The Juke (Changes Book 2) Page 12

  “I hear you.” He knew the price of being prideful. Only too well.

  “What about you? Why not go back to Vegas? Probably more work there than here.”

  “Nah, nothing for me there.” He left it out for consideration.

  “You know, you don’t have to hide anything from me, Chris. I know you were in some trouble. I know you’re keeping things inside. It’s okay, but I’d never tell anybody, if you’re worried about that.”

  He turned to her again. Her green eyes sparkled with her smile. “Sorry. It’s a lot. I’ll tell you, but it’s uglier than you might think.”

  “Well, nothing you will tell me will surprise me. I’m already filling in the blanks. I figure you’re a spy on the run from the CIA, or a former member of the Manson Family.”

  “Wow!” He laughed so loud heads turned. “Well, I guess I’m going to disappoint you when I finally spill it.”

  “See? So don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay. Just not today. Let’s not ruin this perfect day.”

  Perry balanced himself again on the edge of the deep end, new purple swim trunks bright in the sun. “Mom, watch what I can do!” And he jumped into the water, making his best cannonball.

  Frank let his mind wander. So many days in their backyard pool. He’d be grilling burgers. The kids would be jumping and splashing. The dogs would be running around frantically barking at everybody. So many glorious California summers. So much sunshine and laughter. He thought those days would never end, but he was deceived by his own hubris. He had been convinced his strength and work ethic would protect his family from the harshest of realities.

  Now he knew better. Perry and Mariah knew better also. They had seen all the horrors he had tried to save his family from. Yet here was the laughing, smiling boy making this summer day at the pool the best day of his life. He considered that all the people he knew in his past had no idea what life was like on the streets. They never would understand the things he had seen or the places he had been.

  As his thoughts returned to the present, he looked over at Mariah. She smiled up at him. Though her teeth needed work, her smile was pretty. Bright. Her emerald eyes warmed him. He looked down at her slender figure. She tucked her feet up under her. He noted a long scar that ran along her left ankle, following the long bone of her leg. A junk scar. It was none of his business.

  XVI

  He was carrying two five-gallon paint buckets. The twenty-pound industrial-sized paint containers weighed awkwardly, and with one in each hand, he grunted and walked with quick, flat steps. Any extra swing was extra work, sloshing the liquid inside. He was glad for the work, and he…they…could certainly use the cash. Still, he felt his age and knew he wasn’t built for this type of work.

  While in college, he had done much of the same type of work. Construction sites. Fencing. Installing sheetrock. It helped him pay for school. Even in his early twenties, this type of work had been too much for him. Now that he was pushing forty, he knew the years behind the desk had made him soft. He was toughening up quickly, but he would not last. He had to find a skill before his body began to fail. He could already feel it breaking down. Joints creaking and popping, blisters that were slow to heal.

  “Jackson, get two more, then get the gas for the sprayer,” his supervisor shouted. The foreman carried a clipboard; his hard hat was for show. His job was to make workers move just a little faster than they would on their own. Work in the margins.

  Frank hauled the last two paint buckets and set them by the paint intake. He then retrieved the large gas can, opened the sprayer’s fuel tank, and poured. His hands were wrecked, cracked and bleeding, so he had to overcompensate in his motions to be precise. Spilling fuel wouldn’t get him invited back.

  He had worked hard to get picked up on the work details. Early on in his time in the shelter, he had seen the construction supervisors come around looking for able-bodied non-addicts. When he sorted out whom they came to, Frank had begun to lobby for the work. Now that spring was turning to summer, the work was picking up, and he could count on thirty hours a week, all under the table. Anonymity was most important.

  During their lunch break, Frank found some shade and drank water from an old milk jug. The water was as hot as tea, but he needed the fluids. He put his feet up, pulled his ball cap over his face, and closed his eyes. He felt Darryl slide into the shade next to him, propping himself against the wall. Frank could smell the tuna fish sandwich he was unwrapping.

