The Sin Bin (8 page)

'Stuff?'

Brad goes into his jacket and pulls out
a baggie, I can see a little white powder in the corner. He takes a few pinches
and lays out a line on the dash and offers it to me.

'Go on, it'
s
what you want.'

I shake my head.

'Go on, go on.'

'I don'
t do
drugs, Brad.'

Now he does the eye-roll thing and looks
through me. 'Oh, yeah.'

'What do you mean, oh yeah?'

He starts to tie a knot in the baggie,
tucks it back in his pocket.

I ask him again, 'What do you mean, oh
yeah?'

'Nothing, I mean, well ... you were
pretty out of it back at Trish'
s place.'

I feel my heart beat fast again.

'Yeah?'

'Hell, yeah.'

He leans in again. I feel him start to
breathe close to my neck. He starts to kiss me, then his hands move over me.
Touching and grabbing.

'Where did you get the coke, Brad?'

A laugh, then, 'Connections.'

I feel his tongue come out, it runs up
and down my neck, onto my chest. He starts to unbuckle his belt. It seems to
take him, like, forever to draw down his zipper, but when I look up at his face
I see he
'
s grinning and trying
to tease me or something, yeah, like he was some strip-joint dream boy, I don
'
t think.

'Your connections, they can get you
anything you want?' I say.

He
'
s on top of me now, pops it out, starts grinding, pulling at my
panties. 'They can get me anything I want, baby.'

He
'
s grinning and acting like some frat boy who
'
s just got the town slut in the back-seat of his daddy
'
s Buick. I lay there feeling my head pushed
against the door and my ass jammed against the stick shift and I want to scream
but my voice is so weak I can hardly get the words I have to say out.
'
Like Rohypnol?'

He puts his hand on my ass, says, 'You
know, Steve ain
'
t coming back,
Alana, why don
'
t you relax?'

He moves fast, now. There
'
s no, like, struggling with buttons or
straps or whatever, he
'
s
ripping at me.

'Stop!' I tell him.

'What?' He looks pissed with me. 'I
can'
t stop now!'

His hands move fast but mine move
faster as I slip the Beretta out of the leg strap and point it at his crotch.
As he feels the cold metal touch his balls his face looks white as death, but
that might just be the moonlight. He
'
s sure as hell stock-still ... until I pull the trigger.

Blood splatters the window behind him
instantly. I move the gun about and I
'
m firing and firing until there
'
s smoke everywhere, so much I can taste it.

For a moment, I lie there.

I can feel the gun smoke burning my
throat.

My lungs fill up and I start to cough.

Brad
'
s mouth isn
'
t
crooked anymore. It flops open and his lips spill blood on me. I
'
m like, yeuch. He
'
s a dead weight on top of me as I slide out from under him. I
wonder, does he know why?

Oh yeah, like I
'
d care if he did.

Too Close to
Call

Marie had been at me for close to
an hour when I flipped. Dropped beside her on the couch and cracked a knuckle
on her brow. She flopped like a deflating sex doll.

'Well, what do you expect?' I said. 'Jesus
Christ!'

Pedro rose, put a greasy paw on her
cheek. 'She's cold.'

'No shit ... tell me something I don't
know, huh.'

He went back to his window seat and lit
a Lucky. The neighbour's Schnauzer started barking.

'Dog don't like it none,' said Pedro.

I took up a football trophy and aimed
it at his head. 'You want this?''I'm only saying, bro ... No need to go all
bugeyed on me.'

I slammed down the trophy, said, 'Just shut
up and give me a smoke.'

Pedro smiled, his yellowed teeth looked
like little fossils inside his old head. It was all his fault, this mess. I
wanted to smack his teeth off the four walls. Bitchslap him a hundred times
harder than I'd just done to Marie.

Pedro tossed the pack. I sparked a
match and put the Lucky to work. The taste came like old dreams as I tipped
back my head and sighed.

'So, what's next, brother Mitch?'

'We sit tight.'

'We've been sitting tight for an hour
now, Mitch. Cops gonna be coming by soon. Real soon.'

He was riding me. In the Joint they
tell you, someone starts riding, you take a breath. I took another belt on the
Lucky. I wasn't ready to go back to beating off buttfuckers and an orange
jumpsuit. Pedro knew this. He was clean — as clean as any wino crackhead
motherfucker in Dodge. But my card was already punched. I rubbed my knuckles. They
hurt like hell, sitting up in points like a row of KKK hoods.

