The Humanist Page 4

  I didn’t know what to do then. A victory dance? A witty remark? I swayed a little and looked up at the guy, whose face was a mixture of relief, confusion, and maybe relief. Shit, did I say that already? What I meant was, he had pissed himself.

  “Fuck, man. What the fuck did you do?” he accused.

  I shrugged. To be honest, it all happened so fast, and, in my state, I wasn’t entirely sure what had just taken place.

  “Do you have any idea who that was?” he asked.

  I looked at him and blinked slowly, looking at him. He had a dark blue shirt and a cheap tan suit. I should know, I have enough of them myself. He had slicked back his black hair, giving him the look of a wannabe gangster. Couldn’t tell you anything else about him, because who gives a shit if I could? Oh, the dark patch in his groin region was growing. He brushed at it to no avail.

  “No,” I said. “Who is he?”

  “Doesn’t matter, but I’m getting the fuck out of here. And you should do the same. If he wakes up and you’re standing there with that slack grin on your face, he’ll smash it in half.”

  He opened his jacket, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the stack of notes.

  “Here,” he said. “Take this.” He threw it to me, and, after a few attempts, I had it in my grasp. “Do me a favor,” he said, handing me a card. “Call that number and pass that along. Tell them I’m done, that I’m out. Let them know we’re even. Don’t come looking for me because I’m not around anymore. That card is a fucking curse.”

  And the rest of that encounter is kind of a blur, like a bigger blur than before, like the alcohol had hit me all at once—or maybe it was the adrenaline dying down. Anyway, I felt incredibly fucking tired. I remember returning to the booth quickly. I remember a cab ride. Rain on the window. I remember a blow job. Laying my head on the pillow. Someone on top. The world going black.

  Funny, isn’t it? Some things remain in our memories so clearly, yet others become a washed-out pixilation, a stained-glass window of a photograph.

  I squeezed my head and took a moment to feel sorry for myself. My apartment spun. The open-curtained window, the makeshift bookshelves against the wall, the cheap lamp next to my bed I had found in a dumpster. I rolled over and placed my feet on the floor, trying to balance my view.

  I pulled myself up with a groan and left for the bathroom, taking one last look at the fabulous body that lay outstretched on my bed. If I found some energy (and a little testosterone), I might delve in for another helping. You know, if she was up for it. I mean, she stayed, so my first efforts must have been all right...right?

  After a short stint at the toilet, I shuffled into the kitchen, only running into two walls on the way. My lounge was sparse. The couch was there when I moved in. I hated it. Never used it anyhow. The television was the cheapest I could get in a discount store, but it worked. I had shut and locked the windows because it was cold outside, and I live in a shitty neighborhood. But the blinds were open, and natural light that streamed in hurt my brain.

  I flicked on the coffee machine and it grunted and groaned to life. I knew how it felt. When my promotion came through, I would spend my newfound revenue on a better coffee machine, a more comfortable couch, a bigger television. Comfort. Eventually, I would invest in a better property in a more prominent location. Perhaps something a sober girl would like to come back to. Until then, I would have to rely on alcohol and low inhibitions to get them up three flights of stairs, down the stained hallway, and through the door.

  I made two espressos and went about the business of frothing the milk. So deafening was the sound, I wished I drank it black. Just after I sloshed the warm milk into the two cups, I heard my front door shut. I grabbed the two coffees and shuffled back into the bedroom. The bed was empty. To be honest, thank fuck. Because I wasn’t up for any of the talking bullshit, or sex bullshit either, as much as I tried to convince myself I was.

  I sat the cups down on the bedside table and rolled into bed, propping myself up to a reasonable position to drink hot liquid. I grabbed a cup and took a sip. God’s nectar. Beside me on the other pillow was a piece of paper with curly writing on it.

  Thanks for a great night. Call me. Olivia.

  Her cell number followed. I guessed it was her number. I mean, what sick individual writes a thank you letter and then puts a fake number on the bottom? Wait, Olivia? How the fuck did I get Roxy? I wonder if I called her Roxy or Ruby. Did I groan it out at climax?

  And did you hear that? A great night. Damn right, Roxy...I mean, Olivia. Shit. I better get that right before the next encounter, if I had a second encounter. As long as it involved alcohol, I guess.

  The rest of my a.m. involved sipping coffee and reminiscing about the look on Elton’s face when he realized I had done what I said I would do. Oh, and when the old man fired him. Shit! Glorious! I tried not to think about where he would end up. He wouldn’t find another job in New York, nor anywhere on the East Coast. Of course, he could just retire. I had no doubt he had put a whole bunch of dollars away to prepare for some impending event.

  After a recovery sleep, I rolled out of bed. I drank the cold remnants of the cups and spent a whole thirty minutes on the can and in the shower. I’ll spare you the details. The bigger surprise was in my room.

  Strewn about the meager space in a fit of drunken passion were my clothes from the previous night. I picked up my pants and inspected them, looking for any reason to dry clean the damn thing. The smell dictated that answer. I threw my shirt into the corner. I must’ve spilled something on it at one point because there was a large stain on the front. Maybe I fumbled a drink somewhere in the night. After smelling it, I realized how wrong I was. I didn’t recall vomiting during the night, nor cleaning off said vomit. Maybe it wasn’t mine? I didn’t know which was worse.

