Love You to a Pulp Page 8

  “I thought maybe you had some sense!” Comb Over said. Neil watched the man lift his cane, the handle was a heavy steel skull with red jewel eyes that glowed. Before Comb Over could drop it on his dome, Neil threw a hard boot straight into the offended knee, bent it back about forty-five degrees and Comb Over went down with a guttural scream that raised the hair on Neil’s neck. His men paused for a minute and then stepped forward, but Neil drew on them and his piece flashed in the neon glow of the lot.

  Neil looked at his squirming attacker, “Back at you. You boys got any sense?” Neil pointed the piece from one to the other. They looked at him like hungry caged creatures, flesh and blood monster, held back only by the invisible force of the barrel. “Good. Good. Listen. I want to see your boss. I know who he is and I want to talk to him. I got questions. This could have been a very cordial affair and I want you to tell him so. I don’t want to come back to some ambush scene, all right? I’ll light this whole place up if I have to. Don’t make me do that. I want words, that’s all. So you get him on the horn and tell him I want to speak with him.”

  “Fuck you!” Comb Over spit through grinding teeth, doing his best to force his leg back to shape. The tendons stretched and cried and cracked, swaddled in wet sickness. Neil kicked Comb Over’s boot, and the leg followed the force. Comb Over went to his back and screamed.

  “Okay gents? Can you do that for me?” The testicles looked at him, nodded. All they knew was following orders, and until someone else took charge, it was Neil’s orders. “All right then. Get him out of the way. I got to run an errand.”

  They pulled Comb Over out of the path of the car and Neil pulled away, stopped shy of the unconscious John who’d been pulled from his car. Neil stuck his head out the window. “Do something with him too.” The men dragged him out of Neil’s path. “I’ll be back. I promise you that. Get him here.” The men lifted Comb Over by the arms and helped him back to the office, his leg dragging behind him, leaving a new bloody trail for any hungry thing to follow.

  The Cutlass cut the night apart, dissected the wickedness with high beams. Neil hugged the twists of the road, sinking in dips and revving the engine hard over rises. The rain came and Neil went faster, his dull wiper blades working in vain against the downpour. Along the shoulder of the road Neil’s lights found the other drivers, scared of the weather, their cars idling, but Neil pressed on, squinting to see the yellow line through beads of water and dirty glass. Outside the reach of the headlights the darkness was complete, cloud covered skies blocked by the thick foliage that wrapped the vehicle in a dripping cave, limestone rock faces, jagged like broken bone passed by in the periphery with great speed, showing themselves for an instant before retreating again to the darkness. Neil slowed around a sharp turn, saw a sapling growing out of the rock face, a hearty survivor begging for a chance in cracks of succession, bedding down in the windblown silt and decayed moss and lichens. If trees thought, if they pondered, they would feel they’d made it, seen the worst of what life had to offer. But in truth they would grow, their confidence weighing them down until they collapsed under their own mass, brush to be chopped and cleared. The remaining saplings watched on, truly believing that it could not happen to them.

  Neil parked across the road from the concrete lions, headlights off and invisible in the rural dark. He watched the cars come and go, not unlike the motel activity, though the autos visiting the mansion were sleek and reflected the moonlight like the jewels and shining accessories their occupants donned. Just after midnight, the GTO rumbled to the edge of the drive and sat idling, exhaust rising red and thick in the brake lights and disappearing into the cool night air. Neil sat, felt the driver’s eyes on him though the darkness that separated them was absolute, the Cutlass was nothing in the night, the GTO glowing hot, a star with billions of years of life before the slow cooling swell to supernova. But where was it on that inevitable scale, that inevitable journey through order? The star never knows when it is time to explode. But they do. And each one is amazed by the finality.

  The GTO engine revved, sending sprays of gravel and mud into the air, tires spinning, spraying the lions with hot rock. The lions screamed in the night, harmonized with the shriek of tires on pavement as the car raced away toward the motel.

