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Chapter 14
Degrees of Women
I
Somewhere in Syria.
Agent Johnson stood directly below the ceiling fan. The air felt good,
especially with no sand floating in it. The bartender had fled when Kazar and his
men entered the room, pushing his customers out the door in front of him. The
room was silent except for the rickety fan. Kazar sat down at the table in front of
Agent Johnson, grinning.
The rest of the men surrounded Johnson with their automatics aimed,
unlocking their safeties in unison. One of the men reached into Johnson’s suit coat
and pulled out the agent’s .45 Kimber, setting it on the table in front of Kazar.
Kazar picked it up, looking at both sides of it, wondering where it had been and
whom it had killed. He put the Kimber in the pocket of his own white suit coat.
Kazar spoke in muddled English.
“My men have tracked for you the last month. It is hard to believe an
operative like yourself would be caught and tracked down so easy. At least you
could have dressed like an Arab, you stick out like sore toe. The papers you seek
belong to me and so sorry for you they will stay with me.”
“It’s sore thumb. Not sore toe,” Agent Johnson said. “Did it ever occur to
you that maybe I didn’t dress as an Arab because I wanted to get caught? It would
be an easy way to lead me to the papers.”
Kazar’s grin faded slightly, the face of a man at a poker table unsure if his
opponent was bluffing.
“Regardless, you are defenseless. I would kill you here, but the bar owner
is my friend and he would be ruined. Besides my men and I don’t wish to carry
around a heavy body. I have a far more fitting end for you Agent Johnson.”
Kazar said something in Arabic and three of the four men left the building.
The remaining man pushed his automatic into Johnson’s back, moving him out the
front door. An old Jeep wagon pulled up and Johnson was shoved into the rear
seat next to another man wielding a machine gun. Kazar got in the front next to
the driver.
The jeep rolled loudly and was slow in leaving the small village behind.
Ten miles out of town the dirt road turned into no road and then into desert sand.
The Jeep stopped atop a large dune, a plateau of sand that was still solid enough to
support the weight of a vehicle. The man next to Johnson shoved his machine gun
into the agent’s side, motioning for him to get out. Johnson complied. The air was
dry and the sun stood tall in the sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. Kazar spoke
again in Arabic, and the driver stayed in the jeep.
Agent Johnson, Kazar, and the man with gun walked from the jeep a good
distance toward the far side of the top of the dune. Countless dunes dotted the
distant horizon, all of them lifeless, just beaches and beaches of bright brown
sand.
Agent Johnson’s foot sank, and he tripped falling face first, but breaking
the fall with his hands. The man with the gun cursed in Arabic and jerked Johnson
violently to his feet by the back of his collar.
“Well Mr. Johnson this is where we say our goodbyes,” Kazar said smiling
once again. “Unlike your American mobbers we don’t give a shovel so you can
dig a grave. We just shoot you and let you roll down the side of the dune. The
night winds of the desert will cover you up quite nicely.”
“Mobsters,” Johnson replied.
Kazar’s eyebrows raised in bewilderment.
“You said mobbers. The pronunciation is
mobsters.” Kazar’s smile lefthim once again. “And besides, how is this guy going to shoot me if he can’t see.”
Kazar looked at his man, but before any words left his mouth Agent
Johnson tossed the sand cupped in his hands directly into both of their faces as he
fell to the ground. The man with the machine gun began to fire but hit only dry
desert air. Johnson grabbed the gunman’s leg and swept it out from under him.
The man fell face down in the sand spraying bullets across the desert landscape on
his way down. Kazar dropped to the sand as well and heard the copper projectiles
buzzing through the air as they passed his ear.
Agent Johnson jumped on the gunman’s back, grabbed him under the chin,
and snapped his neck effortlessly. Kazar fumbled for Johnson’s gun which was
tucked snugly in the pocket of his white coat, but it was too late. Agent Johnson
pulled the trigger of the acquired machine gun, and pumped bullet after bullet into
Kazar’s face, turning it into a smashed rotten tomato.
The man in the Jeep took three steps toward the battle but was sliced down
before he could fire or even yell.