  I cleaned off the jacket, removing everything to prepare to move it to the “dry clean” pile. No point dry cleaning individual suits. The local cleaner down the street had a deal—three for the price of two—so it made more sense to stockpile the dirty ones.

  As I patted down the jacket pockets, I felt something large in an inner compartment. I pulled out a roll of tightly bound notes. Some of the night’s events came back to me—not all, but some. The big guy doubling over, passed out on the ground. The victim thrusting the bills into my hand. He said something, someone to call. Terry? Or Tim? And then him holding something else. A business card?

  In another pocket I found it. It was the size of a business card, but it was matte black and made of metal. It didn’t bend or break. Engraved on one side was a phone number, on the other a ten-character sequence. I flipped it over in my hand. It was a thing of beauty. I considered taking it to Tealson and asking if my new business cards could look like it.

  I picked up my cell and dialed the number.

  “George’s Dry Cleaning,” came the reply, curt and courteous at the same time.

  “Yeah, hi. I found—”

  The line went dead.

  I redialed.

  “George’s Dry Cleaning.” Same voice, the same tone.

  “Yeah, I need to give—”

  The line went dead again.

  I flipped the card over and redialed.

  “George’s Dry Cleaning.”

  I read out the combination.

  She paused. Then she read out a date, an address, and a time. It was for that night, some road in a neighborhood even less desirable than the one I lived in.

  I stared at the money on my bed. It could be a short-term win. I could blow it on new furniture and appliances. Get a head start on revamping my life. But then I calculated the downsides. From what I could recall from my drunken memories, the guy I had hit didn’t seem like the kind of guy I should’ve hit, and he likely worked for someone I probably shouldn’t piss off. Besides, it wouldn’t be long before my bank account worked its way upward, anyway.

  This alluring revelation settled my night’s plans: make the delivery, get out. I wondered if I woul
d get a tip for my trouble.

  It turned out I got more than I bargained for.

  Chapter 5

  The meeting location was more foreboding and more gangster-like than I could ever describe, but I’ll give it a go. The block-long alley ran between two rows of buildings—residential on one side, businesses on the other. Boarded up windows lined the ground floor tenants on both sides. On the commercial side, faded and illegible signs were attached to the bare brickwork between doors.

  The cab driver dropped me off and didn’t hang around long, apparently keen to distance himself from this sketchy situation. The streets seemed deserted, but of course that didn’t mean they were empty. I pulled my knee-length coat tighter around me. Beneath it, I was wearing my best cheap suit. I guess if you were going to see someone important, it was worth looking important. I tapped my chest pocket where the card and money were securely held. As long as no one stuck a gun in my ribs and searched me, I would be fine.

  How wrong I was.

  I warily made my way down the alleyway, looking for the right door, but also keeping an eye on everything else. Every shadow, every bum sleeping next to a dumpster. In the distance, there was a sound of breaking glass and a cat screeching. At least, I think it was glass that was breaking, and I think it was the sound of a cat. Given my environment and the fact I was shit scared, I might have been making up the source of the noises.

  Every so often, there would be an offshoot to another road. It was a city within a city. A miniature grid of streets lined with rubbish, with coarse smells attacking me. And it was damn cold. I wondered if the cops came here. If they did, would they bother to stop and help me if I was in need?

  Then I stopped. Under a rusty external stairwell, there was faded red door. I checked my watch. Only twenty minutes late. I walked up to the door and knocked. Nothing. So, I banged on it. Then I noticed a spyhole near the top of the door. It looked like one you would find on a hotel room door, only much higher.

  Just then, a voice boomed through the door. “Card.”

  As I reached into my jacket, I heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being raked. Now, I know I was already in an alarmed state, and I was probably imagining noises I had heard on episodes of cop shows. But I can tell you, you don’t mistake that noise. I paused, my eyes wide, my breathing shallow.

  “Card,” the voice said again.

  I dragged it out and held it up to the door peephole.

  “Wait,” the voice said.

  I returned the card and shoved my cold hands back inside my jacket. I can’t tell you why I didn’t wear gloves that night. Because I had a pair. A really nice pair. I guess I was so excited about what I was embarking on I just completely forgot.

  After I had spent a minute taking long glances up and down the alley, I heard from behind the door the sounds of locks being opened, metal sliding on metal. The door opened a few feet. Behind it, I could see the room looked like the backroom of a strip club—dark, with just as much character.

  I took a deep breath and stepped inside. As soon as the door shut behind me, a weak bulb turned on above me, lighting up the area. I could see I was in a hallway, with various doors along the right wall at regular intervals, and a large poster of Marilyn Monroe at the end of the hallway. You know, the one where she’s on the hot air grate and her dress is blowing up and everything. Anyway, it seemed extraordinarily out of place.

  Then a large hand came down on my shoulder, and I could feel a body right behind me. I didn’t have to turn around and look at him—his presence alone was enough for me to conjure many horrifying images. His strong fingers bit into me, causing pain to run up to my neck.

