Wear Your Home Like a Scar, page 17
“It’ll only take a minute, O. I can’t drive. Por favor, bitch.” He pauses a sec. “C’mon, Óscar.”
“You shouldn’t smoke weed, then.” Being brown doesn’t help my case with her dad either. My phone beeps. Javi’s name comes up on the screen again, which is awesome because, with the staggered dial tone, he now knows I’m on the phone and not just ignoring his call. “Look, Jason, I got to roll.”
“C’mon, man. My car is broke. It’ll only take a couple minutes.”
I look at my watch for some reason.
“One condition,” I say. “Rollo’s dodging my calls. You get him on the phone and tell him I’ll be at his house at sunrise for my money, I’ll come pick you up.”
“Deal.”
“Be there in ten. Your ass better be standing on the sidewalk.”
He hangs up without saying thanks or bye and I don’t know if he’s being punctual or just an asshole. If I get the five from Rollo, I can take some watches and guitars and amps to the pawn shop and scrape together the rest. Won’t be a damn sight near what they’re worth, but I’ll be clear of Harry and ready to start my life with Giselle.
A cab swings wide into my lane and I kick the brakes, slip a bit but manage to cut around him. The side door opens and out spills a cadre of college girls, tube-tops sparkling in the dying spring light. They hold tiny purses over their hair, scurry toward a restaurant with neon signs in the window.
I’ve always been a Dodge guy, more for aesthetics and wanting to be Steve McQueen than any engineering reasons, but this Lexus has given me cause for consideration. Of course, that consideration also led to Javi threatening to peel back my skin like a banana. I’d tell him you can’t bleed a stone, but that’d require me answering his call. Instead, he texts me.
You ain’t changed, marica. Some rich bitch don’t make you different. Tomorrow morning you’ll beg like everyone else.
I toss the phone back on the seat, finger the ring box in my suit pocket, and head toward Jason’s apartment.
He’s standing on the corner, wavering like a mirage. Appears he had a few lines to even out.
He hops into the car. Literally. “I told you I’d be here on time.”
“It was just a figure of speech. You didn’t really have to wait in the rain.” I pull away from the curb and a bottle breaks under my tire with a dull pop. “What’s up with Rollo? You called him?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Jason shrugs. “Left a message.”
“Mother—” I cock my hands back, ready to pound the shit out of the steering wheel till it breaks in half but take a breath to regroup and figure something out. “What happened to your car anyway?”
He chews on his thumb. “Crashed it last week.”
I glance over, give him a once-over. “You break anything?”
“Nah, I was all highed up and driving too slow to cause any real harm. Totaled the car though. I really liked that car, too.”
“And the remedy for this is going over to Bobby’s?”
“I need to grab some stuff before I head to Nashville in the morning.” He smacks his lips together and makes a sticky noise, like he’s got cotton-mouth. “I’m starting with some weight.”
I dip around a city bus, then slow down behind an arabber and his drenched horse, pulling their cart filled with fruit and vegetables down Gough Street. Three blocks pass in silence, his declaration hanging pregnant in the air. He starts to light a cigarette and I smack it out of his hands.
“I told you not to smoke in my car.”
“You didn’t even want this car in the first place.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point then?”
“Just—don’t fucking smoke in my car! Why do I have to explain it?”
Just because he’s right doesn’t mean I have the patience to acknowledge it. I didn’t want this car, still don’t really want it, but the first time I met Giselle’s father, the fucker wouldn’t even look at me, much less address me directly. He made a point to stare straight at Giselle and ask why she had to drive the two of us.
I interjected, saying my Lexus was in the shop—an obvious lie, but, well, I really liked her and knew I had to get his approval. So the next day, I hurried to one of the used lots Harry Jones uses as a washing machine and picked up a Lexus. My payments were deferred, of course, as I was his trusted personal courier.
Then a couple months later, I tell Harry I’m leaving the life for Giselle. Now his people are calling me all day.
Jason’s voice startles me.
“What?”
“Is that it? Are you jealous that Mr. Harry tapped me to replace you?”
“No, I told them—”
“Because you can tell me if you are. I mean, honestly, I won’t think bad about you. It’s normal to feel left behind.”
“Motherfucker, I’m not left behind, I’m leaving. That’s why you got the job. You’re replacing me.” My face flushes, half indignant and half angry. “If I want to marry Giselle, I can’t work for Harry. But if I don’t work for Harry, I need to come up with the money to cover this car. If I don’t come up with the money by tomorrow, they’ll fuck me up or take back the car—or fuck me up and take back the car—none of which will keep me in her father’s good graces. And if I’m not in his good graces, there’s no fucking way he’ll give me permission to propose. So.” I pop two mints in my mouth and chew them, wishing they were Oxy again, then berate myself for wishing that. You have changed. Fuck what Javi says. “That’s why I’m a little edgy. And I’ll tell you something else: you need to watch yourself with Lucas in Nashville. Might look like a college professor but that motherfucker is grimy. Check your shipment to make sure there’s nothing extra in there. He pulled that shit with me once.”
