The Juke (Changes Book 2) Page 13

  He lifted Perry in, then followed Mariah. He pulled the door closed.

  The van was filled with dry cleaning, and they moved around the hanging plastic like swimming in a translucent sea. They pushed away a clear spot in the middle and pulled their things together. They stretched out and made pillows of their packs.

  “Thank you, Frank,” Mariah said, still shaking from the rush.

  “You’re not mad I got us kicked out of that shelter?”

  “No. I liked it and all, but it means a lot that you would fight for me. For us. Nobody has done that in a while.”

  “No problem.”

  “I won’t forget it.”

  He felt her soft, cool hand on his, and he held it.

  Outside, they heard the blare of police sirens. It was moving fast: the tone rose and then fell in seconds. The sirens faded until they couldn’t hear them any longer.

  “Momma?” they heard Perry say softly, near a whisper.

  “Yeah, baby boy?” she said as softly.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t worry…everything will be okay.”

  After a bit, Frank heard him sliding around until he was on the other side of her. Mariah was between them, and Frank rolled over until his head was on her shoulder. Then Perry spoke again. “Could you read me a story?” he asked again in just above a whisper.

  “It’s too dark, sweetie,” she said. “I can’t see.”

  Frank pulled open his duffel, stuck his hand in, and rummaged until he found a slim flashlight. He put it in her hand.

  “Won’t it give us away?” she asked, face to him.

  He thought for a second. “I think we’re surrounded by enough plastic that it won’t show through.”

  She twisted it on to just enough to see. Perry already had a blue book in his hand. She opened it and began reading, just above a whisper.

  The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play.

  So we sat in the house, all that cold, cold, wet day.

  I sat there with Sally. We sat there, we two.

  And I said, “How I wish we had something to do!”

  Her soft voice made Frank relax, and like a child himself he drifted off to sleep. That night he dreamed. Vividly. He dreamed of his children, his tall, fair-haired sons and curly-haired daughter. They looked at him with their blue eyes. Four sets of eyes regarding him with expectation. Looking to him for an answer. They asked him questions he could not understand, and their eyes turned downcast when he could not respond. He knew they were pleading…pleading for his reply. But he could only hold open his hands to them, and no words escaped his lips.

  And then the eyes faded, blue to gray to ghostly white to clear. Then they were gone. And then the only eyes that regarded him were his own. He was looking at himself, and judging what he saw. His judgment was harsh.

  XVII

  The Fairview Motel sat on the end of Marshall Avenue in Lancaster, where it ran into an abandoned construction site. It had long ago lost its highway charm and no longer lured late drivers and truckers. It was now the flophouse of choice for street folk who came into a bit of cash, and hourly room rates guaranteed a steady stream of hookers and johns. Garbage reeked. Cement walkways were slick with mold and urine. Hustlers and thugs stalked around its edges, just out of reach of the decreasing lights. Cops came only in heavy numbers, and many pursuits stopped when reaching the edge of its gravity. The black hole of the Fairview was the refuge of those who most needed it.

  Frank puffed the last few drags of his cigarette, and he tasted the filter. He was jonesing badly now, and his hands were shaking. The cigarette offered little solace. The flop sweat felt clammy on his face. He was already starting to get the jerking muscle spasms. The itch under his skin was intensifying.

  “You okay, Chris?” the man asked.

  “Yeah,” he lied. “Just needing.”

  “Yeah, me too. How soon will she be back?” He was picking at a scab on the back of his hand. Mike had been using for years, and Frank could see how collapsed all his veins were. Scars lined his arms and hands. “I don’t know how long I can take the itch. Gotta get something fast.”

  “She’ll be back soon,” and he peeked out the window, hoping she’d be there.

  “Don’t forget, you guys owe me a dime.”

  “We pay our debts, Mike,” Frank said, eyes narrowed. “You know that.”

  “Yeah…sorry…the need talking…” Mike said, but was only partially sincere. Frank understood that the need drove them all. They would all do whatever it took to fulfill it. He could already see Mike’s eyes skittering around the room, looking for something worth selling. Even a few bucks could get him a hit, and that would take away the pain…for the moment at least.

