The Cocaine Chronicles Part 11

"How you doing?" Barrett asked.

"I'm Mister Wonderful," I said.

They looked at one another and smiled.

"Well, maybe you'll be doing better when you look at this," Barrett said.

He handed me the photograph of Gail Harden. Hanging around. Still dead.

"Yeah, what of it?"

"It's a fake," Strong said. "Well done, but a fake. Been Photoshopped."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. What's more, there's no record of any Gail Harden committing suicide in Minnesota during the past three years. The whole thing was a hoax."

"Take a close look at the photo."

I did.

"What do you see?"

"I still see Gail Harden hanging . . . very dead."

"No, you see Nicole Harden hanging there. Wearing a blond wig."

"No," I said. "I slept with Gail Harden and I'd know . . ."

"That's right," Barrett said. "You remember anything about her?"

"She had a very . . . shy kiss."

"She coulda faked that," Strong said. "What about her body? Any distinguis.h.i.+ng marks?"

I thought for a second, then: "A cat. She had a cat face tattooed on the inside of her left thigh."

"Right, and what about Nicole? She have one, too?"

"I don't know 'cause she made me take my clothes off first."

The two detectives looked at one another and smiled.

"Of course she did. She didn't want you to see her naked. They couldn't have pulled the 'dead sister' act on you if you had seen the cat on her thigh."

I stared down at my feet. There was so much I wanted to tell them, but they wouldn't have listened.

Finally, I looked up.

"But why?" I said. "Why did they go to all that trouble?"

They looked at one another and shrugged.

"A game," Strong said. "Basically, the two of them are con artists, set up lonely guys, steal all their money. But these two, when they pick out a mark, they like to make it a little more dramatic.

Like it's a movie. Or reality TV. It's no fun unless the vic really suffers. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I said. "I know, all right. I know just what you mean."

"Yeah," Barrett said. "You know the show they had on a few years back where the guy thinks he's an action hero in a movie but everybody else knows he's a schmuck? That kind of thing. No offense intended."

I laughed at that, and felt small, the incredible shrinking schmuck.

"We're getting more bizarre crimes than ever these days,"

Strong said. "It's not enough to rob and beat a guy, you gotta f.u.c.k with his mind, too. Everybody wants to direct."

"Oh," I said, realizing how lame it sounded.

"So make sure you change your locks and watch out for strange women wearing wigs," Barrett said.

"You bet," I replied. "Thanks for coming by."

"Bet that's a load off your mind," Strong said.

"Yeah, it sure is."

"You want a ride somewhere?" Strong asked.

"No thanks. I'll walk."

I climbed out of their car, gave a little wave goodbye, and headed down the block. They made a U-turn and cruised up West End.

I had only walked about two blocks when I started laughing. They were good guys, if a little rude. They'd probably seen the desperation on my face, noticed that in the past week I'd lost so much weight that my pants fell down on my hips, like I was some cholo wannabe. They could tell by the hollow look in my eyes. They knew how to read the signs. That was their job.

So they'd cooked up that story about how Gail Harden was really Nicole, how Ron and Nicole were just f.u.c.king with me because they were evil gamesmen. How it was all an offshoot of reality TV. But in the end, n.o.body was really hurt.

Hey, no harm, no foul, right?

But I knew better. They'd have to do a lot better than that.

Gail Harden was dead, all right. How did I know? Because she was living there in my apartment. Of course she was. Only it might not have been Gail. It might have been Nicole. Gail, Nicole . . . one or the other was hanging over the pipes.

I know. I know. You think I've gone nuts, that I'm unsettled by what happened to me, but I say you're wrong.

And how do I know?

Well, I found her that very same night, hanging from the pipes in my kitchen, turning north, south, east, and west, and all the time, whispering, "When will you admit it, Rog? When will you finally admit you love me?

I cut her down, washed her face, cleaned her rotting flesh. But it was no good, she got up in the night and tied herself back up there. She was a real Johnny-one-note. The same lame riff over and over again. Whispered and all noose raspy.

"When will you admit it, Rog? When will you finally admit you love me?

"When you can kiss like your sister," I said.

But she didn't laugh.

It took me three days to finally get it. She was right, dead right, if you will. I was living in denial. She was my own true love. My only true one. Gail or Nicole. Nicole or Gail. Didn't really matter how you named it.

Thursday, I cut her down for the last time and told her the words she died to hear.

"I love you, baby. How can I not love the woman that died for me?"

Now, when it gets dark, we sit there in my kitchen, drinking white wine, snorting Wease's good white powder until our noses bleed. I tell her not to worry, not to fret, because at last I've learned how love chooses you, not the other way around. You think you're in control, but oh baby, that's the greatest illusion of all. So I tell her I love her . . . Gail, that is. Or is it Nicole?