Agent Johnson looked around at the bodies, making sure they were
lifeless. He walked by the first man and gently kicked the man down the side of
the dune. He came to what was left of Kazar and knelt down. He opened Kazar’s
white jacket, splattered now with red and brown stains, pulling out first his gun and
then the documents. Johnson quickly thumbed through the papers making sure all
were intact.
Satisfied, Agent Johnson stood up. His foot gave Kazar’s body a nudge.
Down the hill of sand it went, rolling until it stopped at the bottom of the dune in a
shallow valley next to the gunman that had gone before him. The wind blew
briefly, depositing a thin layer of sand over the blood-soaked bodies.
Johnson looked at the two bodies expressionless. “Maybe you won’t have
to wait for the nightly winds after all.”
Arriving back to the Jeep, he found the bullet-riddled driver immobile, but
gasping hard for his last breaths. Johnson squeezed the trigger of his Kimber and
hurried the process along, blowing what was left of the driver’s brains out the back
of his skull and into the sand.
II
We never really spoke about Extravaganza too much. Even the rumorspreading
mouths of teenagers could be humbled by certain atrocities. Roman was
confident that we would never see Freddy Flowers again, and that was good
enough for all of us. Heather probably took that night the worst. She was not quite
herself the first few days afterwards; there were dark bruises around her eyes, and
her previous overflowing opinions at the lunch table were non-existent.
Roman blamed himself, of course, citing that he should have never let
Heather go with us in the first place. Should have gone by himself. Heather
reminded him yet again that she was a big girl and would do what she damn well
pleased. A long time ago, Ninja told Roman to never walk through a door unless
he knew what was on the other side. Roman had followed the philosophy to a tee.
His plan was brilliant—emptying the guns for insurance—it ran as smoothly as a
hockey puck over ice. But sometimes no matter how well prepared you are, things
just get fucked up, especially if you bring three amateurs along for the ride.
Johnny put his two worthless cents in once, stating that if he’d brought his gun
none of the other shit would’ve happened. I told him if he’d brought the gun, they
would have taken it from him and killed us all.
Freddy Flowers slithered his way out of any investigation. Johnny was
right about Freddy’s connections. The only thing in the paper was a statement
from the fire marshal stating that the “abandoned” warehouse burned to the ground
by accident and there was no one present during the fire. There was no mention of
a well-done Bobby Dukes carcass. There was also no one in attendance stepping
up to blow the whistle on the Flower. After all, it could not be discovered that the
elite of Collingston had been at such an event.
As the weeks rolled on, talk of The Flower and his awful circus faded
away, replaced by old lunch room jokes, unusual facts from Roman like a human
can swim just as fast through syrup as he can through water, and comments from
the gallery on the promising future of baseball and of graduation. Time heals all
things? Maybe if a certain janitor is along to help you through it.
Carl had recovered almost immediately from his sickness, visiting the
Tavern nightly, and receiving guests every so often at his front door. I never saw
one of his so-called crack whores turned away. He listened to his crazy-ass radio
programs and had us over for beer and ginger ale. As the month’s full moon
approached Carl began to bring up the aliens again. I learned just to tune his nutty
ass out. It was all in his head.
February was nothing more than a school girl tease, the fake hope of spring
popping up in a sixty-degree day once or twice, only to return to its winter chill the
very next morning. Its only good attribute was its length: always short, which
meant less prison time. I wonder why the Emperors picked February to rape of its
days, a question I never got around to asking Roman. He did, however, inform me
about what a bogus holiday Valentine’s Day was, of how the gift card companies
resurrected some story from the depths of history and turned it into a gold mine.
Anyway, I spent my February increasing the intensity of my workouts,
playing catch with Sam and Pick five days a week, and visiting
On Deck at leastthree times a week. I even dragged Roman out of his books a couple of times to
throw to me. He popped the mitt well; it wasn’t just a fluke that day in January.
But with all my begging he still refused to be interested in coming out for the team.
I still had no offers on the table for baseball; all the college stuff was in the
back of my mind to be honest. I kept my eye on the prize—the state title—a title
that had eluded the Silver Streaks since baseball became a sport at the high school.
We had a good enough team to get there, of that I was positive. We just needed
that one extra ace in the hole, that one solid pitcher that unlike Johnny wouldn’t
implode when the going got tough.