'Well?'

'I'm thinking.'

The Schnauzer barked like bad news. A
beige saloon went past the window in slow-mo.

'Don't take too long.'

I turned to eyeball Pedro, expected to
see him grinning, perhaps perched on the end of a cigarillo like Eli Wallach in
his most famous role. That's what the three of us were — The Good, The Bad and
The Ugly.  My mind ran amok ... I heard some of Eli's lines:
There are two
types of spurs, Blondie ... The type that come in through doors and the type
that come in through windows.

'Get to the back of the fucking house,'
I roared.

'What?'

'You heard me. Get off your ass and
check the back's secure and lock the Goddamn door.'

'Are you for real?'

'Fucking A.'

'No door's gonna stop Mr Nightstick
coming in.'

I lost it. Ran towards him and yanked
him by the collar. On his feet, I spun him and rabbitpunched the back of the
head. His shoes flew out behind him, he stumbled out to the back door.

As Pedro left, Marie let out a low,
barely audible mumble.

I bent at her side. She looked like she
was coming round.

'Yo ... Marie, honey, you with us?'

A groan.

'Guess not.'

'Mitch ...' she said.

'Yeah, honey. I'm here.'

'What happened?'

'I hit you. I'm real sorry.' I was
aware how pathetic I sounded.

'You hit me. Why did you hit me, Mitch?'

'I've got a bucket of adrenaline racing
through me and you flipped out. It was just instinct.'

'Mitch, you've never hit me before.'

'Honey, I'm sorry. I'll never do it
again. I promise. Are you okay?'

'I guess.'

I propped Marie up on the couch. She
touched her head. I could see a red leaf-shaped stain forming on the skin. The
contusion would be berryblack inside an hour. I felt time ticking away. We
needed to move.

'Where's Pedro?'

'I sent him out back?'

'The money?'

'Still in the trunk.'

'Mitch, those cops didn't just come
from nowhere.'

I hoped she wasn't starting to push my buttons
again; I knew the cops had been fed a line by someone and I'd lost my edge.

'They were tipped off,' I said.

'Who?'

I looked to the door. 'Dunno.'

I heard Pedro hammering down the window
frames, it set the Schnauzer in the yard off again.

'Mitch, we've got to get out of here.'

I looked to the window; the sun
streamed in, painting an oblong block of yellow in the centre of the floor.

'Mitch ...'

From where I sat I could see the car,
front fender bashed, back window shot out. I was no wheelman, but I'd lost
them. It wasn't meant to be like this. Simple job. In and out. Just stick to
the rules. But they were waiting — two cops — for a bank job. Shit, these days
a motorcycle courier forgets to take his helmet off and there's choppers
overhead.

'Mitch, we have to move, now.'

I turned back to Marie, her face was
torn in misery, her upper lip trembling. If I didn't act soon, she'd need
hosing down again.

I wiped her brow, said, 'You good to
go?'

She nodded.

'Then sit tight, I've one more thing to
do.'

I stood up, walked through the door. In
the hallway, I heard Pedro. He was whispering, or trying to, into his cell
phone.

'I didn't know he could drive like
that. How is I to know? You should have chased, chased ... the money's still
here. Out front.'

I reached round to the .45 tucked in my
waistband and took off the safety. My heart pounded, I felt sweat gather on the
back of my neck. This was my ticket back to the Big House. Even bent cops
refuse to turn a blind eye to this kind of thing. I tasted the Joint's gruel
and grits again, the smell of stale sweat, Bubba's necklock in the showers. I
wanted to apologise to Marie once more.

Fuck. Why did this shit keep happening
to me?

As the .45 clicked in his ear Pedro
lowered the phone and turned. He looked at me as if I'd just beamed down from
Venus. His lips drained of blood and turned grey. I wagged the .45 towards the
phone. He moved his thumb to 'end call' and dropped the handset on the floor.

I gave him a second for words.

None came.

My nerves shrieked, I felt the blood
surge in my veins as I raised the gun to his head.

'Oh sweet Jesus, please, no ...'
pleaded Pedro.

'He's not gonna save you now.'

