Disintegration: A Windy City Dark Mystery Page 15

  In no time I’m at his apartment, just across Damen, cars lined up and down the street. A mocking of Camrys, a smattering of SUVs and low-riding muscle cars, an old Civic, a VW Golf, and a sleek red Mustang, shining under the snow.

  His time is up. And he’s expecting me.

  The front gate is open an inch, I click it shut behind me. The door to the six-flat is open a crack, so I enter, wipe my feet, and close it with my shoulder. Up the stairs a door at the top is open, a pillar of light leaking out. I pull my gun out and ease it open.

  The apartment has been trashed. A table is overturned, the wood scarred, chairs knocked over, magazines and broken glass, a picture frame on the wall, glass cracked, crooked. A long black entertainment center runs down one wall, the shelves emptied, videos on the floor, CDs smashed and in pieces, and a large gap where the television should be, the shape left behind, a slightly lighter shade of beige. There is no sign of him in the main room.

  “I’m in here,” a soft voice murmurs.

  A square formica table sits in the center of the kitchen, black and gray swirls running across the top, surrounded by four chairs, seats in red leather, brass tacks lining the edges. In the center of the table are several bottles of wine, red wine, some upright, all uncorked. One is tipped over, a long spill over the table and down to the floor. It drips slowly, a drop at a time. He’s sitting there slumped forward, and it’s every kitchen I’ve ever been in, every man I’ve shot or stabbed, sitting broken, waiting for the axe to fall.

  “What happened?”

  “Me. I happened, brother. I did it.”

  “What…why?”

  He looks up, dark circles under his eyes, which are swimming with light, a smile across his face, a crooked grin, and he’s flying. He’s barely here. I see two small plastic bottles next to the wine.

  “Take them,” he says. “I don’t need them anymore.”

  I don’t want them. I don’t need them. I pause. I take them anyway.

  “I knew he’d send you.”

  “Vlad?”

  “Yeah. I really did blow the last one. The guy ran, across the state, took a girl with him, some cousin of Vlad’s, some hooker he was turning out. I guess Vlad liked the girl. The guy tied her to the back of a semi in a rest stop, one hand to the rear bumper of a southbound furniture truck, the other to the bumper of a northbound refrigeration truck full of meat. He blames me for that.”

  “Jesus.”

  “So I had to improvise.” He waves his arms around to include the mess.

  “Break-in?”

  “Bingo,” he says, pointing a finger at me, and firing an imaginary gun.

  “I’m the burglar?”

  “You got it, brother.”

  I take a breath.

  “How do you want to do this?” I ask.

  “Well, I need to get rid of a couple of these bottles of wine. I only meant to have one, just a nice evening at home, some loser getting drunk on wine. But it tasted good, so I kept on going. Can you do that for me? Take out the trash on your way out? Can’t look like I got drunk waiting for this execution, like I knew what was coming. If they identify my body, there might be some insurance money still in play.”

  “Sure.”

  I reach under the kitchen counter and pull out a trash bag, and drop the bottles into the black plastic.

  “Anything else?”

  “I ransacked the place,” he says, “took the TV down to the Salvation Army, and anything else of value, VCR, CD player, stereo, stuff like that. I didn’t have much. Just got rid of the stuff that should be gone after a robbery.”

  “So no piles of cash, jewelry, anything like that left?”

  “Nothing. It’s all long gone.”

  “Can I ask you one question?”

  “Shoot,” he says, and starts to giggle, running his hands over his bald head, leaning back.

  “The fire, your family. This was Vlad? He set this up?”

  “I can’t prove it, but yeah, I think so.”

  “How did he do it?”

  He sighs, exasperated, waving his hands.

  “I don’t know, man. They burned to death, that’s what the police told me. There wasn’t much to identify, very little left in the rubble, the ashes, so what the fuck was I supposed to think?”

  My skin crawls.

  “You think he does this kind of thing all the time?”

  “How the fuck…” He pauses, takes a breath. “Brother, I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, right?”