Coach Demera knew it too. He was hungry. I could see a little more
arrogance in his step as he strolled through the halls. I could see that look in his
eye, that killer look a tiger gives his distant prey. He was going to put us through
hell; you could count on it. He was going to tell us things like “if you like the
smell of a woman better than the smell of your mitt, you need to shit and get :
you’ll be able to chase the chicken asses your whole life, but you only get to put
that mitt on for a short time.” Of course he was right, and I had already got a head
start on Coach, dumping my dead weight ahead of schedule.
That dead weight, I heard through the grapevine, was now dating a
sophomore. A fuckin’ sophomore. Some French foreign exchange student named
Jacques, who wrote poetry and could grow a full beard. I saw them pinned up
against the lockers in the hallway, coincidentally the same hallway that led me to
my locker. Who’s she shittin’ anyway? I could give a damn.
Jack Rollins was as happy as a pet coon, since The Killer returned to
school, making sure to grab the seat next to his former commander, and hanging on
his every word. Unfortunately for Jack, Johnny had grown up a little—almost
suffocating inside a plastic bag and being thrown in the back of a truck will do that
to a guy I guess. And when Johnny didn’t have any specific orders for Jack, the
silence we’d enjoyed for the last two months was gone. With nothing else to do
Jack talked, and talked, always with the high-pitched laugh and the I-screwedyour-
sister look in his eye.
Brunno was in the thick of wrestling season, starving himself at lunch to
make weight, and despite being scared shitless by Carl, he was undefeated and on
fine pace to make a run at the state title. He still stuttered his daily business math
questions to Roman, often repeating the same problem from the day before. Math
just wouldn’t sink into Brunno’s fat head, but Roman never became impatient.
During those winter days, Roman and Heather spent most of their free time
together, going to his house directly after school (mostly to bed I imagine), and
then Heather studied and Roman fell into his endless reading. They would
separate briefly during the evening—Heather to cheerleading and Roman to
work—only to unite at midnight again.
Times were good.
III
San Diego
Max Sheehan jogged down the concrete slabs of the Villa’s front lot,
looking constantly behind him, peeking to his right and left into the palm trees on
both sides, and grabbing his painful crotch and the still-open wound in his side.
The makeshift sling he’d fixed for his most important limb had run its course, and
Max needed some kind of medical attention.
For six years he’d been on a steady ascension to perfection. Sure the first
time was sloppy—but since then? Not one body found, not one drop of his semen,
or a stray fingerprint on a doorknob. And the best part wasn’t the room he had
built in his new home on the coast. It wasn’t the hours of control over the women.
It was the fact that nobody ever knew about the rapes or killings. They weren’t
even looking for anyone because there was no evidence of any crime. The posters
on milk cartons and gas station windows of missing young women would never
bring the authorities to Max’s house.
He’d come to San Diego only because that’s where the wind blew him. It
was bright there, always was. Max thought the first day he arrived that maybe the
sun would burn away the darkness in his soul, maybe the black urges would melt
away, and maybe he could be human. In the end the sun was no match.
How did it go so wrong? He was always careful with choosing his
victims. Mary Baumbright was five foot nothing, a hundred and nothing, didn’t
partake in the party scene and kept to herself. Max could always pick out the ones
that were abused. He couldn’t have been more wrong with Mary.
None of it mattered now though. They had his fingerprints, DNA, and
knew his identity. It would only be a matter of time before they went through the
pictures on his basement wall, identified the girls, found their bodies, and made a
map of his last six years. He had to get out of town. Not only that but he had to
disappear, become someone else, and worst of all his playtime had to stop.
Dogey would help him. Dogey would know what to do. He always did.
Max pounded on the brown door, only to be answered with a sliding piece
at eye level. The door opened to the dimness of Dogey’s front room. The room
was always the same shade of black whether day or night. The fumes of cigarettes
and lager rushed out of the doorway, along with the cracking noise of pool balls
from the back room. Max limped in and sat at the counter.
Dogey grabbed for the Tequila, but after looking Max over, opted for the
coffee cup. He produced a cigarette, offered it, and stuck into his own mouth when
Max declined.