  Inside the house was a scene of decadent debauchery. The music blared from speakers sunk into the walls of each room, thumped out a rhythm to match the irregular heartbeats of the guests. Neil wandered the rooms nearly invisible to those around him, like a ghost watching those too self-absorbed to haunt, those who would swear he was nothing more than a drug-induced figment of the imagination. Neil inhaled deeply as he walked through the house, through the incense smell of black tar, the burning Styrofoam smell of crack cocaine vapor. He pulled out his rubber cement and dug in deep, the fumes burning his eyes and taking him deeper into himself. He repeated the word “Heidi” in his head, his thoughts shook, vibrated with the music. It kept him on task as his body began to twist, his spine wrung out like a wet towel before cracking, the crunch audible to him alone. His feet sunk into the hardwood in the foyer, the marble of the sitting room, the glossy Spanish tile of the kitchen. He pressed on, forcing the thought of “Heidi” that kept him moving, kept him on task.

  “Where’s Heidi?” he asked a withered and naked soul. She gave him a smile and nothing more. “Where’s Heidi?” he asked again, to the room. No one seemed to hear the words as they eyed him with suspicion before dismissing him. He looked out the back of the house, over the staircase and giant patio where he had interviewed Heidi, where Lotta had stood watching her mistress, drinks in her shaking hands, wondering if the lady of the house knew, wondering when her role as mistress would be usurped. Lotta, the beautiful Bosnian queen bee in training, the queen to be rejected upon the capricious whims of money, of power. He did not see Lotta among the masses, but others like her were weaving in and out of the collections of guests, gathering glasses, delivering various packages, taking the abuses of body and spirit.

  Neil climbed the stairs. He put the glue away and when he reached the upstairs landing, he felt nothing but the lush carpet under his feet as he stepped carefully to avoid the human puddles of bliss before him.

  He laid a palm on the door of the master bedroom and pushed. Inside he saw Lotta writhing on the canopy bed, naked, scratching her nails on the shoulders and back of Heidi, whose body was not what would be expected by one having only seen her in overalls—sleek, curved, smooth and firm and glazed with sweat. Heidi was on her knees at the foot of the bed, her face pressed deep between Lotta’s thighs as the tops of her feet rubbed lightly atop the thick carpet. The women moved together like some mutated creature, a chance shift in form that joined the twin species into a singular form of perfection. Neil cleared his throat and tapped the open door. The beast did not seem to acknowledge the sound except for an added desperation to its movement, a quickening of the single body and mind, increasing the intensity before the fission of climax that filled the entire room with its heat and left Lotta alone, eyes closed as if caught in a wonderful sleep, and swiveled Heidi’s head about its axis. She smiled at Neil, her lips glistening wet in the soft light that remained.

  “Neil,” Heidi said, a certain amount of shyness and yet a tinge of conceit in her words. She looked at Lotta, still blissfully subdued, then back at Neil. “I told you. He gets bored and then they’re mine.”

  Heidi stroked Lotta’s thigh with her finger tips, then her claw dug into the smooth flesh. The girl squealed.

  “Drinks.” Heidi said. “In Mr. Skaggs’ office.”

  Heidi pulled on her overalls and nothing else. She led Neil back through the throngs of pleasure. Neil expected some kind of explanation, but realized Heidi had given up explaining herself a long time ago, another perk of being Mrs. Paul Skaggs. They passed through an open corridor that seemed a division, a consciously created demarcation between animal appetites and controlled design. As she moved, Heidi’s feet lifted from the hardwood with the
sound of adhesive tape being pulled with each step. She entered the office. It was Mr. Skaggs’ work at home space, the shelves lined with law books and the walls displaying plaques and degrees, his identity plastered upon the space. Heidi took her place behind the desk and looked out of place in her farm girl garb, though her face was stony and all business, an odd juxtaposition that maintained Neil’s focus, the sheer will of the woman in front of him. He’d seen her softness, her intimate way, manipulative or not. But the way she controlled it, turned it on and off at will. She was not even the same woman he’d visited days before, the good ol’ gal with the hidden still. She was something else altogether, but Neil didn’t know what exactly what that was.