I blindsided him. Put my left through
his eye, opening it up like a welt, the white shot through with red. He fell. I
kicked him in the head. A flap of skin tore clear of his brow. More blood ran
out. Lots this time. It looked like a coathanger abortion. He put both hands
over his head.

'You made a mistake, Pedro.'

I put the .45 to his head.

He crouched, as if in prayer. I swear,
he whimpered. I'd expected more of a put up.

'What else did you give them?'

'Nothing ... Nothing... Nothing ...'

'Horseshit.' I slapped him with the
gun.

'No, I swear ... They don't know
nothing.'

'My name?'

'No. I would never.'

Somehow, I didn't believe a word of it.

'You lose, Pedro.'

'What?'

'The Game of Life.'

He screamed like a loose fan belt. The
Schnauzer kicked off outside the door. I hoped it would drown out the sound of
the gun's discharge.

I left him flat on his back. Dark blood
covered the floor like a slaughter house.

In the hall, Marie ran to me.

'Come, on,' I said.

'But?'

'Not now, get in the car.'

I grabbed her arm and led her through
the front door. Sunlight burst like an explosion all over the burnt-yellow
lawn. I felt my guts begin to heave, felt for sure I'd hurl but somehow I kept
it all in.

My hands trembled, I couldn't get a
grip of the keys, but Marie leaned over and helped me locate the ignition. God,
I didn't deserve her, did I?

I got the car started, and then
suddenly, the Schnauzer came running, stopping still on the lawn. He turned his
head to the side, made that dog look, one that says a million things and nothing
at all.

I pulled out on to the street.

'You good?' said Marie.

'Yeah, fine.'

I took one last look in the rearview
mirror, caught sight of the Schnauzer again.

I could have swore the damn dog waved
at me.

I gunned the engine.

Eat Shit

'He said that to you? ... I don't, you wouldn't
shit me on this, Eddie?'

Miami Mike carried two Buds back from the bar, he swayed
a little — nights with old Eddie from the block could turn pretty tasty.

'He said it, I tell you now, God as my judge ... it's
what he said, Mike.'

Mike slammed down the Buds; white froth flowed down the
sides and onto the table top.

'Whoa, calm the fuck down, man ...'

The beer spill pooled on the chequered paper tablecloth,
a red candle in a dancing-girl statuette, her hooters glowing from within,
trembled in prelude to a fall.

'This kinda shit, it's way outta line,' said Mike. ''Run
this by me again, from the top, don't leave anything out ... and I mean
anything.'

Eddie picked up his Bud, ran a hand over the bottleneck
and slugged deep. His lips twitched. Nerves on edge and out there for all to
see.

'Well, you asked ...'

****

'She's at it again, the fucking Party Queen,' said
Gloria.

Eddie struggled to the edge of the bed and wiped the
sleep from his still-tired eyes. 'You're kidding me.'

'You can't hear her?'

'Honey, I took a bucket of Moggies, how else you think I
sleep here.'

Eddie slapped palms on his face, shook his head; it
seemed like the neighbourhood joined in, 'Oh yeah, now I'm hearing ...'

Gloria stood at the window and looked out with a face
ominous as thunder. She tugged at the heavy drapes and light flooded into the
bedroom.

As he smarted, Eddie noticed the Lucky in her fingers;
she'd started smoking again. It was the stress. He knew it was all wrong. They
were being held to ransom in their own home.

'I can't take much more of this,' said Gloria, 'this is
some kinda retirement!'

Eddie rose, went to her side. He tried to take the Lucky
from her; Gloria snatched her hand away.

'What are you going to do about this? We can't live like
this anymore, Eddie ... we can't!'

Gloria yanked open the window and roared: 'Turn that
fucking music down you crazy fucking bitch! Turn it the hell down or I'll come
over there and wrap that fucking boom-box round your scrawny motherfucking
neck!'

****

'So that was the start of it, huh?' said Mike.

'Yeah, like I say ... since we moved from back East, all
we had was like, y'know ... parties from the get go.'

Mike leaned in, stroking the base of his Bud like it was
a lapdog, 'She's round the clock with this?'

'Hey, buddy ... let me tell you, when we was growing up
back in the old brownstone, we had it peaceful compared.'

Mike looked thoughtful. Eddie scoured his mind for the
word to describe him; he thought it might be contemplative.

'What're you thinking, Mike?'

He rose, tipped back the rest of his Bud. 'Thinking it's
your turn to get the Buds in, pal.'