Dogey was a crime broker. He sold information, alibis, scores, and made it
his business to know things before anybody else did. Dogey had never been to a
police station. Like Max he was invisible—the producer behind the camera. His
one rule was to never ask questions of his clients, a policy that had made him a
good deal of money and kept him out of jail. A policy that kept him from knowing
that a serial killer sat across the bar from him.
Dogey only stared at Max, seeing the blood spot on the side of his shirt
that seemed to be growing by the minute, and waited patiently for his customer’s
demand. Max sucked down the first cup of coffee ignoring the blistering heat.
Dogey filled it again.
“Unfortunate circumstances have made it impossible for me to stay around
here,” Max said.
“Where do you want to go?” the broker asked.
“Back east somewhere, I suppose. Somewhere I can blend in. Somewhere
with work.”
Dogey rubbed the top of his lip as if to smooth out an invisible mustache.
“I know a cat in Illinois looking for some carpentry work. He’s not legit, so I’m
sure there’s more to it. Pays well.”
Dogey picked up the phone behind the counter, hit a single button, and
spoke to the man on the other end of the line. “Yeah. Max is dead.” Dogey
covered the receiver and looked at Max. “Illinois then?”
Max nodded.
“What name?” Dogey asked him.
“Don’t care.”
Dogey uncovered the phone, “Yeah, Illinois and he doesn’t care. Give him
some plastic and a clean cell phone. Some Vicodin too. He’s going to need some
stitches.”
Max pulled out a neat stack of money and laid it on the counter as Dogey
hung up. “It’ll be a few minutes my friend.”
“Will this cover it?”
Dogey looked at the high stack of hundreds and nodded.
Thirty minutes of silence and five cups of coffee later, a petite woman
appeared from the staircase just next to the front door, carrying a small black bag.
Max couldn’t help but notice her dark brown hair. She set it on the counter and
shuffled through the contents, handing Max his new life.
The lady said, “There you are John Smith. Three credit cards, cell phone,
painkiller, and two Illinois driver’s licenses. I’m going to have you come
downstairs for the stitches, the fake nose, and hairpiece. I gave you one ID with
hair and the other with none. I figured we give you hair to get you through the
airport. After that it’s up to you. I’ve got you on a four o’clock so we have to
hustle. Any questions?”
Max looked at Dogey. “Where at in Illinois?”
“A place called Collingston,” Dogey replied.
IV
Roman stomped his shoes on the porch even though his sidewalk was clear
of snow. Once in the living room he bypassed the towers of books against the
wall—it was always hard to ignore them, to walk by without taking one in hand
and flip through the pages to all those wonderful places—and walked to the
kitchen for water. Roman was always thirsty after school, whether in the dog days
of late summer or in the frozen cold. His thirst gave credence to a theory he’d
developed over the years—the human brain burned the body’s fuel just as quick as
any muscle.
Heather stood just in front of the door, removing her earmuffs and scarf,
unzipping her fluffy goose-feather coat, and stripping the gloves from her hands. It
must be nice, she thought, to walk into the dead of winter with only a flannel and
stay as warm as Roman did. Was he really warm? Or did his mind just ignore the
elements? It was silly for her to be preoccupied with such questions, but for some
reason it bothered her. Maybe it was her competitive nature. Competitive was an
understatement. When she was little, she made her father roll her countless rubber
balls, sometimes until the sun went down, and wasn’t satisfied until the ball landed
a distance that was comparable to the home run at school. She practiced for
months until every kick at recess hit the row of pine trees in centerfield—the fourth
graders’ makeshift fence. That determination stayed with her over the years. It
was the reason she ran every day. And while some of her peers as well as their
parents might have looked on and claimed lunacy, they couldn’t argue the fact that
Heather dominated every challenge in her life—school, cheerleading, and student
government. If it were any other person than Roman, that seemingly perfect stance
in all aspects of life would have made her envious if not infuriated. But
surprisingly, when Heather figured out she couldn’t match Roman’s idiosyncrasies,
her heart did not declare war.
She pulled off the last of her winter armor, placing it neatly on the floor
next to the lampstand. She noticed something as she raised her head, saw
something out of the corner of her eye. Something that hadn’t been in the friendly
confines of Roman’s small living room slash bedroom before. It wasn’t the
wallpaper. The hundreds of ball players still stared back at her. It was something
bright. A color that didn’t fit in the room, and now her eyes retraced the path of
her head and found the object that had caught her attention.