  I nod.

  “Let’s go into the other room.”

  “Didn’t your neighbors hear any of this?”

  “I did it over time, this week, when I knew my time was running out. Most of my neighbors work, but just to be safe I did it slowly, cracked a glass, tipped over a chair, slowly, scattered the CDs, walked over them. I took the TV and stuff one piece at a time, hidden in the garbage, in case anyone was watching.”

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  He pulls a gun out and I freeze.

  “Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to shoot you. Gonna miss.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Yeah, brother, I’m sure.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Except a way out,” he says.

  Except that.

  “So stand over there,” he points toward the kitchen. “No need to yell or any of that bullshit. The place is already a mess. The back door is open, but you better haul ass.”

  I nod.

  “I’m going to fire twice over your head,” he says. “Then give it to me. Wherever you can. Just make it fast, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Two birds with one rock, as Vlad likes to say, right? Something for the cops, and something to show that you did your job, for Vlad.”

  We stand across from each other like a couple of old gunslingers, and I want to pity him. But a part of me feels relief, and jealousy. He’s getting out.

  “All right, brother, here we go.”

  He aims at me and for a second I think he’s changed his mind. My chest is thudding. He winks and raises the gun and fires over my shoulder, twice. Bang, bang.

  I pull the trigger and his chest erupts. He flies back into the wall. I pull it again. It pins him to the wall, and he slides down. One more shot in the gut as he goes and his eyes begin to glaze over.

  “Nice job, brother,” he gurgles, blood running over his lips.

  He drops the gun and his eyes go blank. He’s done.

  I hear voices in the hallway, and I run toward the back. I grab the trash bag of wine bottles. What was I thinking? This was a stupid thing to agree to. They crack and break in the bag and I’m out the back door, feet sliding in the snow and slush, down the stairwell, open to the elements, the wind swirling, and there are voices above, someone screaming, and I hit the alley running. A large dumpster sits open, its gaping mouth eager to swallow, so the bag goes in, and I keep on going, out of the alley and down the street toward Damen. I slow up as I approach a group of women, short skirts and glitter under their eyes. They eye me up and down and pull their coats tighter, arms linked, smiles disappearing.

  “Evening, ladies,” I say, and I turn north.

  I keep on walking up the street, up toward the main drag. I want to stop and drink. I see the Double Door, and hear music. I want to slip in and go chameleon, get lost in the crowd and disappear. But I can’t. Can’t put a memory here of my presence. It was dumb enough to address the girls behind me. I turn around and they’re slowly heading this way, toward the action and fun. Up for some acid jazz or a fucking crantini. I turn back around and keep walking. I’m moving at a steady pace and I pass a homeless man with a cast on his foot.

  “Hey, man, can you…”

  His hair is a tight weave of white, eyes glazed over as if blind, and yet he sees me, I know he does. His eyes track me and a shiver runs over my body. He gives me the creeps. His name is Oba, I’ve seen him before. He’s a poet. He’s always reci
ting something, and when I walk by him, the words change. He’s a soothsayer, and I don’t like it. When I walk by him it becomes red rivers running over the banks, sand like cracked flesh, a hunter’s moon, an arrow shot, the stars shedding tears for the acts that they’ve witnessed.

  “Keep your mouth shut tonight, Oba,” I threaten as I drift past.

  To square the deal I place a wad of cash in his outstretched hand like parchment, and I feel feet on my grave, his smile wide, teeth a massacre, his eyes staring off over my head, toward the trees.

  “I’m not even looking, man,” he says.

  Chapter 77

  The girls wander past me as I stop for a moment to catch my breath, to figure out the next move. A wave of patchouli, burnt sugar, and cigarettes washes over me, and they head up to the corner and turn left.

  Need to see Holly tomorrow, can’t put it off any longer.

  I look up and I’m farther up the street, orange neon to the left. I need a quiet place to sit. Estelle’s looms in front of me and I think that’ll work.