  “She’ll be back before you know it, and we’ll get fixed up.”

  “Yeah.”

  Frank heard Perry flush in the bathroom, and he came out holding a book. Frank put down a cigarette he was about to light, then looked over to him and smiled. Perry was wearing a pomegranate shirt and jeans they had just bought from the thrift store. Frank noted that his face was dirty. He needed a bath. He would try to remember to give him one after he shot up, but he also knew he’d probably forget and fall asleep instead. That’s probably why Perry was dirty now.

  “Will you read this to me?” Perry said, approaching cautiously. He was holding The Wind in the Willows, a book Frank had bought for him a few weeks before.

  “Sure, little man, in just a minute, okay?” His weak smile was all he had to offer.

  “Okay,” and Perry found his Superman toy and began to play with it.

  Mike continued scratching at his neck and scraggly beard. Loose hairs fell out on his jacket. “Maybe we should go pull a quick job, in case she doesn’t get back.” Frank could see Mike was in a worse state than he was. “We could get out, hit a quick stickup, and then be back in twenty minutes.”

  “I can’t leave Perry, Mike…he’s only seven.”

  Mike’s eyes shot to the boy, almost accusingly. He was dope sick, and everything around him aggravated him.

  “She’ll be back. I promise. Besides, I’m not comfortable with stickups. Too much risk. Too many chances to get caught.”

  “Not if you do it right. Hit hard and smack any fucker who gets in the way.” He knew Mike had a .38 snub-nose in his pants pocket, and he saw him slide his hand over it. He was jerking and twitching now, and Frank could see violence in his eyes.

  He tried to talk him down. “I try to avoid it…hurting people and all…sometimes it’s better to be patient…”

  “Fuck patient! I’m dying here.” He was rubbing his nails across his shoulder and chest, digging at the biting, angry nerves just under his skin like so many crawling bugs. “I don’t care about others…that’s their problem. It’s tough on the streets…gotta do what you gotta do. You take a hundred bucks from most people, and they just go to the ATM and get more. I don’t give a fuck if they feel scared for five minutes…I’m scared every day of my life. They built the system, and I’m just trying to stay alive in it.”

  “I don’t consider junk staying alive…”

  “I do! It’s the only part of the streets I still enjoy.” Frank knew it was a lie. Junkies reached a point with heroin where it took a lot just to feel normal, and Mike had crossed that bridge years ago. The amount it would take to get him truly high would probably kill him.

  “Well, hurting someone for my own bad habit isn’t how I want to go out. Besides, if you hurt someone, the cops look extra hard for you. I’d rather just keep on as we are.” He shuddered, remembering the county lockup.

  “She won’t be able to turn tricks forever, Frank…you gotta think long term.”

  He felt the momentary sting, and Mike’s eyes on him. The knowledge he fought to bury pushed to the surface. “I know that. And you know I’ve pulled a couple robberies in my time. They’re perilous, though…you get caught with a loaded weapon and the wrong cop, you’re six-feet under.”


  “Better to go out in a blaze of glory than to die like a rat.”

  “You’d rather get shot than jones for a while?”

  “We all gotta die…just a matter of when…today is as good a day as any. Every death seems like a tragedy at the time, but later it’s just a footnote.”

  “I’m no footnote…”

  “Aren’t you? Remember the Titanic? At the time, it was such a tragic event, all those people drowning. But now all the survivors are dead anyway. Go out one hundred years and we’re all dead and buried. So it really doesn’t matter much…today, tomorrow, next week…we’re all dead.”

  He could hear Mariah stomping the snow off. He jumped up and opened the door. “Momma!” Perry shouted, and ran to her, slamming his face into her side. Frank saw her fishnets had a run, and her stilettos were still covered in snow.

  “There’s my good boy,” she said. She handed two small balloons to Frank with a nod. He in turn handed one to Mike. “I’m good, I’m fixed,” she said to Frank’s questioning eyes.