Eddie made the run to the bar. On his return he was
careful not to spill any beer like Mike had done last time.

'Well, I'm all ears.'

Mike played with the edges of his moustache, greying
now, but the jaw was still firm. He was carrying none of the meat Eddie was.
'Then what happened?'

'The bitch's daddy came round, he's some big-ass lawyer,
slapped a stack of papers on me and next I know I've got a restraining order
and he's saying I harassed his daughter.'

'That it?'

'No, man ... he's suing my ass.'

'You spoke to this girl of his?'

'Man, yeah, 'course ... but nice, like … fuck, this is
Miami, I ain't looking for no aggravation. I had enough of that thirty years
renting Pintos to fat ass out-of-towners.'

'This restraining order ... what did it say?'

Eddie sighed, lowered his eyes, rapid-fired on the Bud,
'That's the worst.' He put down the beer and stared at his palms like the
answer was written there. 'Claims I
sexually
approached her.'

Mike banged the table. The dancing girl fell over. The
candle went out. 'The low motherfucker!'

Eddie stayed silent. He looked at his oldest friend, his
one remaining relic from childhood. He knew the look on his face, he'd seen it
before. It was like back in '68 when he took the Louisville slugger to the
basketball court, took down five, six guys who'd welched on a drags bet.

'Eddie, here's what you do — the next letter he sends
you, you wipe your ass on it.'

'
What?
'

Mike grabbed Eddie's arm, there was darkness in his
eyes, Eddie had never seen this look before. The thirty years that had passed
before they'd hooked up again held some blind spots ... he understood that now.
'Okay, okay ... but, then what?'

Mike released his arm, 'I'll keep you posted.'

****

A pool-side party was in full swing as Mike pulled
up outside Eddie and Gloria's condo. It was a neat set-up, he thought.
Sun-dried adobe brick, bit of a hacienda feel happening. Nice. He could see why
Eddie had sprung for the condo, made their old stomping ground on the Lower
East Side look just like the hell on Earth it surely had been.

He lowered his mirrored Ray-Bans and scoped his friend's
home. Looked quiet; drapes shut. No one home? Or, if they were, keeping totally
out of sight. No way to live, thought Mike. Not at all. Not for an old friend
of his.

He retrod the times Eddie had shared his lunchpail with
him when they were kids. Mike could still remember how it felt to have an empty
belly. But he'd worked out of that world; so had Eddie, he deserved better.

There was some dance music playing. Loud as all hell.
Mike was five-hundred yards from the pool but he could still make out every
line of Marky-frickin-Mark's
Good Vibrations
. It was obviously a track
daddy's girl enjoyed. 'Yeah, do it, do it ...' said Mike.

Pullman appeared: 'You want I should grab the slut?'

'Slut?' said Mike.

'Yeah, she's a slut, look the way she's dancing ...
that's filth, man!' The girl was groin-grinding two beach bums, surfer-types
with blonde bangs and over-tanned complexions. 'She's gonna have those guys
dicks out like two ski-poles any minute, wait see.'

Mike took off his shades, 'She's some piece of work
alright.'

'Look, now ...' She took off her bikini top and tweaked
at her erect nipples, the surfers poured beer on her breasts and she encouraged
them to lick it off, 'See, I fucking told you!'

'Sexual suit, huh?' said Mike.

'Come again?'

Mike put his shades back on and walked to the SUV.

'Yo, boss ... you want I should snatch her?'

'What for?'

'Take her to the border ... make her suck Mexican dick
for a month — fifty cents a throw! ... See how loud she wants to play fucking
Marky Mark then.'

Miami Mike gunned the engine and motioned Pullman to get
in.

****

Daddy had a practice on the sweet side of the
street. Old colonial mansion, painted white and bathed in sunlight. If there
was royalty in Miami, they'd keep a joint like this. But Mike knew there was no
royalty in Miami. Not the type with crowns and robes anyway. The royalty he
knew carried Mossbergs in the trunk and hired people like Pullman to fire them.

The lawyer wore a light linen suit, black shirt beneath
with a flower-print tie. He topped the outfit off with red-toed cowboy boots.

'That's our man,' said Mike.

'You sure?' asked Pullman, 'Motherfucker looks like Boss
Hogg!'

'That's him.'

