Wear Your Home Like a Scar, page 2
Moving through the hallway upstairs, it seemed like she’d sunk all her money into a few accessory pieces, hoping to let the aura of wealth seep through the rest of the house, which surprised Randall a little, given that it was in a rich-ass South Baltimore neighborhood. Randall found nothing in the drawers of the teak end table beneath a gold-filigree frame housing a reproduction café painting. Nouveau riche, he thought. The frame might’ve been worth a couple thousand, though he wouldn’t be able to move it quick enough to matter. The painting itself might’ve been worth a few months’ pay, thick brushstrokes giving the cobblestones of van Gogh’s Paris a textured look, but whoever the woman had paid to paint this for her couldn’t match color for shit: The green leaves were far too bright and the man at the front table should’ve had a red shirt, not blue. Randall had sat through Art History last semester hungover or stoned or hungover and stoned, and even he knew that.
“Focus, man,” he said. “Focus.”
In his head, he saw the black hole dripping with deep red that Harry Jones, the biggest eastside drug lord, had promised to put in Luisa’s forehead if Randall didn’t get over to the car lot with a grip of bills within the next three hours. Randall popped an Adderall, chewed, and got going with the task at hand. Namely, figuring out where the fuck one would keep their getaway money in such an obnoxiously ostentatious house.
The pattern of the runner lying over the hardwood floor mimicked the larger one downstairs and gave the illusion that this hallway ran forever. It was straight Hitchcock. Only two more doors on the left side, one on the right.
That one was a bathroom. The slate tile floor radiated cold money. He pocketed two orange bottles from the medicine cabinet and rifled the antique dresser in the closet. Still nothing.
Across the hallway stood an office. On the desk, he found only two Montblanc pens that he pocketed, and a few steno pads with some numbers, hash marks, and scribbled addresses. A weird African-looking parrot sculpture. He wasn’t even sure there were parrots in Africa. Inside the drawer was an organizer with some sticky notes and $108.34 in random bills and coins. He pocketed that, too.
Only $882 more and Luisa’s skull would remain intact.
His roommate had told him that girl was no good at nothing, and nothing she could do was going to make him forget Danielle, Randall’s girlfriend of more than five years who’d decimated him a few months earlier. Six months, two weeks, three days, but Randall wasn’t counting. Randall pushed down those feelings without having to think, shrugged and said, You think a Brazilian chick dancing is sexy? Every time with her, I’m walking like a newborn foal for hours afterward. As the only son of two cops, Randall understood the concept of acceptable risk and necessary concession, which he applied liberally to Luisa, especially given his current situation in life. So she liked a taste of glass every once in a while—at least, that’s what she’d told him the first night they fucked—but that meant they could talk about Godard’s films even longer. And besides, heroin was totally passé. Junkies shot dope. People with discerning taste freebased or got spun.
Randall stood behind the desk, glancing around the disheveled office. Stacks of boxes hugged three of the four corners. The rest of the house was austere but fastidiously decorated, and this made him wonder about this woman.
He peeled back the top flap of the box and found six packages of large floodlights. The box felt pretty light, so he set it aside and checked the next one. Four boxes of Ziplocs, gallon-sized. Beneath that lay half-a-dozen packages of plastic vials, two with red tops, two yellow, and two blue. His pulse quickened and he had to tell himself to calm the fuck down and check the next box as well. It was too heavy to move and before he even peeled it open he knew it would be baking soda, laxative, and ephedrine.
An immaculately appointed rowhouse in Federal Hill. A desk that had only numbers, amounts and addresses. An office that was unfurnished but for boxes of cure lights, red tops, and steppers.
This woman was not a lawyer or real estate agent.
This woman had money in her house.
The kitchen had been clean, the bathroom empty, and no drawers with false bottoms. Nothing behind the pictures. He opened the closet in the office and was slightly surprised to find only a women’s lacrosse stick and a pair of skis, then thumped the walls with his knuckles, checking for false fronts. He restacked the boxes and headed to the bedroom. There had to be a stash here and process of elimination said it had to be in the bedroom. For Luisa, it had to be.
