Disintegration: A Windy City Dark Mystery Page 16

  But I’ll remember her face. It’s a small circle of late night caverns, and everybody knows everybody, it seems. I’m not going to hurt her, just hold her close and whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

  Chapter 79

  I sleep until the afternoon and wake to a dull buzz in my ears—Luscious is home. She’s asleep on the pillow next to me, none the worse for wear. I wonder where it is she goes. Does she have a crew she runs with, out mousing around, chewing on stray frozen blades of grass? Do she and some dirty tomcat with half a tail snuggle under somebody’s porch, cleaning each other with their tongues? Maybe she has a second family, one that feeds her on time, keeps her warm, a little cat door carved out of the wooden doorframe, coming and going as she sees fit, a little boy worried about her, hugging her when she comes back, crying and tugging at his mother’s apron strings when the dark settles over the backyard and she hasn’t returned. Like all of the women in my life, she’s silent about her personal business. But I fear she may be the one thing keeping me sane.

  I hop in the shower, the stink of urine still on me, my face scratched from the sidewalk. Every so often when I twist a certain way, my left eyelid twitches, and I smell something burning. That can’t be good. When this is all over maybe I’ll head south, find a pool someplace that doesn’t mind leaving the bottle, lime, and salt and nothing but blue refracting the light, even better, an ocean, the waves lapping at the shore, bikinis and the odd game of poker or blackjack, the biggest decision of my day to hit or stand.

  The suburbs are calling, several clear voices, all of them faint, but each of them a siren song. There may be rocks on which to dash my weak frame, but I’ll go there anyway, unable to resist. I have a busy day ahead of me. Several stops. And the first is to honor my dead. If Vlad is right about one thing, it’s that I’ve gotten sloppy and have forgotten the face of my wife, my children. Forgotten the meaning behind my morbid deeds.

  I dress in silence, staring at the cat. An enviable life, I think. There’s a patter on the porch, and I peel back the blinds, hold back the drapes, and see expansive raindrops pummeling the porch. It’s warmed up enough to make it rain, not snow. Great. I’d prefer the snow. The standard jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and instead of the wool coat, now scuffed and slightly damp, a sharp odor peeling off of it, I grab the leather. Back to the basics, it seems. I tug on the knit cap, boots laced up, and walk over to the bed.

  “Now listen, Luscious. If I don’t come back, don’t take it personally.”

  She lifts her head, green eyes filled with flecks of gold.

  “It’s business. Go to your other home, find your friends, there’s enough food here for a couple days, and if you can get in the cabinet, enough for a month.”

  She lowers her head. She doesn’t want to hear it.

  “You’re a good cat and never did me wrong.”

  I stand up and head to the door. She won’t look at me. Before I go, I want to give it another listen.

  Chapter 80

  “…oh my God, what happened, where am I, Taylor? Robbie? Oh my God, say something, talk to me, I can’t see, I have to get out of here, ugh, the belt, Taylor? Robbie? Answer me! Oh, that smell, I’m wet, what is that, gas?”

  Chapter 81

  Nothing. I don’t hear anything but death and despair.

  Out the door, locks turned, I head next door to Guy’s to get the keys to the company car. I go to knock on it, and the door pushes open.

  Shit.

  I push it gently, then open it all the way and peer in. The television is on, The Price Is Right, the sound turned down. The man likes his game shows. I take a tentative step in and scan for his lumbering frame. Nothing. The distant weak haze of pot drifts across the room, the smell of dirty feet and socks, a compressed sense of old air, the windows closed tight for God knows how long.

  On the low table in front of the couch, the worn recliner with his giant ass shape pushed into the cushion, are the car keys. Well, he can’t have gone far then. Maybe he just ran out to the corner—booze and cigarettes, lunch meat, maybe. There’s a tall glass of orange juice tipped over on the table, running over magazines, scraps of paper, receipts, plastic baggies, and a tray of weed. He’s a slob, but that doesn’t seem right. I look around. No sign of a fight. Nothing is broken. I wander back to his bedroom, and the bed is made. I open the closet, and hangers are scattered all over the floor. Most of the clothes are gone. I pull open the dresser drawers, and they’re mostly empty as well. He ran. He decided to make a break for it. Good for you, Guy. I wasn’t protecting you much, anyway.