On the floor next to Roman’s bed leaned a canvas—a brilliant tapestry of
bright colors. And while her first glance didn’t reveal exactly what image the
colors merged to create, it was clearly some sort of painting. Heather took only
two steps closer before she remembered the scene.
Remembered? That might not be an accurate statement. She had
physically never been to the place in the painting, but she’d gone there on two
different occasions in her mind. Once when Roman told his story, and once when
she finally laid her head on her pillow after countless hours of wakefulness after
the business at the Hollow.
The painting was identical to the image that her mind’s eye saw when
Roman described it with his thoughtful words. The brilliant yellows and reds, and
every shade of orange in between stood out in the sky, then in the reflection on the
waves below. The perspective was fitting—from a window, with tropical palm
leaves hanging over the edges on both sides. Out from the view lay what seemed
like miles of golden tan sand that traveled to the horizon where it met the ocean as
well as the setting sun. The black shadows of birds floated on the wind miles away
against the cloudless evening. Immediately Heather forgot that it was winter
outside, forgot that she lived in Collingston.
She thought of walking on the beach with Roman and at that instant his
arms wrapped around her waist, and his chin rested on her shoulder. An image
popped out at her from the painting, two black blotches that her eyes missed at first
glance, two subtle details off in the distance, miles from the window, miles across
the sand of the beach. It was two people, or shadows of people, hand in hand,
walking toward the ocean and into the giant red-orange sun that teetered on the
curvature of the earth.
“It’s beautiful.” The words were just supposed to be a thought in her head,
but escaped from her lips in a whisper.
“Maybe the best prison view in the world,” Roman whispered and pulled
back the hair from her neck, either because the locks obstructed his vision, or
because he wanted her to feel his breath on her neck. Heather hoped it was the
latter.
“I’ve been there before,” Heather said. “In my dreams. We jumped
through that window or hologram or whatever it was, and sat under the sun on the
sand. We never said a word, just sat there, and when the sun started to set, we
walked toward it, like somehow if we kept on going it would never fully disappear
behind the ocean.” Heather reached her fingertips out and touched those two souls
on the soft canvas.
Roman kissed the lobe of her ear. He pulled the bottom of her sweater
gently up from her stomach, until it was over her head and on the floor. Roman
undid the clasp on the front of her bra with his right hand and at the same time
unbuttoned her jeans with his left. She turned and kissed him, sliding the silk
panties away from her waist and then wiggling them down to the floor with her
legs. Roman slid out of his flannel with a similar fluttering gesture using neither
hand. When everything was out of their way, Roman laid her down gently and
followed her with his own slow descent to the bed.
If there was one skill or task that couldn’t be learned through some
textbook or the black words on a page, it was surely this Roman thought. As his
nervousness passed that first time on Christmas, he knew he would someday
perfect this ritual. Why wouldn’t he think such a thing? Every obstacle,
roadblock, and problem that ever stood in his way was in inevitable danger of
being conquered. In fact it was only a matter of time. His mind had mastered the
art of denying himself that final pleasure too fast. His fingers had mastered that
blind dance on the silky floor of her body. His mouth had learned when to give to
her lips, and when to take. He had a good teacher after all—though there was no
one to measure her against. This was a time (he first thought) that was supposed to
be completely void of dialogue. It shocked him the first time Heather talked out
loud during their love making, suggesting this and that, and literally telling him to
do things.
Not long after those first few sessions did it finally emerge in his brain—
this wasn’t something you could perfect, it wasn’t something you could have
planned ahead of time, it wasn’t a mathematical equation. If you went after it like
another problem to solve, you would fail, and fail miserably. If you mastered some
format, some technical plan of attack, the mystery and anticipation would wither
and die. And while in every day life Roman begged for routine, longed for logic,
this was the one place he had to be different. And different was better than he ever
dreamed. Roman shut his mind off in those moments of passion and let his heart
drift where it would.
Roman was on top of her, his arms and hands lying parallel on hers, his
thrusts beginning to quicken. She couldn’t hold on much longer (a feeling Roman
had been fighting since the beginning of this flesh-to-flesh horizontal dance).