  “Okay, we gotta fix up now,” Frank said with a bit of desperation in his expression.

  She took Perry’s hand, and led him to the bathroom. Both Frank and Mike had their kits out already. Folded spoon. Candle. Frank popped open the plastic wrap of a new needle he had gotten that morning from the needle exchange at the methadone clinic downtown.

  Mike began to pick through his skin looking for an area he hadn’t ravaged yet. He dug through scars, smacked skin, hoping to raise a vein. Frank, though, was only just now getting his first scars, so he had plenty of places to choose from. Mike watched Frank get right to work.

  Frank put the small grains of powder on the spoon, then took an eyedropper and squeezed in a small amount of water to mix. He used the tip of the needle to stir. As it heated above the candle, he took a vial of clean saline and drew in a small amount. As his mixture bubbled, he watched it eagerly. He was ready to shoot up before Mike removed his shoe and started picking spots on his feet.

  Frank was still infatuated with smack, like a new girlfriend. Buzzing with anticipation, he knew the warmth was coming. The high was nigh. He found the vein at the crook of his left arm was still healthy and could take a few more shots before it began to collapse and scar. He moved up his bicep just a bit and chose the spot. He took the rubber tie-off, wrapped it, and held it in place with his teeth.

  The vein quickly jumped up for him. It swelled, as if proud. Blue, going straight to the heart to get pumped back out again. Blue, the color of the lips of a dead junkie. Blue, the darkest night, and the sleep of death. Blue for lamentation and loss. The blue note.

  He drew the sweet opiate mixture into the bindle. He then dropped the cotton square onto the spoon to sift up the film. He wanted every bit. Every grain in the brain. He saw Mike was preparing to inject between his toes. He shook the needle, then pushed the plunger to clear out the air bubble.

  Frank aimed the needle at the big blue vein and found the mark, going in shallow so as not to come out the other side. He drew in deftly and saw the wisp of blood mix into the fluid. Almost there. His blood and the water and the junk blended together.

  So near. The final inhale before ejaculation. The last breath of a dying man.

  He slammed home the plunger, and he could feel the warmth of the mix enter his bloodstream. His arm felt warm instantly. He could feel it pump through him. Each beat spread the warmth. To the heart and then the pleasure radiating out with each heartbeat. He felt it climb up his neck and down his arms. Down his torso to his crotch.

  A momentary fog and then the feeling of the most intense orgasm he had ever had. Warmth circulating through him, tingling every nerve ending in his body. Each heart pump sent the soothing bliss through his body. Each pulse like the rhythm of a climax. His fibers drank in the opiate pleasure and gave him waves of heavenly ecstasy in return. He felt the tingling moving through him. So smooth and warm and welcome. The pain was gone, a thousand miles away.

  Instantly, his eyelids were as heavy as lead, and his tongue became puffy, his mouth slack. Warmth ran through him like a tropical rain shower. He felt a post-coital weakness take him, and he gladly surrendered to it. He looked through hazy eyes at Mike, who watched him enjoy his high with an upturned smile.

  He knew he would be out soon. He could hear Mariah starting the bathwater. He stood up, holding the chair for balance. He had to get horizontal. He aimed for the bed and fell onto it.

  Instantly he felt the junkie’s falling feeling. As if he were flying, but with his nose pointed to the ground. Swooping like an eagle. Rush and descent. Then he was sinking into the bed and then into the floor. He was disappearing into his warm high. Melting. Ice cream on a hot summer day. Wax from a hot wick. Dissolving into the earth, which embraced him.

  He woke with a sudden jerk. It was almost morning. On the bed next to his, Perry lay curled up under the covers. He rolled over and realized he had pissed himself. It was cold and he was shaking. He heard the sobbing. He saw Mariah sitting at the small table, where his fixings were still in their same positions. Mike’s side of the table was empty.

  “Mariah…”

  “Frank, goddamnit…” she said softly between sobs.

  “How long was I…” he began.

  “Mike’s gone, Frank. He took all our junk. Everything. Even our needles. He went through my purse and took all our cash. Your wallet is empty on the floor.” He looked at the pile of junk in the room, and his wallet lay twisted on top of it.