  “Thanks for getting me this gig, Chris,” Darryl said.

  “No problem. Glad to help.” He had only recommended him, as they slept in bunks near each other and watched each other’s things. Still, that was a close friendship for the shelter.

  “It’s the first nice thing anybody has done for me in a while. ‘Preciate it.”

  Frank didn’t look up. He was glad to help someone, if only a little bit. “I think we’ll be able to get some good work in this summer. Let’s both keep an eye out for each other, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks again, Chris.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “You and Mariah still doing good?”

  “Yeah, doing good.” He moved his hat off his face just for a second, and looked over at Darryl. The ratty army fatigue shirt he wore had far too many holes in it.

  “I like Mariah…she’s a good woman.”

  Frank was still looking up at him, wondering where this was going.

  Darryl felt Frank’s stare, and continued. “You just gotta be careful with girls on the street. In shelters.”

  He wanted Darryl to have a way out, before he became too personal. “Well, I guess we all have to be careful of each other, don’t we?”

  “Yeah…yeah, of course, Chris. I’m not judging her. It’s just, you know…”

  “Where ya goin’ with this, Darryl?” And now it was serious.

  “It’s just that I’ve seen her type. She has the scatter of a pipe-hitter, but she’s junk all the way. That junk gets in ya, there’s no getting it out. Makes you make bad decisions. Like a bad boyfriend.” He took a bite of his soggy sandwich.

  “She’s working on getting clean, Darryl. It’s hard to kick.”

  “I know, I know. Just trying to warn you. Be careful. Hard to be in a relationship with someone who is already in a relationship with junk. I’ve tried before. Didn’t end well.”

  “I know you mean well, Darryl. But don’t presume too much, okay?”

  Darryl looked down to Frank and saw the serious face. “Sorry, Chris. I’ll butt out.”

  Frank managed to get a bit of sleep before the next shift started.

  At the end of the day, the foreman put two twenties and a ten in his filthy hands and said, “You’re a good worker, Chris. I’ll be bringing you more work if you want it.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. But I don’t want to work with Darryl anymore.” He felt shitty for just a moment, but it passed.

  “Oh, okay. Fine with me.”

  “Cool.”

  “But I could use a couple more…if you know anybody like you in that shelter, I’ll take your recommendations.”

  Fifty was now a lot of money to him and the most he would get for under-the-table employment. He would have to accept what he could get. Still, the shelter was free, and with donated meals he was still up. He would take Mariah and Perry out this weekend, and maybe buy Perry a toy.

  He held his ball cap and walked to the shelter with the sun on his face and felt like a man again. He was providing, if only a little. He appreciated the self-respect work gave him. And he was intrigued at how honest this hard work felt to him. In his previous position, he had always been covering his ass and protecting what he had. He had to always understand there were people lining up to take his livelihood from him…people who would do anything to have what he had. Every person on the chain of leadership below him wanted his job. They were all waiting for him to make a mistake so they could have his position.

  And
he had, ultimately, and everybody moved up a rung. They stomped over his broken carcass as they moved into their new positions. New offices. New paychecks. Everybody else got a little extra. Everybody fed from his failure.

  The directness of his work this day pleased him. Nobody wanted his job. Nobody could take it from him as long as he did his job. That was a freeing feeling. He had never been this close to the edge before…he had always had a safety net. Yet he also had nothing to lose, and that was liberating.

  He stopped in front of a sporting goods store and looked in. He saw the treadmills and punching bags. He remembered going to the gym, and working to stay fit. Fighting the middle-aged paunch. Now he was slender from hard work and inconsistent meals. He was tanned from being in the sun. It would have taken the old Frank months with a personal trainer to look like the Frank he saw reflected in the window.

  He wondered for a moment how his children were doing. How were the boys eating? Were they playing baseball now that summer was here? Was little Ruth still doing gymnastics? He didn’t know that they were thinking of him at the same moment.