Mike didn't need to say anymore. Pullman got out the SUV
and crossed the street. As he went, Mike watched his muscle-bound factotum walk
towards the sidewalk.

The SUV's windows were blacked out, they kept Mike's
identity hidden from the street as Pullman grabbed the lawyer round the neck
and wrestled him to the ground like a steer. It was a carefully-practised
manoeuvre, all over in under a minute.

The lawyer squealed like a stuck pig in the back of the
vehicle. It took two raps on the side of the head from Pullman to quieten him
down.

They drove out to the flats. It was hot, topping eighty
Fahrenheit. A dust trail blew up behind them.

When Mike stopped the SUV, he slowly turned to face the
lawyer for the first time.

'Do you have any idea who I am?' said a crumpled suit,
covered in blood from a fierce nosebleed.

'Do I look like I care who you are?' said Mike.

The lawyer, flustered, raised a finger. 'I will, t-tell
you ...' Pullman grabbed the finger, snapped it back. The lawyer shrieked then
folded like a knife, cradling his hand.

'Look, boss he's crying ... Straight up, he's crying
like a fucking girl. I never seen that before, you seen that before, boss?'

Mike turned away, spoke quietly, 'Yeah, I've seen that
before.'

'W-what do you want from me?' screamed the lawyer.

Pullman laid a hand on his chest, 'Boss, let me ass-fuck
him, please, huh?'

Mike turned front again, watched Pullman in the
rear-view, he saw him eye the lawyer up and down, grab his thigh ... 'Go on,
Boss ... I ain't gave no one a good ass-fucking for the longest time.'

Mike laughed. The lawyer seemed to let out a whimper,
then wet himself.

'Man, he's pissed in his pants!'

Mike stopped laughing, 'Get this piece of shit out of
here.'

Pullman opened the door and kicked the lawyer off the
seat. He landed face down in the dirt.

'I think he lost some teeth that time,' said Pullman.

The lawyer tried to run, his arms and legs splayed out
like a newborn foal struggling on fresh limbs. Mike let him get a hundred feet
before sending Pullman to the trunk.

The first shot from the Mossberg stopped the runaway in
his tracks.

****

It was the strangest thing,
thought Eddie, it had been quiet for days. Party girl seemed to have shipped
out, then the 'For Sale' sign went up.

A knock at the door amidst the silence startled him.

'I wondered if I may ...'

It was the lawyer again; Eddie's heart sank.

'I ain't got a Goddamn thing to say to you, what is it
now? You got a new suit to slap on me?'

The lawyer raised his hands, 'No, no ... q-quite the
reverse.' There was something strange about him, and it wasn't the Band-Aid
above his eye, he seemed ... different, quieter somehow.

'Please, may I come in?'

Eddie opened the door.

Inside, the lawyer politely asked to sit. He produced a
bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch from his briefcase, 'I wanted to,
a-hem
,
er, I wanted to offer my sincerest apologies for my daughter's over-exuberant
behaviour ...'

Eddie rose, ranted: 'You fucking roach! You tried to sue
my ass ... you filed a restraining ...'

He intervened: 'I-I know ... I was very misguided, it
would appear I was misinformed ... may I offer my sincere apologies, and if I
may also, I would like to compensate you.'

'
What
?'

'I did some calculations, you've been here for three
months, is that correct?'

'Yeah. What the ...? You know I have ...'

'These condos attract four thousand dollars a month
rental and so I thought twelve thousand would be ...'

'Fifteen,' spat Eddie.

The lawyer fumbled for words, looked startled, his
bead-eyes narrowed some more then seemed to wet up, 'But ... y-yes, of course.
Fifteen thousand.'

Mike's advice was playing to a tee, but Eddie wondered
about the next part. He was ready to let it slide, accept the cheque and kick
the guy out on his ass. 

But then lawyer daddy spoke up. 'I believe you have a
letter of mine, if I may have it returned I w-would be most grateful.'

Eddie went to the dresser where he kept the letter. He
returned to the lawyer, slowly taking the document from its manila envelope,
then he presented it: brown streaks of his own shit lined the length of the
page.

Slowly, trembling, the lawyer accepted the offering. He
stared at it for a moment and then tore it with his teeth and began to chew on
it.

'All the way down,' said Eddie.

'Y-yes, yes of course.'

'Eat shit!' said Eddie, smiling, 'Eat shit, you
motherfucker.'