  “Walk,” he said. “Talon wants to see you.”

  Talon?

  And so, I walked, without knowing where or who we were walking to. Well, more like staggered, given the pulsing vibrations up and down the right side of my body.

  When we reached the first door, the man behind me stopped, and I had no choice but to stop as well. He knocked once, turned the handle, and pushed me inside with about as much decorum as you would get if you were thrown out of a strip club for poking a fork in the bare rump of a stripper.

  Inside the room was a desk with a lamp on it. It was the only source of light in the room and strategically positioned to cloud the features of the person sitting near it. Periodically, a round glow would ignite and then disappear. A wisp of smoke rose from the cigarette-laden ashtray in the middle of the desk.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said, and then took a huge draw on his cigarette before butting out the remains in the tray. As I sat, I sensed movement from the corner of the room, and before my ass could find the chair, someone slammed my head down on the desk with such force I momentarily forgot what my name was. Then that person held my head down against the desk and pressed what I assumed was a gun against my temple.

  The man at the desk cocked his head to the side so we faced each other, and then he leaned forward into the light. His small, dark eyes were inset into his skull. His long, greasy hair followed no particular direction. He had stubble over his uneven face. Old acne scars? I made out a white singlet. His dark shirt looked like it was open all the way.

  “Nice to meet you. My name is Talon.” He flashed his grin.

  Oh, Talon. Rows of gold teeth filled my vision.

  His grin dropped. “Now, how about you tell me who the fuck you are and how you came to be in possession of that card in your pocket.”

  “I’m no one,” I said meekly but also defiantly.

  The gun cocked. Once again, unmistakable.

  “That isn’t an answer.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, clearing my throat. “My name is Atlas Jones. I was out celebrating last night. I ran into a guy in the alley behind Louie’s Gin Bar. He was frazzled, couldn’t understand the fuck he was talking about. I thought he was high or something. He throws a stack of money and a card at me and runs off.”

  He chewed over my reply, then came in closer. “Do you know why they call me Talon?”

  “Because of that winning smile?”

  For a moment, the person behind me lifted my head off the desk. But just for a moment. Then slammed it down onto the surface. Very hard. My ears rang.

  I heard a drawer open, then close. Talon held a blade in front of my face, uncomfortably close to my eyes.

  “You’re a funny guy,” he said, rotating the blade. Light reflected off it. “No, not because of my winning smile, as you put it. It’s because I have a knack for removing body parts very carefully. Do you know the sound it makes when you pop an eyeball out of its socket? Something you’ll never forget. The last guy I did that to, he was a funny guy also. Did you want to give it a go?”

  I tried to shake my head. I had no idea if I was successful or not, but surely the look in my eyes would suffice.

  “No?” He leaned back in his chair. “I also have this thing.” He pulled open the drawer and held another object in front of my face. A pair of pliers. Now, I didn’t know for sure, but it looked like there was dried blood on the jaws and handle. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you I was positively shitting myself.

  “You see,” he continued, “someone fucks with me? I got a habit of taking some back. I start at the back teeth, then come forward. Then work on the lowers. It’s really not a pretty sight, but there’s something about that feeling when they pop. They just come clean out, a squirt of blood and all.”

  “I’ve got the money,” I exploded, panicked. “It’s in my jacket pocket. I haven’t taken a bill.”

  The guy behind me kept the gun against my head as he reached into my pocket and pulled out the stack. He sat it on the desk in front of Talon, who sat back in his chair and stared at it.

  “My boy Stone here was at that gin bar last night. Had that piece of shit, good-for-nothing Aston up against the wall and someone suckered him from behind.” He came in close again. I could smell him. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  �
��Fuck! Look at me! Do I look like someone who could punch someone? I’ve never been in a fight.”

  Talon sat back and smiled. It was impossible to know what it meant. Was he giving himself some distance, so my blown-out brains didn’t end up on him?

  A quick look of the eyes, a flicker, and I was on my feet. The only problem was my head was still on the desk, being held in place with Stone’s gun. My ass was in the air, and I didn’t like where it was going. Not one damned bit. And then I heard it. Out of all the sounds I had heard that night, out of everything that sent a shiver up my spine, the next one petrified me. The jingling sound of a belt, then a zipper being undone.

  “Fuck. What do you want from me? I’ve got nothing else.”

  “Oh,” said Talon. “I wouldn’t say you have nothing to give.”

  “I told you everything. Why would I come here if I fucked you over?”

  I felt a hand reach around and start undoing my pants.

  “I returned your money! That’s all I wanted to do!” Tears formed in my eyes, a rarity to be sure, but the occasion called for it. I would trade, barter, and negotiate for my life. You might also add the safety and security of my orifices to that equation as well.

  I could feel my legs buckle.

  “No, no, no,” Talon said. “You must stay strong for Stone. You don’t want to make him work any harder than he has to, but believe me, he will.”

  Stone pulled my pants down.

  “Oh, God, please. I don’t want to do this. I just wanted to return the money.”

  “Now, I’m going to ask you one last time, and if I don’t like the answer, Stone will stretch that tight little hole of yours, and I know you’re clenching very fucking tightly right now. Where did you get the money and the card?”