  He shook his head hard and walked away. It wouldn’t do to start blubbering on the street. He kept his tears for the evenings, before he drifted off to sleep. He would let those tears wash out his eyes as he moved into slumber. He would dream of his slender sons and his smiling daughter. He would dream of them calling to him across the miles. He missed holding them. He missed seeing their homework, and helping with their projects. He missed playing catch with the boys and the smell of Ruth’s hair as she sat in his lap reading a book. He knew he was missing wonderful things. Their smiles. Their energy. He missed hearing them play in the backyard and their laughs when they watched movies together. He knew someone else was in the home now. Did they call Tony Dad? Did Ruth sit in his lap while he read her a story?

  How was Tony treating his children? He hoped well. He had seen Tony with his own children, and thought he was a good father. But those were his own, and his wife had left him. Was he a good man to Shelly?

  So many things he felt he would never know. But he would.

  As he reached the door of the shelter, he waved to the front desk and was buzzed in. He mouthed thank you as he came in through the security door and heard it latch behind him. He signed in at the front counter and walked into the men’s section. He needed a shower badly, but he wanted to see them before he cleaned up. The men’s corridor was opposite the one for women and children. The somberness of the men’s section was contrasted by the play and high spirits of the opposite. He threw his gear on his bed then walked to the women’s doorway and stood there.

  “Mariah, your man’s here,” someone called out. All eyes were on him, though he didn’t notice it at first. He saw the blonde hair moving. Now that she was cleaning up and washing often, her hair was lustrous. He couldn’t wait to hold her. He rolled up a twenty, which he would put in her pocket.

  She was approaching slowly, but her head was down. He didn’t notice her gait, but noticed the slumped shoulders. His internal alarms were already sounding when she drew near. He saw her black eye just as the smell of her cheap soap hit his nose. Her eye was so swollen, he could only see white on the other side.

  “Mariah, what happened?” He grabbed her shoulders instinctively, and she winced under his grip, pulling back. He could just see the green and yellow bruising at the base of her neck. “Are you okay? Did you fall? Where’s Perry?”

  “Perry’s fine. Debbie took him out for ice cream earlier…he’s asleep now. He’s a little traumatized, but he’s feeling better.”

  “What happened?”

  She only looked down.

  “Mariah, what happened?”

  “Chris, don’t make a big thing of this, okay? We need this shelter.” Her voice was defeated. Her face downcast.

  “What happened?” His voice was direct. Demanding. He could feel his shoulders tensing. Fight or flight…he was all fight.

  “If anything happens they’ll throw us out of here.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?” And now her face turned up. Her emerald right eye looked into his.

  “This is life on the streets. This isn’t the first time.”

  He saw the movement of women and children behind, but they were hushed, hearing every word. Whispers and mouthed words flew around in volleys behind them. They all know, and they’re waiting for what will happen.

  “Mariah, we’re not going to stay anywhere if you’re going to be hurt.”

  “But I’m okay. I’ll heal.”

  “Mariah! For fuck’s sake. What happened?” His voice boomed out of him, and now behind them there was mute silence. Rows of eyes watching them, like they were a hit movie.

  Face down again. “Darryl’s friend. Dean…he pulled me into the bathroom. He…”

  Frank knew the answer. He didn’t need to hear it.

  “Pack your shit. We’re leaving.”

  “Chris, no…don’t…” but he turned and walked across the hall.

  Back in the men’s section, he moved between bunks. He saw Dean, a heavyset, bearded man, sitting on the edge of his bunk. Their eyes didn’t meet. Dean was in a position of readiness. Frank was in the role of vengeful boyfriend.

  He took the key off the chain around his neck. He wouldn’t need it soon. He knew his next actions would get him thrown out with prejudice; he would never be allowed to return. Nor would they.

  He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. He opened his duffel and found the long-barreled pistol. He slipped it into his shirt and held it against his body with his elbow.