His shoulders settle, eyes seem to glass. “You’re going to propose to her tonight?”
“Well, maybe. But yeah. Also, are you listening about Lucas?”
A swatch of blackness passes over my eyes and the car careens across the street. His arms wrapped around me, hand over my face. I swerve to the right, barely missing a woman hurrying her stroller along the side. She screams in some language I don’t understand. I shove Jason away, say, “What the fuck?”
“Oh Jesus, man,” his voice trembling, “I’m so happy for you.”
“You almost killed us, you dumb bastard.”
“I’m sorry.” He nestles back into his seat. “I get really emotional on blow.”
I start to say something when my phone vibrates in the center console. I reach down like I’m exploring a hole that might or might not contain a rattlesnake. Giselle’s name is on the display. My shoulders relax and I put my index finger in front of my lips, hushing Jason.
“Hello, beautiful.”
“Are you talking to me?” I can hear her looking around on the other end of the line, pretending she’s trying to spot who I’m complimenting.
“There’s only one beautiful one for me.”
Her blushing is audible. “Just calling to make sure you’re still on for tonight.”
“Of course I am. I’ll be over in a bit.”
“Dan and Dad won’t be over for another hour, if you’re around.” Her words taper off like she’s biting her bottom lip. “Where are you?”
Jason says, “Congratulations, Giselle,” and my balls shrink. I press the phone against my shoulder and smack him on the chest, eliciting a coughing fit.
“Who’s with you?” Static covers her voice with the phone held away from my ear.
“Just wrapping some stuff up. Getting ready for tonight.”
“Is that Jason?”
I honk at a random jogger. He turns around and gives me the finger.
“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Where’s the restaurant?”
“Jason’s with you, isn’t he?”
I suck at a chunk of mint stuck between my teeth.
She exhales into the phone. “Just be careful, all right?”
I make a non-committal noise.
“And make sure your belt and shoes match.”
“They do.” They don’t. “Love you.”
“Love you, too. See you soon.”
She hangs up and I rabbit-punch Jason in the shoulder three times. “You stupid fucker. Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”
Cowering against the window, hands up defensively, he says, “What? Jesus, I’m happy for you.”
“Stupid fucker.” I chew two more mints, clench and relax my fist. Throw a Lucero CD into the stereo. That voice exhumes itself from smoky Tennessee bars and fast-food parking lots. “I’ve just—I’ve got enough to deal with without an annoyed girlfriend.”
Jason smacks my arm, sending cracks through the image of Giselle wearing only cowboy boots. “Hey.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you pay for the car with the car?”
“What?”
“You need money. You can’t work for Harry again. You don’t really like this car anyway. So crash it.”
“You’re an idiot.” We cannot get to Bobby’s fast enough.
“No, really.” He pops a cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it. “You’ve got insurance on the car, right? Get up to thirty or forty then drive into a wall. Find a Jersey Barrier or something, so no one gets hurt.”
“I’m not driving into a wall, Jason.” He makes some perverse type of sense, but I can’t admit that to him.
“Seriously, dude, you’ll be fine. I’ve done it before.”
“I thought you crashed because you were stoned.”
“Yeah, last week I did. But I pulled the Jersey wall thing when I was…eighteen? nineteen?”
“You crashed your car on purpose?”
“I mean, how else was I going to get some money?” he says. I don’t bother responding to that. He holds the cigarette between his fingers, starts gesticulating with his hands. “It’s, like, fast enough to total your car but slow enough so you won’t get hurt.”
I let out a long breath, staring hard at some indeterminate point ahead. In the corner of my eye, I can see him sitting expectantly, a puppy dog waiting for his treat.
This is a pretty sturdy car. And thirty really isn’t that fast. I’m a reasonably fit guy, been in some fights and came out fine. And, I mean, with the airbags and seatbelts and all, the worst that might happen would be some burns from the bags. I don’t see many other ways to come up with ten grand. Might not be able to make it to dinner tonight, but the whole accident thing could play in my favor with her father. No, sir, I’m fine. I’m so sorry I had to miss the dinner, though. I know how important it was to you. Can I speak with you for a minute, in private?
“A Jersey wall, you say?”
“All right,” he says, rubbing his palms together. “The important thing to remember is not to go head-on. If you do that, we’ll probably get whiplash. Or go through the windshield. Or just die. You hit with the corner first and you can probably go a little faster, just to make sure it’s totaled.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” I say it as a statement but it comes out more as a question. Either way, I double-check my seatbelt as I slow down, pull into the right lane to let two other cars pass. The last thing I need is collateral damage. That’s half the reason I came to the edges of Highlandtown, a less-populated area in East Baltimore. The other is, over here, neither a car accident nor someone fleeing the scene of a car accident is enough to warrant a call to the police. And even if the cops show up, no one will talk, unlike Giselle’s neighborhood, where they’ll call the cops on you for Walking While Brown.