  “What brings you by?” she asked. She pulled a cigar from the box on the mahogany desk. She bit off the end and struck a match on the side of the desk. She offered one to Neil. He bit the end and put it to his lips, stood and leaned forward to her waiting flame. He puffed until the end of the cigar glowed hot orange, sat again, and licked his lips, tasting the tingling bite of the tobacco leaf.

  “I’m here to ask about your husband. You didn’t tell me he owns the motel up on thirty-one.”

  “Did it come up?”

  “I told you Helen Jenkins was holed up there. Seems like it might have been something you’d have shared.”

  “I do apologize, but I guess it just slipped my mind.”

  “Sure. Anything else slipping your mind?”

  “Ask what you want, Neil. I’ll answer truthfully. As I can. That’s the thing about slips, they slip.” She smiled and gave him teasing eyes that knew he wanted her, despite himself. Eyes that knew she could use and manipulate him, if she wanted to, if she found it necessary to degrade herself. But then the eyes smiled, as if projecting his own thoughts, and they told Neil that Heidi Skaggs degraded herself for no man. Sex was a currency for the taking; she had money for the rest.

  “What’s your husband’s business?”

  “You watch TV, you’ve seen the commercials. He’s an injury lawyer.”

  “What else does he have his hands in?”

  “The motel, but you knew that. How’s your cigar?”

  Neil puffed, tried to put on an air of connoisseurship, but laughed at himself before he could respond with some ridiculous ignorance and opted for the genuine type. “Tell you the truth they all taste the same to me. What else?”

  “Is this you detecting?”

  “I don’t know what it is. All I know. I know.”

  “What do you know, Neil? Or what do you think you know?”

  Neil listened to the music bumping throughout the house, the muffled beats seeming to move him physically. He began to sweat. “What’d you give me? What’s in this?”

  “It’s a cigar Neil. Are you all right?”

  “I, I don’t really, quite really know what.”

  “Poor Neil. Listen. I know you’re heading to the motel to talk with Paul. I know what happened there tonight. You go see Paul, but you be careful. Ask about Jenkins. Ask about what he and Jenkins are into.”

  “Helen?”

  “Ha. Amusing, but no, Neil, her father. You ask about that.”

  “Pills. Pills for you.”

  “It’s more than that. Much more.”

  “How’d you know I was coming?”

  “How could you not? I know everything Neil, everything you think I don’t. But you better go. Paul won’t wait all night.”

  Neil stood, stumbled on numb legs, looked at the cigar, realized its power and raised it in toast to Heidi. She raised hers in return. “Cheers,” she said before sliding it into her mouth, nothing but the cherry peeking out from her lips. She slid it in and out like that before biting the stogie in half. Neil took his cue and hit the door. Lotta was coming down the hall, still naked, lovely and smooth skin the color of caramel. Neil thought nothing of the union, wondered exactly what should shame Lotta, that she was seen in the act or that she was drawn to the act itself. Neil took his gin and tonic from the silver tray without a word, downed it and let it drop to the hardwood, worth every overpriced penny as it came to rest in one piece, not so much as a crack. He felt good. He felt angry.

  Outside the front door a man was bent over and getting sick all over Heidi’s flowers. Some pretty young thing was rubbing his back while he spit and hacked and gagged. Neil saw Heidi planting, dirty in her overalls, that fake smile as she got up and shook his hand. Neil stepped up to the couple and booted the man hard in the face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the girl said, getting too close, buying into the adage about hitting girls. Neil threw an elbow that must have split her chin in two from the skin right on through the bone. It had been a long time since he’d let himself be free. He puffed the cigar, taking more and more of the smoke inside, inhaling the harsh tar into his lungs. He usually felt a release when he let his limbs fly, but he only felt the rage rising inside him. He booted the guy again, then the girl, each kick making him want to deliver the next with an insatiable desire, desire like a man for a woman, or a man, or any combination. The only thing that ripped him away from the pair was the desire to see Paul, to question him. To get some goddamn answers to all these questions he’d never wanted to ask. It was supposed to be an easy job, ask a few questions, get paid. And now he was out of control. Out of control. He laughed out loud, to himself at first and then it swelled, the sound grew until it was more of a scream, a scream to match those who exited the house to witness the tail end of the stomping he’d just laid down. He sprinted down the driveway, screams all around him, screams coming from him. He got in the car and drove and nearly put the pedal through the floorboards. Still smoking, still screaming. And happier than he remembered ever being since Rinthy died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Neil woke and lay listening to the Green River, trying to place the sound, knowing well he was in that secret moment just before reality fully disconnects from the dream world, something nagging at the back of his mind. He saw Jessup tugging at his leg, way back before. He felt the pull and then the pull became his name. Rinthy was calling him. He pulled himself to his feet, stumbling over his own weakness.