Heather’s arms escaped Roman’s and her hands (and nails) found his back. Her
breathing and moans heightened to a point of not being able to raise any further
and finally Roman gave in as well. Not because she told him to, or because he was
guessing it was time. But because he could see it in her eyes—that electric look of
one that has just touched a cloud.
Heather seemed to hold onto her final sigh as long as she could, like the
first drop on a rollercoaster, that no matter how long it was or how sharp the drop,
you would always came back for more. Roman could feel a hard shiver go through
the body underneath him, and now it was Heather whose calves cramped in joy and
toes curled in satisfaction.
They lay there silent for minutes, maybe hours, staring at the ceiling
without conversation as if they were watching the sun set on that beach. Their
breathing eventually went back to normal pace, their flesh to normal temperature
as the sweat evaporated. Heather’s hand lay on Roman’s chest palm up, her body
too tired to roll over so she could look him in the eye. Roman ran his fingertips
down the folded lines in her palm.
“I want to thank you, Heather. I never thought that I would ever be happy
again. You saved me. You taught me what it is to be a person again.”
Heather shut her eyes and kissed his hand. “I’m happy too, Roman. Isn’t it
ironic, our relationship? I’m supposed to be the rich girl cheerleader, some ditz
who bounces her way through life with no thought or regard for it. And you work
as a janitor. I want to be a doctor and mother and a wife. I want to show my kids
that the world doesn’t have to be the way it is. What about you?”
Roman hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “I’ve spent so many
years worrying about the past that all I’ve been doing these last few months is
living in the moment. Kids?” Roman paused again. “If I did have children, I
don’t want them to be like me, awkward I mean.”
“You’re not awkward Roman. And any mother would be lucky to have
half of you in her children. Your mind, your courage, and most importantly your
heart.”
“It’s kind of you to say such things.”
“Not kind Roman, fact,” Heather said, rising from the bed and walking to
her bag on the other side of the room.
Roman kept his head on the pillow and smiled as he watched.
Heather slid on a pair of athletic shorts, a T-shirt, and over both top and
bottom went sweats. She pulled the long blond locks back into a ponytail, but
released them, finding a brush was needed for the frayed mess on her head. Her
hair was always like that when they finished—the electrocuted frazzle of someone
who stuck their finger in the light socket—and to Roman it was starting to become
the favorite of her hairstyles. Several quick pullbacks from the bangs with the
brush, some kind of one-handed magic trick with her scrunchy, and Heather was
ready for cheerleading practice.
“Teach me to fight,” she said.
“Where’s that coming from?”
“I still think of that asshole Bobby Dukes from time to time, and how
helpless I was with his arm around my neck. I don’t want to feel that way again,
ever.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about Bobby Dukes,” Roman said, getting
up from the bed himself.
“There are more than just a few Bobby Dukes in the world, Roman.”
Roman walked over to her at the door. “This is true. Okay. Whatever you
want.”
“Nothing spectacular. Just maybe teach me a few deadly punches.” She
kissed him and smiled.
“I want you to take this with you.” Roman walked over to the painting.
Carefully, he lifted the canvas by its edges.
“Roman...I don’t know.”
“It was meant for you. Besides I’ve looked out that window enough to
burn a permanent image in my memory.”
“Thank you.” She moved the painting aside, wrapped both arms around
him and kissed him again. It was a long one this time, something that made
Roman want to go back to bed.
Heather let out a sigh. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight then?”
“Yes.”
Heather carried the painting out as Roman shut the door behind her. He
walked to the kitchen and downed two quick glasses of water. As he returned to
the living room a knock came from the door.
Did she forget something?
That’s what he wanted to say as he opened thedoor. But he didn’t. It might have been the sixth sense that people like Roman
seem to have, or maybe he could smell the overuse of perfume through the door,
but before she was in plain view the signals in Romans brain cells had figured out
who had come a-knocking. It was someone he’d never imagined seeing on his
doorstep.