  He saw movement. Several picked up on his body language. Others saw his quick motions. A few just got the vibe and moved away and out the door. The streets taught people to identify and flee trouble.

  Frank straightened and walked back toward Dean, who still sat on the edge of his bed, with his back to him. As he drew closer, he pulled the pistol. The few who hadn’t figured things out finally did, and several collided as they fled out the door.

  But not Dean. He sat watching everybody flee, but didn’t budge.

  “Hey Chris,” he said, back still to him.

  “Turn around, Dean,” Frank commanded, but he didn’t move. “I said, turn around.”

  “What did Mariah tell you, Chris?” Dean asked, with just enough head turn that Frank could see his profile.

  “Enough. Turn around.”

  “Not turning around. If you want to shoot me, you’ll have to shoot me in the back.”

  “Okay, if that’s how you want it.”

  Frank saw a flurry of activity out in the hall. He saw Mariah’s golden hair, but she was too far to see clearly.

  “Whatever she told you is a lie.”

  “Really?” He locked the hammer back. He had been there before.

  “Yeah, really. We fucked in the bathroom. I paid her ten dollars. She wanted more, but I didn’t have it.”

  “Is that why she has a black eye?”

  “She started clawing at me, so I smacked her. Yeah.”

  “And how do you know that’s not what she told me?”

  “You’re not the kind to pimp your woman. Everybody here knows that.”

  Frank pushed his thumb on the hammer and decocked it. He then stepped around the bed to Dean’s side, standing next to him. Dean didn’t look up. Frank swung the pistol violently. The first hit was on the crown of his head, and blood splattered the wall and Frank’s face. Dean slumped sideways as the blood flowed quickly down his forehead and into his eyes and moustache. His eyes were rolled back. But the violence in Frank wasn’t sated. He wanted to mark him, like she was marked. He wanted him to always remember this beating. He swung his arm down several times more, splitting skin with each strike. Blood splattered them both, and it was in Frank’s eyes and mouth.

  And then a moment of clarity. It came so quickly, during the last few strikes. He realized he wasn’t striking out to defend her. He was striking this man he didn’t know for a
reckoning. For all that had happened to him. For Tony. For Shelly. For Red. He was smashing their faces. He was smashing their bodies and marking them. They all had it coming, but Dean was paying the price for them. He’s their own personal Jesus Fucking Christ, he thought.

  “Chris!” he heard Mariah shout. “They’re calling the cops.”

  He looked down to see a mask of blood and beard; Dean was limp and pouring blood from several open wounds. He could see bone on Dean’s forehead. Red spray covered the pillow and the wall. His hand was filthy with skin and hair and crimson.

  He wiped the slick, bloody gun on Dean’s shirt. He did the same with his hands. He walked to his locker, grabbed his duffel, slung it, and walked to the hallway. The pistol was in the small of his back. Mariah and Perry were waiting at the front door for him, the young boy rubbing his heavy eyelids.

  They stepped out into the dusky light. They walked quickly, though they knew cops responded slowly to this part of town. They kept a brisk pace all the same. They turned down as many narrow streets as possible. Cops would avoid narrow, dim streets, especially when there were reports of a gun.

  As they had put some distance away from the shelter, she said, “Wait, Frank,” and she was fishing in her bag. She produced a hand towel. His hands were still slick and bloody. He wiped them as they walked briskly, then tossed the towel into an open dumpster.

  Down a few streets, they found a multi-floor parking garage next to an office complex.

  “This will keep helicopters from spotting us,” Frank said. They moved through the garage. As they were getting ready to exit out the other side, Mariah pointed to a row of panel vans. Frank nodded, and they moved over to them. They were fleet vehicles, each marked Ling’s Dry Cleaning. They chose the middle one.

  Frank dug through his duffel and found a wire hangar. He shaped it, and dug it into the passenger side window, under the rubber seal. After some fishing, he pulled up, and he saw the lock lift up through the glass. Outside he could hear fast cars, and he knew they would be the police coming in force.