  “Rinthy! Where are you? Rinthy!”

  “Neil!” she said. The sound was so slight it was a whisper in his ear.

  “Keep calling!” he said as he looked over the clearing, forcing open his swollen eyes, pushing his own words past a broken jaw and jagged teeth.

  “Neil!”

  He moved between the stilted clapboards. He hurried, fearful, limping through the briars and ferns. He stumbled into the family plot, knees cracking hard on weathered limestone, pulled himself up and moved forward, falling again as he tried to escape the death under his feet.

  “Neil!”

  He pressed on up the hill, pulling himself along with handfuls of tree. He found the log and the hole behind it, the dark pit without a bottom. He lowered himself inside.

  “Rinthy! Rinthy!” he called in blackness as he dangled, before letting go and falling inside the rocky gullet. The blackness was absolute, so much so that Neil used his fingers to open wide his battered eyes, to assure himself they weren’t swollen shut. His eyes adjusted and he saw the faintest of gray popping from the dark that was quickly swallowing everything.

  “Neil.”

  He followed blindly through the tunnels, following the voice, trying to use his other senses to their fullest, to sniff her out. He found her with his feet, tripped over her, his face stopping him and grinding down the wall of the passage as he tried to avoid landing on top of her. The rock under his hands was wet and still warm.

  “Rinthy!” he said. He put his hands on her, getting her bearing in his mind, ran a hand up a cool wet leg, finding the tactile sensation of cotton, damp, touched her stomach and found some kind of growth in her arms, small, cold, dead.

  “It’s the baby. It come too soon I think.”

  Neil felt the tiny body with one hand and found Rinthy’s forehead with the othe
r. He stroked both and they felt the same. He explored the child, found its little arms and fingers, saw them in his mind’s eye clearly though he’d never in his life been so close to something so new. He listened to the rattle in Rinthy’s chest. She coughed and he felt the blood spittle hit his face, beautifully hot for just a moment before being sucked away by the cold of the cave and leaving him with stinging needles upon his cheek.

  “Rinthy.”

  “Don’t you believe it?” she said.

  “What?”

  She tried to speak and coughed again.

  “Believe what?” Neil asked. “Rinthy! What?”

  But he just couldn’t get it out of her. He stroked her and the child until her arms wrapped around it so tight it was like they were one thing. Neil let his fingers explore the child, a boy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was clear what would happen the moment Neil pounded on the door of the motel office. Paul Skaggs himself opened the door, short and dumpy, his education and wealth overshadowing those qualities for those in the know, the kind of guy that women suddenly find more attractive when they learn who he is. Neil could see him in bars, talking to women who’d have nothing to do with him, women like Heidi, until he said his name. Then the eyes lit up: Yes, they had seen his commercials.

  Paul stood in the doorway, looking up at Neil yet still able to look down on him. “Seems we have a problem,” Skaggs said, thumbing back to the clearly out of sorts Comb Over sitting on the leather sofa, bleeding on it, leg twisted.

  “So give him another ride to the hospital,” Neil said. The man smiled, nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging maybe Neil wasn’t quite as stupid as he’d suspected, maybe knew more than he should. But that smile was wiped away with a single fist between the man’s flabby tits that threw him back and onto the floor. Skaggs tried to speak, to yell, but sound would not come. Neil stepped into the office and locked the door behind him. “What’s with you and Jenkins?”