V
Gina Hawthorne stood on the porch, draped in a black mink coat with the
lustrous fur collar snuggled against her neck. As always her perfume seemed to
spread through the air with an unmatched velocity. And though the fragrance
almost knocked him back a step or two, it was still sweet to smell. There was no
evidence of it but Roman was sure her face was painted with the several layers of
makeup it took to erase twenty years. She could have easily passed for thirty and
there was no mistaking where Heather obtained her beauty. In her hand she carried
a large flower-print bag—something Mary Poppins might travel with—and on her
face she wore a crimson-lipped smile. A smile that looked like it pained her to
make.
“May I come in?”
Roman waved his arm as he backed away from the doorway. She entered
but only took two steps into the living room/bedroom. She tried to be subtle but
her eyes danced around the room in a flurry of curiosity, examining every inch—
the baseball card wallpaper, the polished floor, the spotless furniture, and the
neatly stacked books, finally stopping at the bed. Her eyes looked unimpressed.
A nervous gloom filled Roman—something maybe a soldier felt when the
drill sergeant came for inspections—and now he remembered that he stood only
his underwear. He walked over to the wild sheets on his bed and looked down to
see his clothes in a pile before his feet.
“Quite the cozy cottage you have here,” Gina said as she placed her bag on
the floor and removed her silk gloves.
“Thank you,” Roman’s politeness was as fake as her compliment. He bent
down and jumped into his jeans (both legs at the same time) and then began
straightening the sheets of his bed, as if he could erase the event that had taken
place just moments ago. As he tucked the edges under the mattress, he couldn’t
help but feel like a criminal trying to cover up the scene of a crime.
“You need not tidy up, nor clothe yourself. What’s good enough for the
daughter should be sufficient for her mother. Don’t you think? Besides this isn’t a
social engagement. I will take only a small amount of your time.”
Roman didn’t respond. He finished with the bed and threw a shirt on.
Gina lifted her bag off the floor, opened it by the two handles on top, and
looked at its contents. Satisfied, she closed it, walked over to the couch, and set it
down.
“I want you to stop seeing my daughter.”
“I’m in love with her, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Gina laughed out loud. It was an awful sound—laughter that sprang from
spite—echoing through the house as if it traveled through the caverns of hell.
“Love? Dear Roman, your enlightened mind must know that love is only a
word. Only a term used to explain the chemical reactions in your brain. Those
reactions no different than the feeling one gets when eating large amounts of
chocolate or releasing endorphins while on the treadmill.”
“I don’t eat large amounts of chocolate and I’m not much for the
treadmill.”
Gina’s awful laughter stopped. “Mock me if you must. I want you gone. I
want you to disappear into the night to wherever you came from. Or you go
somewhere new. It doesn’t really matter.” Gina looked over to the couch.
“There’s one hundred thousand dollars in the bag. I expect it will be enough to
give you a fresh start somewhere if you don’t squander it. And I expect that you
will be gone before school starts tomorrow.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“It’s not a matter of hate, Roman. It’s a matter of what’s best for my
daughter. You’re a very talented young man. Your path just lies in a different
direction than Heather’s. She is to go to school and become
someone. To marryand have a family. To live with her own kind, not some drifter, some janitor.”
Roman walked to the bag as Gina slipped her gloves on. She opened the
door. “Best wishes Roman.”
“Mrs. Hawthorne,” Roman said with the bag of money outstretched toward
her. “If this bag is still here tonight when Heather comes over, I will not lie to her
about how and why it came into my possession. If the bag is not here there will be
no reason to bring it up.”
Gina peered at the bag and then at Roman, hoping to see some sign of
insincerity on the janitor’s face. “Fine. I’ll make it two. Two hundred thousand. I
can have the rest by the end of the day.”
Roman took two steps and held the bag so the handles touched Gina’s
hand. “It won’t matter if you bring the entire bank vault down the street on a semitrailer.”
Gina ripped the bag out of his hand and swung open the door. On the porch
she said, “You’re making a big mistake.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Roman watched as the high heels stumbled over
the cracks in the sidewalk to the black BMW on the street.
“Drive safely.”