  I pull open the heavy door and it’s like climbing inside a blood orange. The scatter of lights reflect off the walls, tangerine and maroon blending with a blur. The long wooden bar is half empty, the late night crowd still dancing next door. I head to the bar and sit down. The gaggle of girls from the street looms just to my right, and a spunky one in pigtails and checkered stockings turns to eyeball me.

  “Seriously, Gramps, you’re giving me the creeps.”

  Jesus.

  “Listen, miss, I just wandered in here. Would a round of drinks shut you up?”

  She opens her mouth to complain, one hand on her hip, does the math in her head, and shuts it.

  “Be a start.”

  The bartender walks over, a muscled Chinese guy with a soul patch, a purple Mohawk, and tattoos running up and down his arms. Koi fish mingle with pinup girls and I have to admire the work.

  “Nice tats.”

  “Thanks, man. What’ll you have?”

  “Bud and a shot of Beam, and whatever those witches are drinking.”

  “Ha. You sure about that? They’ll suck you dry, man.”

  “I can handle it, thanks.”

  “Your party,” he says, walking away.

  Goth Pippi turns around, squints.

  “Don’t start,” I say.

  I close my eyes and try to make sense of it all—Vlad, my dead doppelgänger, Holly—and the chance that my family may be alive.

  The clack of pool balls pierces the room as they scatter over the red felt in the back of the room. A bald-headed man stands at the mic, mumbling into it, reciting poetry, but a Cure baseline drowns him out.

  The poet goes on, “…an old woman with a faded memory and a wobbly shopping cart…”

  Why isn’t Holly running?

  “…there used to be a skinny whore there with a film over one disjointed eye…”

  The beer arrives and the shot beside it. I flip some bills at the man and he goes away. I turn to the girls, who are watching me now, holding tall glasses filled with fluorescent liquids, martini glasses with sugar on the rim, and Pippi taking it like a man, with just a beer, a twenty-ounce Sapporo that looks like a giant black cock in her tiny hands. The red star on the bottle winks at me and I force a meager grin their way.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  “Ostrovia,” they say.

  More Russians. Or freaks who fuck Russians. I need to drink in a different neighborhood.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and I freeze mid-drink.

  “No worries, my friend.”

  I look up and it’s Vlad—in the flesh.

  The girls turn away and wander down the bar.

  “You’ve scared off my entertainment,” I say.

  “I usually do.”

  He waves at the bartender, who hops over in a flash, pouring clear liquid into a rocks glass. He sets it down and walks away, leaving the bottle behind. Something is chiseled into the glass, raised letters, but I can’t read it.

  “To what do I owe this great honor?” I ask, sipping my beer. “Where’s the mountain range?”

  “They are around. I don’t tell them where to stand.”

  I tilt my head and see one at the front door, dwarfing the house bouncer, making him nervous. I turn the other way, and his mirror image is back by the bathrooms, standing in front of the emergency exit, leering at the girls, who huddle in closer, whispering into their drinks.

  “Just making sure you still wanted to work. And it seems you do.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Good.”

  He raises his glass and drains it, and pours another.

  “You have job tomorrow. Important, yes?”

  “Yes…I saw the film. Two thumbs up.” I wince, reaching for the bourbon, and downing it.

  “Ha, ha, ha…yes, very good. Thumbs-up. Ebert and Sisko.”

  He leans down close to my ear. I smell grease and decay, his nose buried in my neck, and I don’t like it. There’s movement at the periphery, glaciers drifting in the sunset waters.

  “You haven’t been honoring your dead,” he breathes.

  He’s right. I haven’t.

  “Don’t get sloppy, my friend.”

  He pats me on the back and I’m engulfed in a vast darkness, a cool shadow hanging over me, and they’re gone. I don’t watch them leave. I want to pretend that I don’t really know them. No need to cause a scene.

  I grab the beer and suck it down. I wave the bartender over.

  “Again.”

  He nods and disappears.