Sometimes her ghastly face changes and I just can't tell.

But whatever, whoever, these days I'm straight and true.

No more f.u.c.king around for this guy.

When I go to work now I speak only when spoken to. When I have my lunch, I eat alone. When the workday's done, I stop to see the Wease and come right home.

And trust me, I stay there until it's cutting time. Then my girl and I kiss, hug, drink our wine, and do a little blow.

You wouldn't believe the things she says, the worlds she knows.

And at last, when black night looms over the unreal city, we cling to one another just like all the other desperate, wired lovers, in my warm and blood-red bed.

part iii

the corruption

Guy Dill

KERRY WEST KERRY WEST, a welder by trade, is a writing tutor for the University Writing Center at California State University, Los Angeles. West's only published works, other than "Shame" in this volume, are two short stories that appeared in Los Angeles City College's Citadel. Citadel.

shame

by kerry e. west

Nicole!" Lorna shrieked at her twelve-year-old daughter.

"Get in there and feed the babies." This was actually more about getting the kid out of the room than anything else. Nicole wordlessly tromped into the bedroom knowing quite well what we were up to.

Lorna whipped out the mirror and razor. Uncle Jeff pulled out the crank. I watched with impatient fervor. The three of us were like s...o...b..ring dogs, intent on a single-minded endeavor: a good, harsh toot up our sniffers. And any thoughts of what may have been wandering through the mind of the young girl in the other room were obliterated by this urgent social priority. Hey! Whadda-you-want? We were addicts. We just needed the kid out out of the room so we could guiltlessly burn out our nasal ca.n.a.ls-as if Lorna really gave a s.h.i.+t anyway. of the room so we could guiltlessly burn out our nasal ca.n.a.ls-as if Lorna really gave a s.h.i.+t anyway.

"Where's the key, Mom?" came Nicole's raised voice from within the bedroom; it was a voice with nuances that often seemed matured years beyond what should have been normal for a twelve-year-old. The voice was unemotional and businesslike; she stolidly had the household routines down. It always impressed me how reserved Nicole remained around her mom, but then in her mom's absence she would instantly revert to her independent, playful, but far from naive self.

"You don't need the key. Get them food now now, and keep it quiet!" Lorna hollered back; she had a scowl on her face with tension lines wrinkling the corners of her eyes. Lorna, with the character natural to a screaming banshee, gave a daunting performance of stern parental control, and Nicole, and her two-year-old and three-year-old sisters, usually obeyed.

Lorna turned back to the main issue at hand and began to chop. She paused a second to brush back a long, light-reddish lock that had annoyingly fallen forward from behind her ear and into her face. She continued: chopchopchopchopchopchopchop chopchopchopchopchopchopchop . . . for a . . . for a long long time. Actually, it was only for about half a minute but, eager as I was, it seemed an eternity. She drew out some lines. I remember looking at her pale-skinned, freckled face, the matching flesh on her big-boned arms, and I remember thinking what a large girl she was. Oh . . . I don't mean corpulent; I mean hefty and muscular. time. Actually, it was only for about half a minute but, eager as I was, it seemed an eternity. She drew out some lines. I remember looking at her pale-skinned, freckled face, the matching flesh on her big-boned arms, and I remember thinking what a large girl she was. Oh . . . I don't mean corpulent; I mean hefty and muscular.

She certainly had no beauty to speak of, and I possessed no s.e.xual desire for her. She'd'uv probably kicked my a.s.s if I'd tried anything anyway. Lorna proceeded to nostrilize the glittering powder and pa.s.sed the mirror to Jeff.

Now, the family's Uncle Jeff was a precious find. He was a pleasant guy. He was cultivated. He was the most delightful druggie you could ever hope to know-should you wish or need need to know one. His tamed soul made him an incessantly jolly man, content to live out life with a fresh blast every ten minutes. Very unselfish guy, too, and I don't mean this just because it was to know one. His tamed soul made him an incessantly jolly man, content to live out life with a fresh blast every ten minutes. Very unselfish guy, too, and I don't mean this just because it was his his stash we were doing up in the living room. He just liked sharing in good company; this, regardless of the enhancement to supply-and-demand that was bound to result. Jeff was a lofty six-foot-two, plump, and he supported a tarnished-silver, longhaired Genghis Khan moustache that flowed around and down the sides of his mouth. And his nose was large and red with a straw stuck up it. stash we were doing up in the living room. He just liked sharing in good company; this, regardless of the enhancement to supply-and-demand that was bound to result. Jeff was a lofty six-foot-two, plump, and he supported a tarnished-silver, longhaired Genghis Khan moustache that flowed around and down the sides of his mouth. And his nose was large and red with a straw stuck up it.