VI
If Roman told me the story a year ago, all I would’ve been worried about
was the money. Maybe something to the effect of “You turned down two hundred
thousand fucking dollars?” But I was more mature now, more in tune with
people’s feelings since meeting the janitor. The money statement kinda just rolled
off my mind. I was immediately pissed at the end of it. I kept calm though, and
did my best to make him feel better. I shot him straight.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about what the bitch in high heels thinks of
you. She’s always been a scheming cunt. Always messing in Heather’s business,
over stupid shit. The only reason people give her the time of day is because she’s
rich and she’s hot. There isn’t much to her after that. I think Dr. Hawthorne
would’ve kicked her ass to the curb along time ago if Heather wasn’t around. You
should watch your back though. Gina doesn’t like to take “no” for an answer.
You should tell Heather, she’d set her straight.”
“I don’t want to cause problems between Heather and her mother.”
“You know what your problem is? You’re too fuckin’ nice. People like
Gina Hawthorne don’t understand nice. They only understand money.”
Roman didn’t respond.
With Heather’s arrival our conversation came to a halt. She immediately
noticed there was something wrong with Roman—although he looked fine to me—
and asked him about it. Roman gave her a smile to stop her worries. It was
amazing how women knew—women’s intuition, sixth sense, motherly instinct,
whatever you wanted to call it—they always knew.
One by one, our lunch table patrons seated themselves, sparking what
seemed to be a hundred different conversations. Chairs were rearranged, tables
pushed together, and soon our group was at least twenty strong, digging into the
lunches and each other’s gossip. A book sat to the side of Roman, and while I had
seen him drill through the words of countless pages, he rarely opened one these
days. It must have been there in case Heather had no stories of her own to tell, in
case there was a moment of down time where he could feed his mind. I saw him
look over at it several times, as if it were tempting him the way drugs do an addict,
but he never opened it.
Johnny the Killer appeared with tray in hand, laughing to himself before he
could tell the rest of us. Johnny was always good for a joke or two—some of them
were actually pretty good. And although our table was fifty percent of the female
persuasion, it never stopped the Killer from reciting vulgar often degrading jokes.
The entire table listened regardless.
“A man in a hotel lobby wants to ask the clerk a question. As he turns to
go to the front desk, he accidentally bumps into a woman beside him and as he
does, his elbow goes into her breast. They are both quite startled. The man turns to
her and says, ‘Ma'am, if your heart is as soft as your breast, I know you'll forgive
me.’ She replies, ‘If your penis is as hard as your elbow, I'm in room 320.’”
The table broke into laughter. Milk squirted from Sam Peterman’s nose,
Jack cackled like a hyena, the cheerleaders were laughing, and even Heather broke
a smile.
My tears and laughter stopped when I saw the two people coming toward
our table. Sally and Jacques or Jock or whatever his name was, were coming
straight for me, hand in hand. I was relived a little bit when they ignored me and
talked to Heather.
“Jacques got our lunch switched to the first lunch period with you guys.
Isn’t that the best?” Sally asked Heather.
“That’s great,” Heather replied. “Here, there’s room right here, let me pull
up a couple of chairs.”
I scooted reluctantly to the left to make room for Sally and Frenchy, asking
in my mind what I had done to deserve such a punishment. It wasn’t jealousy, I
promise. It was more the fact that I viewed Jacques as quite the lesser man. And if
a man like Jacques made Sally happy what did that say about me? The kid didn’t
have an ounce of muscle on him. He was shorter than me and had pale white skin,
like the color of a toilet. He had long woman-like hair and a thin spotty beard,
which I’m sure he combed in front of a mirror for at least an hour.
Jacques was all smiles when he sat down. “You are Anthony, yes?” He
held out his hand, and I shook it. It was a limp grip, just as I imagined.
“Uh, just call me Tony. Only my good and close relatives and friends get
to call me Anthony.”
“I see. Tony then. I am Jacques.” The “J” rolled off his tongue like it was
two or three syllables instead of just a letter.
I hated him immediately.
Roman saved me from the torture, or at least diverted my attention. “Carl
wanted to know if you and Heather wanted to come over to his place for supper.
He’s making one of his specialties.”
“What’s that?”
“Some stew. He wouldn’t tell me exactly what was in it. He said I’d never
taste anything better.”
Under normal circumstances I’d be wary of eating anything Carl was
cooking, but the stress of the situation
hindered my judgment.
“Sure. What time?”
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