazy?”

“Nah. Are you? This is boss's orders.”

“Nah, man. Guadalupe is gonna kill me if I get fuckin' arrested again.”

“Then don't get arrested, shithead. You don't got a choice. Gordo said that you and me gotta do it. That's it. You wanna go back there an' tell Gordo you pussying out?”

Jesus was silent for a moment. Then they slowly started walking again.

“Yeah. That's what I thought. We just go in and out. Hopefully homeboy's still eating his fuckin' taco. Nobody will see nothin', chill.”

——————

Hidden away off of Burlington Avenue, Randal and Jeffrey sat in the car, desperately trying to fan the cloud of white smoke out the windows. Sweat stood out in beads against their foreheads. Randal was hunched down in his seat, sucking on the end of the pipe, trying to find some cocaine residue that was left over. Jeffrey watched him, his right foot tapping a steadily more insistent tattoo. “Did you get anything?”

“Nah. That's it. We fuckin' killed it.”

“Shit. You wanna get more?”

Randal looked at his watch. “We got five minutes. We'll be late . . .
fuck
!”

“What if we just pick some up? For later. We pick it up, take care of business, and then we can have it once we're done. To celebrate.”

Randal nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we can totally do that.”

“But we gotta go meet this fucking guy. Seriously. Let's not, uh, you know, get all fucking distracted or something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Randal said, desperately licking his dried-out lips. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with wads of cotton. He found an old can of Coke that was in the drink holder and took a gulp. It had been sitting there since yesterday, flat and warm. The taste made him gag.

“Drive, man,” Jeffrey said, “we need to air this place out. Looks like a fucking sauna in here. What if the pigs see us?”

“Jesus,” Randal said. His heart was pounding. He could feel it in his throat. He looked all around for cops. There was nothing. He took off and circled around the block. Made a left at Third Street, and then left again on Bonnie Brae.

“It was good shit, right? We should find the same guy. That was good shit.” They rode down the block slowly. A fat, ominous-looking dealer watched their car with the flat, expressionless eyes of a lizard.

“This fucking place creeps me out, man,” Jeffrey said.

“Huh?”

“Creeps me out. So fucking sketchy. I hate being down here. The pigs are crawling all over the place.”

Randal snorted. “So long as the fucking Eighteenth Street remembered to pay off the cops this month, we're cool.”

“I hate it, though. It's fucking depressing. The poverty. I mean, Jesus, imagine raising your kids here?”

Randal laughed. “Listen—nobody gives two shits about these people. They don't care how these people's kids grow up. This place is totally abandoned by the rest of the city. I mean, there are people I know who have never so much as driven through this neighborhood. It doesn't really exist to them. Imagine, a whole section of the city they call home, and it may as well be fucking deepest Africa or something. That's why the fucking subway stops at Beverly. It's not just because the rich fuckers don't want to come here. It's because they want to keep these people contained. This city is fucked up, Jeffrey. It's a fucking cesspool. Calling this place the City of Angels is a horrible fucking joke. It isn't a city of angels. It's a city of fucking whores. The thing is, you can't act like this neighborhood is the problem and over in Beverly Hills everything's hunky dory.”