He’d spent the rest of his money on dinner in Little Italy last night. It would’ve been manageable if he’d pointed at the right name for their second bottle of wine, but the alcohol and anticipation had gone to his head and when he realized the bottle was $150, he was too embarrassed to tell them to take it back.
They had to sober up, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to peel those stockings off her café com leite legs, and they couldn’t just waste that dinner and her new wax job on regular old glass. She’d sniffed out some of the real over by Somerset Homes within a half-hour; Randall only had twenty and some change, not the hundred he needed. But when she started giving him those lips and those eyes, he pushed her back in the car, then punched the guy in the mouth and snatched the bag. It wasn’t a good punch so much as unexpected, but the guy had a bad lisp and a thin jaw, and fuck it, it worked anyway. Mostly.
In the hallway, he dialed Luisa’s number to check in, see if there was anyone dodgy around. It went to voicemail, first in English then Portuguese. He hung up without leaving a message.
He’d seen a bed like this woman’s in some medieval-themed porn. Henry the Eight-Inches or something. A tall post at each corner and a cloth canopy covering the whole thing. It probably came with the dresser and vanity as a set. He dropped to his knees and searched under the bed, between the mattresses, under the clothes in each dresser drawer. Nothing but silky underwear and a few straps he wasn’t sure how to use. He checked his phone for a missed call but had nothing. Beside the dresser was a closet door, the kind with angled slats. He opened up and rifled through the woman’s shirts and jeans, dresses softer than the spot where Luisa began to breathe hard when he kissed it, the crease where thigh turned to pelvis. He pulled down some leather Coach bags but found them all empty.
Randall slumped down against the wall. He started to thumb a smoke from his pack but realized that would be incredibly stupid. Where the hell could it be? No one had a trafficking way-station in their office without a stash hidden somewhere. It just wasn’t possible. He called Luisa again, got her voicemail again. It was only 4:30 and he was pretty damned sure she wasn’t in class. He texted her—Where the fuck are you?—then reared his hand back to throw his phone or smash it or do fucking something and saw four or five shoeboxes stacked on the floor of the closet.
He peeked in the first one and coughed into his fist. The bills came nearly halfway up the side. A quick thumb showed mostly twenties with some fifties and tens mixed in. The second box held even more bills. When he checked the third box, he almost started hyperventilating. These couple boxes probably held his entire college tuition. His phone beeped and he said, “Luisa!” into the mouthpiece, then realized it was only an alarm he’d set months ago, reminding him that the Painting 340 portfolio was due today. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been in that studio.
It wasn’t until he was pulling the shoeboxes out of the closet that he heard the woman’s voice. The front door closed, penning in another, deeper voice as well.
Of course the guy had recognized Luisa. Randall just had that kind of luck. The kind that would give the son of two police a drug habit. The kind that would make his dick fall in love with a crazy nymphomaniac Brazilian girl who had an even bigger habit. The kind that would make that girl go to cop from a connected dealer the one time Randall tried to sack up and pull some shit. He got a knock on the door three hours later.
“Mister Jones been having a long week,” the kid said. “He say he don’t want to kill no one but will, he have to.”
Randall said he had no idea what the kid was talking about, but the kid just screwed up his lips and gave a look that went right through Randall.
“Mister Jones say you bring a G down where you hit that boy by seven tomorrow night, he don’t kill your girl. You don’t, he do.” The kid shrugged, then turned and walked away.
Randall went back to the bedroom to tell Luisa what had happened and ask what she thought, but the way she stalked around the room, scraping her fingers against her scalp and pulling her hair said she had heard, said she believed.