  I look around for anything that might be incriminating. There are no remnants of our time together, just an empty Jim Beam bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. I give it a quick wash in the sink, just in case, and drop it in the trash. I expected a sink full of dishes, cockroaches climbing over sticky syrup and crusty old eggs, but no, he’s left the place in decent shape. Heading back to the living room, I run my eyes over the walls of books and it’s a real shame these will just lie here, unread, collecting dust. Well, I hope he took a good one for the train, or bus, or whatever flight he is on.

  Run, fat man, run.

  I wonder why he didn’t say goodbye, and realize I’ve turned into a sentimental fool. Snap out of it.

  I head toward the television set to turn it off when I see Guy’s face on the screen. It’s framed in a white box in the upper-right-hand corner and the news lady has a stern look on her face.

  Damnit.

  I turn the volume up and sit down.

  “…yesterday night, and authorities still have no identification for the man found in a bathroom stall at Union Station, a fatal gunshot wound the cause of his demise. It doesn’t seem to be self-inflicted. A large quantity of marijuana was found near the body. The investigation is ongoing. If you have any information…”

  I click it off.

  It had to be Vlad. Guy never would have left with that kind of quantity, unless he was trying to get rid of it, a little extra cash for the ride to desolation. It looks like the company is continuing to downsize, and Guy won’t be the last one to go.

  Out his door, I pull it shut, leaving it unlocked. I may need to look in here again. Or hide. There are a number of reasons to keep this space handy, and ready. A tingling at the base of my skull says that I’m not immune to Vlad and while I may be his favorite student right now, at the end of the day that could certainly change.

  Down the steps, there’s a rattle of pills in my coat pocket. Just in case. That’s the Boy Scout motto—“Be Prepared.” And in a different life I ascended to the rank of Eagle Scout, and that seems like a different boy, someone else’s life, a kid with a future, not one with a head full of crazy and a gut full of bile.

  I have a man to see up the street, it’s been too long.

  Chapter 82

  My mind is empty on the walk north, gray all around me, the sidewalk abandoned in the cold rain. It’s late afternoon and everyone is holed up someplace. A cup of coffee, and a Danish, a little afternoon delight, hunkered down to avoid the elements, and I don’t blame them.

  I find myself dripping outside the den of iniquity, and slip the canvas bag over my head. Downy wings and a bloodshot eyeball, the walls coated in the blood of my past, I rap on the glass and wait.

  He pulls the door open, skinny and pale, a chain around his neck secured with a padlock, stubble on his face, scrawny arms under a Black Flag T-shirt.

  “Hey, man, long time no see. Come on in.”

  I step in and the glow of the soft light bounces off the drapes, the dark walls a cocoon, and I feel sleepy already. I take off my coat and hang it on the wall. I walk over to the wall of tattoos, but I already know what I need for Cammie, long overdue. I point to red lips and a distended tongue.

  “Right, Rolling Stones, Mick Jagger. A classic.”

  I take off my shirt and point to a small space on the right side of my neck.

  “I can make that work there, sure.”

  I
try not to think about Cammie, her lips on mine in the back of the car, her heat. It morphs into her glassy stare, head lolling in her car that night, out of it, lost. So I sent her home. So what.

  I find what I’m looking for just a bit farther down. A small circle is in the middle of three other elements, the earth centering the graphic. Around it flows water, which blends into air, which turns into flames. It’s for the thugs in the Section 8 housing, Damon and his crew. They all had mothers, they were all born into this world, and someplace along the way things went wrong. I find a spot on my back, under wide wings and other etchings. He nods.

  And finally I point to a small page of ring tattoos and extend my pointer finger, my trigger finger. This one is for my twin, the man drenched in wine and regret. A constant reminder every time I pull the trigger—that I’m not alone in my darkness, not the only killer out here, nor will I be the last. I honor his attempt at righteousness with a simple band of black.

