Losers Live Longer, page 19
“Who does she think is trying to kill her?”
“Law Addison, who else?”
“Why?”
“He must’ve found out she—”
The bartender came over, a big bear of a man with a black Rasputin beard streaked by gray. He saw my empty glass, none in front of Ore, and asked, “Another? And how ’bout you?”
Ore ordered a vodka tonic and I had another 7&7. It was weaker than the first. Ore downed three-quarters of his drink in two swallows.
I prodded him on, “Must’ve found out what?”
“That she had…double-crossed him.”
“How?”
“Well, she didn’t go off with him the way they planned.”
“So you know she never really ran off with Law Addison?”
“I know now. I didn’t at first. I mean…I really thought she had gone with him. That’s what the police told me, it’s what the press kept reporting. What did I know? We hadn’t been living together since the end of last year.”
“So when did you find out the truth?”
“Not until, like, the end of July. I got a call from this rehab clinic up in Ithaca, telling me Michael was a patient there, asking me to come up. It wasn’t until I visited her that she told me the truth herself, that everyone had it all wrong. She’d never run away with Addison. All that time she’d been at this hospital getting herself cleaned out. She wanted us to get back together.”
He shook his head and finished off his drink, then started chewing the ice.
“Did she tell you why she didn’t go with Addison?”
He nodded.
“Someone talked her out of it. She’d been on her way to meet him. They were going to drive to some place in Pennsylvania where he’d set up a fake identity or something. He was packing up his car. She was waiting for her dealer to drop off a load of drugs. But instead of her dealer, this other guy showed up.”
“Who?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the same guy Coy told me showed up at the Peer Group offices this morning. He knew all about her, all about Law’s plans to skip out, and he told her how they didn’t have a chance. That they’d only get caught and she would go to prison for aiding and abetting a fugitive. She was pretty strung out at the time and this guy offered to help her out.”
“Help her out how?”
“He told her he’d keep her out of it. He saw what bad shape she was in, she was hitting rock-bottom. He arranged to send her away for treatment, to this clinic up near Ithaca. And she went. And that’s where she’s been all this time, in rehab.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police any of this? They still think your wife’s a fugitive.”
“She begged me not to, and…and I was trying to complete my film. I couldn’t afford to be dragged into some… God! I still can’t afford to be connected with any of this. I wish she’d never come back here. I wish she’d just stayed where she was or else…” He didn’t finish the thought.
But it reminded me of his film’s final scene, the one that had seemed tacked on, in which the husband refused to co-sign his wife’s hospital release.
He gripped my arm suddenly and spun me on my bar stool.
“Look, you’re working for my wife, right? Tell her I need her to go away again. Just for a little longer until I get my film straightened out. She called me this afternoon for money. Tell her I’ll pay her anything. But I can’t afford for her to be here now. She’ll fuck everything up, I know she will. She always does.”
“I think she’s got bigger problems than that right now.”
“Please,” he said. “Tell her I still care about her. Tell her there’s a real chance we can get back together. Tell her anything! But please help me keep her away.”
From behind us, a voice said, “Keep who away? I hope you don’t mean me?”
We turned and faced Moyena. She was smiling, but had a troubled look in her eye. She placed a hand alongside Ethan Ore’s cheek.
“Ethan, are you okay? You look sick?”
“What? No, I’m fine. We’re just talking about the film.”
“Well, there are more important people you should be talking to right now. I’ve got a man from Lionsgate at the table in the back. He wants to meet you.”
Ore’s distress seemed to evaporate.
“Really? Where?”
He slipped off his stool and let Moyena lead him away. Neither one of them said a word to me in parting. For that matter, I was distracted too. My thoughts were in a jumble.
Someone put a buck in the jukebox and Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” started playing.
I felt a little like that myself. I’d been looking at things the wrong way all day. I was trying so hard to see things right that it took me a few moments to realize there was someone talking to me.
I looked to my right and faced an old man seated on the barstool next me.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He was a stubby old guy with bulbous features and no chin. He wore black hornrim glasses, and on his head was a stiff gray pompadour. He looked vaguely familiar. He was about the age of one of my dad’s golf buddies, but I doubted it. Given the crowd, I wondered if he was a character actor, someone I might’ve seen in a commercial or soap opera on TV.
He said, “Oh, I was just asking if you were one of these creative people. A film director, maybe.”
“Me? No.”
“What do you do?”
I lied and said, “I’m a writer.”
“Oh, well, there you go, that’s creative. I thought so. What do you write?”
“A little of everything.”
“Really? What are you working on now?”
“Oh, I…don’t like to talk about it while I’m still writing it. It dissipates the energy you should put into the work when you talk too much about it beforehand.”
The old man nodded his head judiciously.
It sounded good to me, too. Hell, maybe I would try being a writer. Nahh. I was broke enough as it was.