There was a bay window in the office. There was a small window in the bathroom. There was a reasonable chance he could make the jump without breaking his ankles. But what was he going to do with the money? He didn’t have anything to hold it in and couldn’t just throw it out the window and hope for the best. He stood and spun around. The Coach bags. Shove the money in the bags, then throw them out the window, jump and hope his ankles held. He wished he had a gun and wondered where that thought had been lurking. He pulled a bag down and opened it as his phone rang. The shot of Luisa’s cleavage that she’d taken popped up on his screen. He slapped the phone quiet and stood still in the room, closing his eyes to focus all his attention on listening.
He heard feet coming up the hardwood stairs. He heard the deep voice laugh and mutter something to the woman. He heard the sound of a bullet echo off Luisa’s skull.
Randall glanced around the room and thought it looked untouched enough. He shoved the bag into the closet and closed the door, burrowing himself as far back as he could, then shifted more clothes in front of him and tried to stop breathing altogether.
He didn’t even blink when their footsteps came into the room. He’d figured they were guided by Providence or Fate and whoever it was could suck his dick. The woman laughed and plopped down on the bed, the mattress’s quiet whisper saying she was even more slight than her clothing suggested.
“But I’ve been thinking about Thai all day since Maureen said something about the Mohicans movie,” she said.
“How does Last of the Mohicans make you crave Thai?”
“Because the lead Indian guy was tall and handsome, which made me think of thin, which made me think of the beach, and then Thailand.”
“You got some kind of free association.” The man let out a low whistle. “Wonder what you think of when I say, ‘Polly wanna cracker.’” He said the a like ah.
Randall leaned forward and lowered his head so he could see through the slats. Big didn’t begin to describe the guy. More like a collapsing dwarf star. The motherfucker had his own gravitational pull, one he seemed to be handily exerting on this woman at the moment.
“Let me guess.” She laughed a little, then bit it back. “It’s going to make me think about your cock, right?”
Randall moved his head up and down, trying to peer out and get a better read on the layout of the situation.
“Well, hey girl, I was just talking about food.” The smile in the man’s voice was audible. “But if that’s what you’re looking for, you know, who am I to upset a lady?”
A great wheeze came from the mattress, followed by the wet sound of their kisses and her little moans, smothered beneath him. Randall pushed himself into the back corner, searching for some quiet avenue out of this scene. He hoped to everloving god that she had no toys or lingerie in the closet. He might’ve been beaten senseless for breaking into this woman’s house, but interrupting this moment would seal his death.
The phone vibrated in Randall’s pocket. At Cynthia’s in Butcher’s Hill. Onde você está?
Are you alone?
The woman groaned longer this time. Something hit the ground, shoes slipping off. She made a cooing noise and continued kissing him.
Ur going 2 have 2 call me if u want phone sex.
Stop fucking around.
The phone in the room rang. The woman groaned, but it was not one of pleasure. The man cursed quietly. Randall heard clattering, probably her trying to grab the phone without shifting positions.
“Hello?” She paused for a second. “Hold on.”
Randall couldn’t see anything but could pretty much hear her holding out the phone like it was a dead rat she’d found in the basement.
The bed creaked as he shifted off her. “Yeah?”
I’m safe. They don’t know her.
Good. Stay there.
“Sweetheart, give me a minute will you,” he said.
She let go a long sigh, one that said he would be taking care of himself this afternoon, then stalked out of the room. Randall heard the man pace around the room, pausing in front of the closet as he grunted and farted, then crossing back to the other side.
“Then wait for her there. They’ve got until seven to bring it.”
Randall’s hair stood up on his arms. No. No. Jesus shit, no.
“It’s only another two hours. She’s gotta be there soon,” the man said. “Read a book or something.”
He smashed the keys so hard he thought he’d break his phone. He’d typed out Leave now. There’s someone before he heard the man say, “And if she tries to move, then yes, take care of her.”
Randall sat still, not blinking, not breathing, not thinking. Even he didn’t think luck went like this.