  He nods.

  “Take a seat, this may take a while.”

  He pours me three fingers of an amber liquid and I accept it. I take a gulp, recline in the chair, and close my eyes. He goes to work. The smell of burnt wood chips and musk drifts to me, and behind my eyelids I see a bonfire in the woods, a ring of people standing around it, bullet holes, knife wounds, all heads turning my way. The buzzing is like flies around my head, and the sting at my neck lulls me to sleep, like a tiny school of piranhas nipping at my flesh, and I take it, I wallow in the stinging jabs, and each time the needle breaks my skin, I hear a gunshot, an echo in a dirty apartment, a hollow pop in the front seat of a car. I hear glass breaking, grunts and screams, bodies falling to the earth with a dull thud, and I fall into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 83

  On my way out the door, bandages in place, hot spots on my body throbbing every time my heart beats, we toast. I drop an envelope of cash on the table.

  “Thanks, man, you always take good care of me. Stop by anytime.”

  He sits down, tired.

  “Man, I’ve been working too hard. Maybe I’ll take a little nap.”

  I nod and point to the couch.

  “Right. Next time, we should pierce something, right, bro?”

  I nod my head. Not a bad idea.

  He slides over to the couch and lies down. I close the door behind me with a tiny, audible click. He looked peaceful. And I’m jealous. He’ll have a tomorrow. Myself, I can’t be so sure.

  Chapter 84

  Northbound, suburbia beckons.

  I guide the great white whale north on I-94, drifting through the rain as if cresting over waves, deep in the ocean, and I can almost hear a foghorn in the distance. I’m back to my old commute, nose to the grindstone, and it sickens me while it triggers déjà vu. So many times I made this trek, but not once with a gun on the passenger seat of my car, tattoos singing from my flesh. The city falls away behind me. A glance in the rearview mirror and the metal skyscrapers push out of the soft earth, tilting toward the sky like the bottom row of teeth on some massive snaggle-toothed beast.

  I could just turn around. I could run. I could take the split at I-90 toward O’Hare and fake my way onto a plane. There’s a bundle of cash in the glove box, which doesn’t ease my mind. Guy left it behind, but not on purpose.

  I rattle the pills in my right hand, and know this can’t be done sober. I’m visiting the morgue where I identified the blackened remains of my flesh and blood. I’m going to kill Holly while her husband and son watch. No, I don’t need to be straight for any of this. I pop two happy pills and look for something liquid. Leaning over to the glove box, I pop it open again, pulling the car to the right, horns honking. I grab the envelope and pull it out. Behind it is a pint of Jim Beam. Guy, that drunken loser, was good for something. I pull the car back to the lane it was in, headlights behind me filled with the angry pursuit of drivers I just cut off. They don’t want to fuck with me now.

  A long gray shark pulls up next to me, revving his engine, and his window rolls down.

  This could be fun.

  I ease my window down, rain splattering my face, drenching the inside of the car.

  “What’s your fucking problem, asshole?” the guy yells.

  I smile and pull the car to the left. He swerves away.

  His face is so angry it makes me laugh.

  Why do they do it? Why do people get so angry over a little swerve of a car?

  “You think this is fucking funny?” he rages.

  I laugh again and reach over for my gun. I turn back to him, and his middle finger is extended, arm trembling.

  “Fuck you, buddy, fuck you.”

  I smile again and raise the gun, pointing it out the window. His eyes widen and I fill the car with my laughter. It’s comical. The funniest thing I’ve seen in days. I lean out, and point down as he slams on his brakes, suddenly not so cocky.

  I fire, hitting his front tire, rubber shrapnel flying into the air, the car buckling and swerving, slowing down, veering off to the right behind me, cars swinging around him, avoiding his bumper by inches. I place the gun back on the seat.

  Maybe I should’ve done this on all of my commutes. It certainly makes me feel better.