The needle hovers at 23. Raindrops sound like dropped coins as they hit the windshield. I make the effort to swallow twice, push on the gas, and tell Jason to get ready. The street begins to curve, the intersection visible when I hit 27. On the other side of the traffic light, the Jersey wall resumes. I pull into the left lane to get closer. My hands tremble, eyes twitch, trying to close in some instinctual way. Self-preservation, probably. This is a dumb idea. This is a dumb idea. I can get money other ways. This isn’t safe.
“Go faster,” Jason says, voice wavering with a grotesque excitement. I push on the gas. On the right sits the bar where Giselle and I first met, nestled between a pawn shop and a Peruvian chicken place. She was out with a few friends, celebrating one of their engagements. I’d gotten into it with Harry that afternoon and was angry-drinking tequila, a foot-long line of empty shot glasses along the bumper of the pool table. She swerved into me as I was setting up three-to-eight in the corner.
“Little faster,” Jason says. I can still smell the clove cigarettes on her breath that night, remember the way the diamond pendant of her necklace dug into my sternum when she pressed her body against mine. The way she stroked the back of my hand, sitting on the curb outside my apartment as the pink sun began to burn away the darkness—
“Óscar!”
There’s a shape in the intersection, then a hollow thump, then shearing metal.
I jump on the brakes.
“Oh Jesus shit,” I say to myself. “Jesus, no mames.”
Veins swell against skin on the back of my hands. My fingers wringing the steering wheel. Jason standing in the rain, looking at the ground in front of the car, at me, at the ground. The pink shadow my headlight throws against his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, smacks the hood twice and motions for me to get the fuck out of the car. As I step out, he’s already kneeling down. To the ground. To the body lying crumpled beneath my bumper. I step over the bike’s front wheel, wobbling in mangled circles. The downtube is bent forty-five degrees. A slash of blood across the pavement. A bone bursting out of the skin from where the bicep should be, small flaps of flesh on either side. One side of his face more of a smear of white tissue and red blood than actual human.
Jason abruptly stands, looks around twice, then pulls me down.
“Into your trunk.”
“What?”
“There’s no body, nothing happened and there’s no crime.” His voice cracks. “So put the motherfucker in your trunk!”
I slip my hands under the guy’s armpits, fighting back the urge to puke all over the streets, then heft him up as we work our way toward the car. His shoulder slams against the ground when I try to push the trunk button on the keys. Jason curses through his teeth. I hit the button and the trunk yawns open and we shove the body in, slam the top and hurry inside.
“Drive,” he says.
“I don’t think he’s—”
“Fucking drive, Óscar!”
The wheels spin and squeal as I pull away. I can see the soft glow of approaching headlights in my rearview. Fight the urge to stomp the pedal. I pull down a side street, weaving through a few blocks before hopping the curb in an alley where I can finally freak the fuck out.
“Calm down,” Jason says. “Just calm down.”
“Are you goddamn joking? He’s not fucking breathing.”
A sharp sting across my face. White static before my eyes. Jason massages his hand.
“Of course he’s not breathing. He’s missing most of his face,” Jason says. “Just let me think a minute.”
“He can’t stay in my trunk. We got to get rid of him.”
“You think? Just shut up a sec.” He looks around, grinds his palms against his eyes. I chew on my thumb, check the rearview, chew, check. “Look, there was no one on the street. No cars passed us. No one came out their house. So there are no witnesses. We’re okay as long as we get rid of him now.”
“There.” I point at a dumpster across the street. “Dump him in there.” I open the door and feel his grip on my wrist, pulling me back.
“That’s a construction dumpster. We put him in there and they find him in the morning when the workers get in.”
I continue to chew my thumb, check the rearview. Sets of eyes glow in every window overlooking the alley. Rusted fire escapes creak with phantom steps. Everyone knows we’re here and they’re just waiting for us to move.
“We call Harry,” he says. “He can help get rid of it.”
“I call him, he’ll have two bodies. We dump it behind those trashcans.”
Jason lights a cigarette. I ask him not to smoke in my car and the statement almost makes me laugh.
“There,” he says. I only see a concrete wall. “In the back.”
I tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“That white pick-up. There’s no mud on the sides, the tarp is still black. Looks like there’s an air freshener hanging from the rearview, too. That’s no work truck. I doubt whoever owns it actually uses the truck bed except to help people move. We put him in the bed, maybe no one sees him for a couple days.”
The idea of my hands on his dead flesh sends spasms through my throat, but Jason’s already out of the car before I can speak. I follow.
The bed is unlocked. There are no passing cars. The body sways back and forth as we carry him. Splashes of blood pock the pavement beneath us, diluting as raindrops fall. Jason lowers one of the body’s shoulder as he reaches behind him to open the truck bed.
“On three,” he says. “One, two—”
The body hits the edge of the tailgate and crumples to the ground.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jason says. “Fucking amateur.”
He crouches down and slides his arm beneath the body’s waist, grunts as he hefts it up on his shoulder then lurches forward, dumping the body into the bed. I come forward and help to push it all the way in and to the side. Jason hurries over and grabs a plastic trashcan from the alley, turns it sideways and shoves it between the body and the side of the bed.