The old man bought me another drink. While he was paying for it, his back to me as he counted out his money, a couple of guys passed by and one of them pointed his way. The guy said to his friend, “Hey Rick, isn’t that your Mr. Gower guy?”
Rick saw me looking at him and told his friend to shut up.
The name rang a bell. The bar’s cash register opened.
“Down the hatch,” the old man said, handing me my drink. We clinked our glasses.
I took a sip. It was stronger than the last one, not a 7&7, more like a 14&3.
Mr. Gower. The name echoed in my mind. Mr. Gower.
I took another sip.
Don’t hit me, Mr. Gower, that’s my bad ear.
I had it. That’s why it sounded so familiar. Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve always been good at Trivial Pursuit. It was the name of the shopkeeper George Bailey worked for as a kid, and later he appears as a disgraced wino in a bar.
I took another swallow of my too-strong drink.
Because Mr. Gower was an ex-pharmacist who Jimmy Stewart hadn’t been around to stop from mixing up a prescription with poison.
I stopped the rim of my glass against my lips and it tapped a tooth. I felt funny. And not the good kind of funny.
I was also remembering where I’d seen this old man twice before on separate occasions. The first time that morning, almost running into him in the lobby of the Bowery Plaza on my way out. The second time on Tigger’s computer monitor, “I was in the background in a photo taken by Craig Wales before he died.”
I turned to the old man and asked, “Whadyousay?”
“I said nothing.”
“Fuck.”
His face seemed to balloon out of proportion and fritter. His ears looked much too big, like tiny fetuses on either side of his head. I didn’t like looking at him, but I couldn’t stop. It was fascinating, like communing with a sentient lava lamp.
“Diden you jes…” I lost my train of thought, it had derailed and flung passengers and luggage all over the tracks.
I looked around for the conductor and instead saw the blond kid FL!P by my side.
“You don’t look so hot, dude.”
“Nigh…Thor…neither do I.”
The old man said, “We should help him get some air. Take his other arm.”
I said in Brooklynese, “Out you pixies go. Through the door or out da winda.” Shit, now what movie was that from?
They escorted me outside, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I couldn’t figure out why I was still hearing Patsy Cline singing. If I was hearing it at all. It could’ve just been inside my head like everything else.
I tried to put my feet up and rest, but I was still standing.
Somebody or somebodies huddled me into the backseat of a car.
“Wear…?”
I forgot what I’d been about to say.
Couldn’t have been very important then.
Nothing was very important then.
It gave me a chance to close my eyes and forget.
Sweet forget, how I’ve missed you.
Chapter Eighteen: HIDE NOR HAIR
I came to in a strange room. It reminded me of what it was like to be a baby again, you fall asleep one place and hours later wake up somewhere else entirely.
I sensed I wasn’t alone. I cranked open my eyes. When you live alone, you’re used to waking up alone, so waking up now with two people staring down at me was disturbing.
I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t. I was strapped down to some makeshift operating table. Also disturbing.
Why had I immediately made that snap judgment of ‘operating table’? Because of a chemical smell in the air? Or the greenish glow from a fluorescent ceiling fixture? Or was it the fact that the old man, Mr. Gower, had a pair of latex gloves on and was opening up the package of a brand new syringe?
The blond kid, FL!P, was fidgeting on a metal stool, playing with a set of scales on the marble countertop.
Mr. Gower said to him, “I’ll need your help with this part.” He fitted a new needle onto the tip of the syringe.
FL!P hopped off the stool.
I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up.” I was trying to gather my wits, but it was like reconstructing a blown-apart dandelion. “What’s on the menu?”
Mr. Gower said, “Lie still, we are going to ask you some questions.”
“Ask away. Don’t delay another second. But whatever you’re doing there, stop! You don’t need that, whatever it is. I’m more than willing to tell you whatever you want to know.”
Gower ignored me, spoke to the blond kid.
“Roll up his sleeve.”
I started to struggle. It was only a makeshift set-up, how sturdy could it be?
Pretty damn sturdy. I only got about a centimeter of give out of the straps.
“Hold up!” I said. “Listen, kid, this isn’t good, don’t do this.”
“Just tell us where Michael Cassidy is,” he said.
“Done!” I said.
“You know where she is?”
“Of course.” And this time I wasn’t lying, because suddenly I did know. Knew all along, I guess, just never put it together. Amazing how the threat of death can galvanize one’s mind. Something that had been bothering me earlier finally came into sharp focus. The stuff emptied from my pockets after Michael Cassidy hit me on the head in Owl’s hotel room. Now I knew exactly what’d been missing: the room’s magnetic card key.
“Where is she, then?”
“I’ll take you to her,” I said. “Right now. Just get me out of this thing. There’s no need for—”
“His sleeve,” Mr. Gower blandly repeated himself.
“But,” FL!P began, “I…I think he’s telling the truth.”
Mr. Gower remained perfectly still, holding the hypodermic needle shoulder-high, thumb on the plunger, while at the other end a milky dribble hung suspended. He smiled benignly.