  Chapter 85

  The rest of the drive is on autopilot, the drugs kicking in. I sing along with the radio, old Coldplay and Radiohead. The lyrics wash over me and I start to cry. I change the station and turn the volume up on some teeth-rattling Korn, Nine Inch Nails vibrating, pounding the steering wheel, and I try not to notice the violent mood swings that are coming in waves, my head like a hole.

  And just like that I’m parked in front of my old house, the empty lot still a shell. Fragments of wood and metal lie in a pile, black and empty. I burned it to the ground. It’s a cookie-cutter subdivision, so I don’t need it standing to remember what it was. All I have to do is look up the block and there it is in white, there it is in beige, in sage green, in a washed-out blue.

  I can still see the white paint on the driveway from the primer Taylor and I sprayed on her dresser. A long rectangle is framed in lavender, just missing the drop cloth we had placed under it. I hear her laughter as she runs around the backyard, chasing a butterfly with a long, extended net. Hot dogs are crisping on the grill, and my son, Robbie, is playing in the sand. He’s found an earthworm and keeps burying it alive, and then digging it out. His sleeveless red T-shirt says I GET MY MUSCLES FROM MY DAD. He glances up at me and then back to the sand. My wife sits under the umbrella, sipping a lemonade, watching the kids, always watching them. She never left them alone, not for a minute. Every time she would go inside she’d say the same thing.

  “Watch them, okay?”

  I did watch them, she didn’t need to say it. Well, maybe she did. Maybe she did need to say it. Not for me, but for her. The evening news would throw her into fits of panic. Visions of strange men leaping over the fence to grab our children, the big bad wolf in human form, dragging them off to his lair to molest them, have them for his dinner. Go inside to grab a beer, fifteen seconds tops, and she’d have my head on a platter. I thought she was ridiculous. The irony isn’t lost on me. The randomness of the swerving drunk finally finding us, tearing us apart, the long gaze of a distant, solitary eye, tracking back and forth across the wasteland, landing on our lot, our space, our tiny bubble of false security, popping it without so much as a word.

  I shift the car into gear and roll forward. There’s nothing for me here anymore.

  Chapter 86

  It isn’t far to the morgue, just a right turn out of the subdivision, the high school looming. The lot is full of cars and I contemplate driving through, kicking some taillights, slashing some tires, the lucky ones that still cling to a normal life. I don’t. I keep going, eastbound to Seymour, and then a hard right. Down past restaurants, the dance studio where Taylor took her ballet classes, and I don’t think this town is good for me anymore. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t want ghosts around every corner, the echo of their
voices, screaming out for McDonald’s after T-ball practice, every block riddled with memories, the 4th of July, the Mundelein Munch, the parade, and my heart races out of control. I crack the driver’s side window with my fist, nausea settling into my gut, the tiny needles of rain piercing my face, the cold making my eyes water and overflow.

  I pull into the parking lot, bouncing over a pothole the size of a cow, my jaw snapping, and I bite my tongue, my mouth filling with coppery liquid. I pull up to the brick and cement box that is the residence of death—the morgue. The police station sits over behind it and I watch the cars ease in and out. Men in blue stand in front of the well-lit building, smoking cigarettes, out of the rain.

  I turn the ignition off and get out of the car, placing my gun in the back of my jeans. I don’t know what answers I hope to find here, but here I am nonetheless. Maybe they’ll remember me, can tell me more about how it went down. I don’t know.

  There are no lights on as I approach the front door. I grab the handle, but it’s locked. There’s a sign in the front window of the door, and it simply says FOR RENT. A red box surrounds the type, a phone number in hasty permanent marker, and little else. I walk down the sidewalk, and a plaque is bolted to the wall.

  Mundelein Animal Hospital.

  I step back out into the rain, and the sign over the building says the same thing.

  What the fuck is this?

  Back to the front door and there is a handwritten note below it, behind the glass, on faded yellow-lined paper, barely visible in the gloom. I can’t read all the words. It says something about relocating to over on Lake Street, a rezoning, a new space, to better care for your pet.

  I don’t understand.