  “Mike took it?”

  “He took everything, Frank. How could you fall asleep with him in the room? What were you thinking?”

  He was shaking off the cobwebs and trying to recollect. He vaguely remembered shooting up. Mariah had been giving Perry a bath.

  “It’s almost daylight now, and I need some, Frank. You let Mike take it all, and I have nothing. I had to turn three tricks yesterday to buy that shit and to pay him back. Now he took it all and we’ve got nothing.”

  Frank felt the surge of anxiety pushing through the fog of his waning high. He hopped up onto unsteady legs and moved to the heater vent. He jerked it open and pulled out his pistol. He stood up as if to go out into the streets.

  “Frank, wait…you can’t go out…you’re covered in piss…Mike’s long gone…”

  “I can’t just let him get away with this.” He looked down and saw his piss-stained jeans.

  “Trust me…you’ll never see him again, Frank. He’s a junkie…he’ll take all that and be good for a few weeks. He’ll just start again in another part of town. Guys like him have been on the streets so long they just rotate around town.”

  Frank sat down on the bed. He could smell his wet crotch and it was sticking to him. He set the gun next to him and slid his pants off.

  “Frank, you can’t make mistakes like this around junkies. They’ll cut their own mothers’ throats to score.” He looked around for clean pants, but there were none. “You have to pay more attention. Perry and I were in the bathroom…things could have been much worse.”

  Frank just stared at the corner of the room, still trying to make sense of things. He said flatly, “How much was in your purse?”

  “About a hundred and fifty. The rent for this room for a few days and our next highs.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked at her now. “Don’t worry, Mariah…I’ll take care of it.”

  “How? I can’t go back out until tonight.”

  “No, I’ll take care of it this time.”

  “Frank, don’t do anything stu—”

  “I’m not going to have you turning extra tricks for my mistake! I’ll get us some money. I just need to figure out how.”

  “Frank, for fuck’s sake…just relax. I’ll be fine. I’m just feeling my jones right now.”

  “I’m sorry. It was my fault. Won’t happen again.”

  “I know, I know…I forget sometimes that you’re not from the streets. You’re too innocent somet
imes.”

  He looked back at her, and his expression gave her confidence. She saw resolve, and she knew he would find a way to take care of things.

  Frank got up and went into the bathroom. He washed his crotch with an old brown hand towel. He looked in the mirror and scratched at his ragged beard. He opened his mouth. The gaps allowed his teeth to interlock. When he drew them apart, his maw was both fearsome and ghoulish. He cupped his hand under the faucet and got a quick drink.

  He saw the scab on his arm and started to pick at it. Junkies and tweakers can never leave their flesh alone, as if picking the nerve endings until they bled would get rid of that incessant crawling-bug feeling. Junkies always have infected sores at injection points, partly due to repeated use of dirty needles and partly from the constant picking. Needles grew dull with repeated use, and no needle-exchange could keep up with their rapacious need.

  Most junkies weren’t honest with themselves, but Frank was. He knew exactly why he was a junkie.

  I have memories I’d rather not have.

  He looked at himself in the mirror and then looked away.

  He pulled the car to a jerking stop around the side of the motel and honked. He saw the door open and Mariah and Perry moved out, bags in hand. Perry had a sleep-rumpled look. He felt the exposed wires rubbing his pant leg, so he tucked them up under the dash. The car was old, and he hoped nobody would be looking for it anytime soon. At least for today.

  Frank’s heart was racing. He knew what had to be done. Daylight robberies, though, were dangerous. Too much foot traffic. Too many bystanders. But he was not going to leave her in her current condition. He knew the ache. He knew the cramps and sweating. He also lived with the knowledge that she had been prostituting to support their habits, and he had let her. She had given her everything for him, so he had to do the same in her hour of need.

  Perry climbed into the back, and Mariah slid in next to him, moving close across the bench seat. She still smelled of heavy perfume from her work the night before. “Frank, are you sure you want to do this?”