The Last Bender, Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

          Nothing I did then qualifies as thought. He dragged me into his car and jerked out a three-point turn. The tires squealed. He sped through a stoplight, crossed the double yellow line, and drove straight into a pack of headlights separating slowly as they started towards us through the fog. There was a sort of slide show going on of each unfolding second. Bumper, space, headlights. Calm images that punctuate this high voltage fear surging through me. I believe I tried to push the cars away, swat the headlights, turn the car with my hands in the air, finally accepting that I’d be dead soon, smashed up through the windshield, face shattered, bones splintered, joints snapped backwards. He slammed his horn, cut into traffic and broke hard before speeding up with nauseating disregard for gravity, ditching right and left, weaving so hard till we were on the tail of the van and his knuckles faded off from red and white. My stomach continued to pitch and I was too terrified to notice the ovation of horns till it had dwindled down to one or two insistent blasts.

          As my wind returned the real fear erupted, not the adrenaline charged seizure of the moment but the dizzy, weeping, angry fear of what might have been. “Oh my god,” I spluttered.

          “That’s them,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

          “Can I have one of those?”

          “Sure.”   He tossed me the pack off the dashboard. I pushed in the lighter. “It’s busted. Use one of these.” He handed me a pack of matches from Barclay’s, a diner on Kennedy Blvd.

          Menthols. My first smoke in five years had to be barbecued breath mint. My hands weren’t shaking too much to get it lit after the third try. I sucked hard and inhaled deep. My lungs exploded.

          “I ain’t givin’ you mouth to mouth, now,” he said.

          I managed to stop coughing long enough to ask where Stronghole was.

          “He’s in that van, with them.”

          “You mean with his, head–“

          “He’s all right. Climbed in after they went back up to Clara Turback’s.”

          “Then who made the phone call?”

          “I did.”

          I said, “You should have seen it, Braque. They took her head off. They put it in a box like a dozen long stem roses.”   Rush hour traffic was bad. The clock on Tusk Tower read six. We were headed downtown. It wasn’t clear if they noticed us or not.

          “See that car?” Braque asked, looking into the mirrors. “The yellow compact with the tinted glass? I keep seein’ it around.”

          I looked in the rear view. There it was. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised. Laraby wants you off the case. Says it could cost you. Maybe they’re the price.”   The cigarette started to taste right. My heart rate became regular.

          “You’ve been eating liver. Was it raw, or was it cooked?”

          “I got some sun is all. What’s next?”  

          The guy could really drive. His expression didn’t budge once that whole time screaming through the traffic. I couldn’t tell which way it was with him. Either he never felt any doubt at all, or he was so pickled in doubt, so thoroughly soused with doubt, nothing mattered.

          “So, are you in Jack?”

          “In what? Explain.” Braque made me nervous. I felt like he knew things even when I wasn’t showing.

          “Why’s it always have to be square one with you? I hoped that we could talk. You know I can place you in that apartment. Plus the doorboys saw you come down. Even without me the cops got enough to tie this into Monozone, at least enough to send you up for conspiracy, accessory to murder.”

          “Fuck you Braque. You know damn well I had nothing–“

          “They might not even bother with a trial. A man like you breaks ranks and makes ’em look bad. Plus once you start the whole mummy unwinds and you’re stuck with a bad stink. You got maybe a week before they throw you from the window or let you die of an asthma attack. That’s enough time to make you wish you were dead. They’re very methodical about bringing someone to the edge and back, over and over, just for kicks. But I guess you know more about that than I do.”

          Well, I took it till he was done. I figure he just had to get it out of him and then he’d be ready to deal. I had more pieces of it than anyone else did, so I was still worth something.

          The van pulled into a BritoMart. Braque parked on the shoulder. He said, “Go on in there and buy a pack of smokes. See if ya recognize the driver.”

          “What if they know me?”

          “That’s O.K. kid. Put a little scare in ’em.”

          “Not without a gun. Gimme your piece.”

          “I thought you liked to live dangerously.”

          I said, “I don’t like it at all. Everything I like is in these three dimensions.”

          He handed me the gun. “But you got it now. So hurry up.”

          One guy fueled the truck while the other walked a tight semicircle, front to rear.

          “All right,” I said, taking a deep breath and jamming the gun in my waistband. I buttoned my jacket over it and slammed the door, smiling up at him through the window. Then I trotted across the parking lot. They weren’t paying much attention. I pretended not to look at them and entered the store.

          The bells rang when I shut the door. Working the place was a man whose chin didn’t clear the counter top. He stepped up on a small ladder to get at the register. He had a full beard and heavily lidded eyes. I looked back through the doors. The man who had been pacing in a semicircle approached. “Excuse me,” I said. He worked me over with arrogant disdain. “I wanna a pack of bones.”

          “Straight, filteh or mentehl?”   His voice was gravely and velvety all at once. The door dinged. He said, “Hey misteh, crep or get off the tehlet.”

          “Straight. And a pack of matches.”   He turned to get them. Goose bumps broke out across my arms.

          “Der yeh go, buddy. Det’s tree big ones and no chenge.”

          I handed him a fin.          

          “Hey,” the guy behind me said. “I ain’t got all day.”

          “You sheddehp an wet yer tehn,” the little man said, opening and counting out a pack of ones.          

          He handed back my change and I brushed past the man. His white jump suit glowed in the store lights like new snow. He was young and weedy looking in the neck, with a big broad chest and no nose.  On his head he had a huge flop of. He tried out his best, high cheekboned squint on me but I wasn’t buying. I got outside and saw the other man about to stick his key into the back door of the van.

          I heard, very clearly, Stronghole’s voice calling in my head.

          I looked up. There was Braque’s car, not far away. I looked at Braque, then at the man with the key and then I turned around and faced the store. The blond was leaving. I pulled out my gun. It caught the man with the key’s eye. He smiled at me and I smiled back. Then I turned to fire at the blond when I heard Braque shout, “He’s got a gun!  Behind you!”

          I spun around and shot the one with the key in the face. He smacked against the van and hit the ground. Braque jumped out of the car. He screamed, “Come on, come on,” and waved me towards him. The man behind me started to yell, “Oh shit, oh shit!”   He dropped to his knees by the body and I ran towards Braque. There were gunshots then, but they were nowhere near.

          Traffic started to squeal and break. Some cars stopped and others ran the red light to get away. I was almost at the car when the yellow compact drove up, stopped in a line of traffic about three cars back.

          Braque yelled for me to look out. The van was roaring towards me at full speed, flying over the speed bumps. I dove out of the way and rolled as the van circled the parking lot and bounced towards the main road. Braque slammed his door shut. The light turned and the traffic moved. The yellow compact glided up alongside him. There was a muzzle pointing at him, through the passenger window. I screamed out his name; he turned, reached for his gun and found nothing. He looked surprised and sad all at once, pointing his empty hand at the flashing muzzle. The three shots flipped him up over the hood.

          By the time I got to him he had smeared bloody handprints all over the windshield. Bubbles blew out of his chest. He moaned for his mother. I took his hand and held the back of his head while his heart beat empty. My voice rose out of the mess of sirens and amazed faces. It was yelling, “Doctor, someone get a doctor!” I dropped his hand and hid my face. I couldn’t watch them gather in a crowd.