  Pippi appears at my side, and she smells like rain. My face contorts and I try to get a grip. Her hand sits on my shoulder as she looks past me to the front door, her jacket open, low-cut corset leaning in, her glistening body making my head spin. Some things never change.

  “Man, and I thought you were an ugly fucker.”

  “Don’t mind them.”

  “Friends?”

  “Something like that. You know, we all frequent the same haunts.”

  She makes eye contact and she’s young—too young. She likes it, the danger, and I just got off that ride.

  “You like it rough?” I ask. “You like it when guys smack your ass, leaving a red imprint of their hand, a little blood on the sheets, a punch to the gut when you climax?”

  Her eyes go dull.

  “You’re a freak,” she says, and walks away.

  Thank God.

  Chapter 78

  I stay until closing, hardly moving. It’s probably not a good idea.

  I watch a trio of young men approach my girls, drinks are bought, and then they move on. I see a pool stick raised in anger, a bouncer quick on his feet, intercepting the fight, grabbing the punk by his J. Crew flannel, tossing him into the night. I watch the bartender, Sam, hustle his ass off, pouring and pouring the night away. We’re on a first name basis now, Sam and me. I’m paying his way through an MFA it seems. He keeps them coming. I don’t fight it. I take an elbow to the back, a drunk blonde falling into me, pushing her lips on mine, calling me Daddy, her boyfriend prying her off, his eyes like slits. I’m a freak magnet tonight. A thin young man in a leather vest and tight jeans, ears ringed and studded with metal, eyebrow pierced, black fingernail polish, sits down in a cloud of sandalwood and ambergris, and turns to address me.

  “Move along,” I say.

  He does.

  I have work tomorrow, the death of an old friend. Well, a friend. A co-worker. Somebody I used to screw. The girls left about an hour ago, and I was relieved to see them go. I have no willpower when it comes to young submissives. And since Pippi took offense, I can rule that night out, for sure.

  I can’t run through the scenarios in my head anymore. There’s no point to it. I have to talk to Holly.

  Holly works for Vlad. Holly doesn’t work for Vlad. She’s really an angel, not what the film says. She’s really a devil, as bad as, or worse than, me. She set me up, she’s coming for Vlad. She’s go
ing to kill me tomorrow, she’s already dead.

  I don’t know.

  I stumble out the front door and head south down Milwaukee. It’s one long diagonal line, and I know it by heart. I keep moving forward, my hands buried deep in my pockets, across North Avenue and on down the street. I pass a doorway, and Pippi is leaning there, smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey, old man,” she says.

  I stop.

  “I thought I disgusted you.”

  “You do. But maybe I’m writing you off too soon. Wanna cuddle?”

  She walks toward me and her eyes are empty, one arm behind her back.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart….”

  She sticks something into my ribs and grins.

  “Sick fuck.”

  She steps back and pulls the trigger and I’m filled with electricity. A taser. A fucking taser. I shake back and forth, a dull buzz filling my ears, eyes rolling up into my head, a pulsing tickle running over my body, muscles tightening, and I fall to the ground, stiff as a board. She laughs above me, a high-pitched keening, and if I could move my lips I’d probably be laughing too. Sucker. I’ve been too trusting.

  I can feel her rooting around in my pockets, emptying me of my cash. She leaves my keys. She doesn’t find the gun.

  I haven’t pissed on myself in some time now.

  Ah, there it is, a warm sensation running down my legs as I lay face-first in the snow. Maybe it’ll run down into my mouth and complete my day.

  She bends over me, her breath a mix of peppermint and ash. She grabs my hair and lifts my face up to hers, smacking away on her gum. I’ve been electrified by a drunken pixie, a foul-mouthed fairy.

  “Don’t be such a perv,” she says. “Stick to the old man bars. Maybe Lincoln Park is more your speed, or the Gold Coast. Should be easy pickings for you down on Rush Street.”

  She drops my head back on to the concrete, and I watch her walk away. Six-inch platform boots, and long, slender legs. Even though she just assaulted me, and robbed me at taser point, I still follow her long legs with my eyes.