“Look, that fat motherfucker thinks he can impinge upon my neighborhoods, so we need to send a message to people.” The man let his voice rise and fall like a Baptist preacher before his congregation. “Don’t let no one think Harry Jones will tolerate snatch-and-grabs and other foolishness, no matter how small. And especially when he hits my nephew in the mouth.”
Ran, where r u?????
“Nah, give them until the time we said, then move. I got something to keep me occupied for a couple hours.”
Mr. Jones hung up the phone and Randall sunk back into the closet.
“Come back in, Polly.”
“That mean you’re done now?” she said. “You can see me now?”
“I’m sorry, baby. Just no need to clutter your beautiful head with all that nonsense.”
Polly must’ve given a sour look, because he said, “Look, you had a long day. Why don’t you put your feet up and I’ll rub them for a spell.”
“You know I won’t turn that down.” She laughed and plopped down on the bed, her contented exhale causing Randall to infer that Harry Jones was not only big, but skilled. “You could do this for days.”
“I’m not going anywhere for a while, baby,” he said. “I got nothing but time.”
Randall’s phone buzzed and he let it.
Back to TOC
Pedro’s Navaja
Eduardo Arango Pérez slouched against the brick wall of the droguería, trying to blow smoke rings onto Topo’s finger. Most quickly disintegrated into a haze, and even the few that formed went far wide of the target.
“I need to talk to Chili,” Topo said to Eduardo.
“Talk to Chili?”
“Yeah, ’cause I definitely need a new partner.”
“Nah, I got this. Just be patient.”
“We run into those Cali hijueputos or some tombos, I’m supposed to tell them to be patient and wait a sec while you line up a shot?” Topo gave that lazy smile, one accentuated by his drooping right eye and the epically thick mustache Eduardo had always coveted but never been able to grow.
Eduardo held the cigarette beside his face. “I mean, you could.”
“Ave María,” Topo said, making the sign of the cross then kissing the escapulario hanging around his neck, the leather pendant featuring a small painting of the Santo Niño de Atocha, the patron saint of their cartel and their personal favorite. “Ojo, if you get me killed before I can take Paty to dinner for her birthday, my spirit will come back by the hand of the Santo Niño and haunt your ass for eternity. And she’ll probably kill you so I can haunt you in the afterlife, too.”
He and Topo—whose given name was Pedro Felipe Torres—were born in neighboring apartments and had been together ever since, basically raising each other and their younger sisters Paty and Nina after their fathers ran off and mothers stalked corners in search of perica. To try to make sense of it, their conversations often fell to talk of spirits and reincarnation, equal parts superstitious syncretism—lighting candles, building ofrendas, whispering incantations to the spirits—and Catholicism. It wasn’t unusual to see them both at Mass Sunday morning, unwashed and unslept and still high, yet chanting the rosary.
Eduardo took another drag, said, “Pues, your ass already smells like sulfur. And Nina will just take her out with the money you leave behind. Café Búho in San Bernardo, no? She wants arepas?”
Something sharp rapped against his ear and he startled back, hands up before his face. “The fuck, primo?” He’d said much worse shit to Topo over the years, so what was his problem? “Why’d you—”
Topo snatched his pistol from his waistband and swung it forward, rattling off three shots.
Brick exploded next to Eduardo’s head, and he realized someone was shooting at them. He dropped his smoke and grabbed his pistol, firing blindly into the street. Two women screamed and ran, craning their bodies over their children to protect them, their grocery bags hanging precariously from their fingers in a motion well-practiced in Medellín. Bullets dented a rusted Monza parked on the curb. The window of a barber shop exploded, glass falling like jagged rain over the sidewalk. The gunmen returned fire.
Eduardo ducked around the corner of the building for protection, quickly rubbing the escapulario before cupping his hand around his mouth and yelling up to el Chili, perched four floors up, atop the apartment building where their crew cut and bagged cocaine. “¡Ojo!”