He finished and pa.s.sed the mirror to me. Finally Finally. The line was smaller than I had hoped for.

"Say, Lorna? Did you get your check yet?" I asked conversationally as I bent over the mirror, inhaling, then releasing a sound wave apposite of relief, "Ahhh." I was hoping she'd be able to pay her part of the bills, or at least some of her part-I'd been having enough trouble with "unpredictable" utility disconnections.

I had been renting my guesthouse to her. It was not really a large enough dwelling for her family, but they managed. Lorna slept on the living room couch, and the girls used the only other available room as a bedroom. What had become a real problem, though, was that Lorna never used any of her welfare check for rent or utilities. Never. She always got over on me somehow. It wasn't until years later that I was able to understand how she suckered me into accepting them as tenants in the first place.

She answered with an arrogant grin, "No. But I'll let you know when I do."

As usual, this predictable answer caused my anger to flare up for a second. I thus found it necessary to promptly establish some priorities and said to her, "Cool. Can I have another line?"

So there it was. It was a situation that was more costly for me than if I'd lived alone on the property, a situation superseded by the delicious incentive that their Uncle Jeff was a darn good connection, one I didn't want to lose.

Anyway, good . . . we did another round. When my turn came, I snorted hard hard so as to lay down a thick and speedy blanket over those vast reaches of my nasal ca.n.a.ls that may have yet remained untainted-this time, so as to lay down a thick and speedy blanket over those vast reaches of my nasal ca.n.a.ls that may have yet remained untainted-this time, Wow Wow! Satisfaction guaranteed, let-me-tell-you. Graciously, I then excused myself to go out into the yard to give my van one of its meticulously scheduled oil changes.

Minutes later-lying out there under my van-the s.h.i.+t really really kicked in. My teeth clenched and ground against themselves. My periphery narrowed; my concentration pinpointed heavily on the task at hand. And then my heightened ambition sensed all the cruddy grease clods encrusting the van's underside. Sidetracked now, I grabbed the first purposeful utensil within reach-a screwdriver-and began arduously sc.r.a.ping away all the caked-on deposits from the bottom of the engine. This single-minded contagion spread and I started on the frame. Next would be the transmission. So there I was an hour and a half later, still frenziedly preparing for an oil change, when Nicole and her baby sisters came barreling out through the side door of their bedroom. Uh-oh! They looked to be on a mission. kicked in. My teeth clenched and ground against themselves. My periphery narrowed; my concentration pinpointed heavily on the task at hand. And then my heightened ambition sensed all the cruddy grease clods encrusting the van's underside. Sidetracked now, I grabbed the first purposeful utensil within reach-a screwdriver-and began arduously sc.r.a.ping away all the caked-on deposits from the bottom of the engine. This single-minded contagion spread and I started on the frame. Next would be the transmission. So there I was an hour and a half later, still frenziedly preparing for an oil change, when Nicole and her baby sisters came barreling out through the side door of their bedroom. Uh-oh! They looked to be on a mission.

The girls, all blondes looking nothing alike, were pretty much a riotous bunch. Whenever those three erupted into the yard, the three-year-old, little curly haired Autumn, would break into a full and flas.h.i.+ng smile the moment she'd see me, gleefully calling, "Kee-ee. Hi, Kee-ee." That seemed to be the extent of her vocabulary, to which I'd be required to reply, "Hi, Autumn." She'd return with, "Hi, Kee-ee." To which I'd again reply, and so on and so on, until I was the one to give in to this contest.

Then, in her usual waddling fas.h.i.+on, followed the youngest: scraggly haired Jessica. Jessica, always with a variety of purplish sores on her face and arms, never uttered a word. Two years old and she still wasn't able to talk at all. Well, she'd come stumbling out the door with her giant, wide-open eyes, taking in the whole yard, giggling frantically, and acting like a million Christmas gifts were now hers to ransack. She always seemed infatuated with the world, always tagging along behind Autumn, emulating her every move.

And finally, of course, there was the preordained babysitter, Nicole. Nicole could be a handful of monkey business if she wanted to be. But during "business" hours she had an absolute yet incredibly compa.s.sionate ability to keep her sisters in check. When Nicole spoke, the little ones would listen acutely, earnestly falling in before her like her own private little army, an integrated machine tuned to her every command. It always seemed to me that the two younger ones might have thought she she was their mother, as well. was their mother, as well.