“This will only make certain that what he tells us will be the whole truth. It’s perfectly harmless, I promise you. I believe he might even enjoy the trip.”
“Don’t listen to him, kid! Undo these straps and I’ll take you right over to Michael Cassidy and…and…Law Addison, too!” I said in desperation, falling back on lying since the truth wasn’t setting me free. “Yeh, that’s right, both of them together. Right now.”
Mr. Gower shook his head sadly.
“See what I mean? That’s a lie. We’ll never know the truth unless we do it my way.”
“What do you mean a lie? How the fuck do you know?”
“His sleeve.”
“Stop saying that!”
He stopped saying it, but only because the blond kid was capitulating. He had his hand on my sleeve and was tugging it back, revealing my bare, exposed, naked arm.
“Okay,” Mr. Gower said, extending the needle “this will only take a—”
“Look out, kid!”
I don’t know why I shouted it, reflex I guess, seeing that needle as Gower aimed it at the kid’s upper arm. I had no love for FL!P, but I absolutely hated needles. I didn’t want to get stuck by one and didn’t want anyone else to get stuck either.
Why he believed me, I don’t know. Must’ve heard something in my voice, the urgency, because the kid responded like a whip, flinging himself backwards. He landed on the floor, skidding out of view, screaming up, “What the fuck, old man! You almost stuck that into me!”
“I told you to hold him still,” Mr. Gower tried to explain. “You moved.”
“You tried to stick me! What’s in that?”
“Harmless, I tol—”
“Then stick yourself with it! Sh-uh’ya!”
“Please talk sensibly, just come back here and hold his arm again.”
“Hold this!”
FL!P sprang back up on his feet, holding his skateboard close to his chest like a narrow shield. Then suddenly his arms shot forward with the skateboard jutting straight out. Its edge caught Mr. Gower below the chin in the soft flesh of his throat.
I heard a crunch.
Mr. Gower dropped the syringe. Mr. Gower made hissing noises and scuffled his feet. Mr. Gower sat down on the floor. He didn’t get up again.
The kid was wild-eyed, he was mumbling, murmuring, “Y’see that, y’see that, motherfucker?”
I didn’t want to interrupt, but I urged steadily, “Undo the straps, undo the straps.” He must’ve heard me, because he dropped his board and his fingers began working at the buckles. I heard the wheels of his skateboard freely turning, the steely sound of its ball bearings a familiar one to me, the same sound I heard before something hit me in the basement stairwell.
The kid kept mumbling, “Y’see that, y’see that?”
Yeh, I saw it. And I saw how the wound looked on the old man’s neck, same as the one I’d seen on Luis’ throat.
Unrestrained, I sat up on the table, rubbing my wrists, and asked, “So who is—who was this guy?”
“I never met him before tonight. He came up to me at the party, said he had a way to get you to tell where Michael Cassidy and Law Addison were hidden. He knew all about it, so I thought, what can I lose? All he wanted was help lugging you up here. But he didn’t say nothing about shooting you up with drugs. Or me!”
I stood up, looked around the place as I worked the circulation back into my wrists. It was a mini chemical lab with scales, test tubes, beakers, and Bunsen burners. In addition to equipment were the varied and variegated ingredients for cooking up drugs, including nail polish remover, industrial pesticide, and several household cleansers. There were also piles of tiny glassine envelopes, the sort the post office gives with stamps, and for the same reason: to keep out moisture. The envelopes contained chunks of white powder, the finished product. It was scary what kids will ingest in any white powder form, never stopping to question what made up the substance they snorted, smoked, shot up, or swallowed in a pill, just as long as the longed-for numbness ensued.
Mr. Gower, or whatever his name really was, looked to have been some kind of low-level cook. And judging by how he’d showed up at the hotel this morning, he was probably the person who’d been on the other end of the phone when I’d walked in on Michael Cassidy. He must have been one of her drug suppliers, quite possibly the one who’d concocted the hot bag that took Craig Wales’ life. And he’d been ready to do the same thing to FL!P, and then surely to me, too, once I’d given him whatever information I had. I wouldn’t be shedding any tears over his death.
“Law Addison, who else?”
“Why?”
“He must’ve found out she—”
The bartender came over, a big bear of a man with a black Rasputin beard streaked by gray. He saw my empty glass, none in front of Ore, and asked, “Another? And how ’bout you?”
Ore ordered a vodka tonic and I had another 7&7. It was weaker than the first. Ore downed three-quarters of his drink in two swallows.
I prodded him on, “Must’ve found out what?”
“That she had…double-crossed him.”
“How?”
“Well, she didn’t go off with him the way they planned.”
“So you know she never really ran off with Law Addison?”
“I know now. I didn’t at first. I mean…I really thought she had gone with him. That’s what the police told me, it’s what the press kept reporting. What did I know? We hadn’t been living together since the end of last year.”
“So when did you find out the truth?”
“Not until, like, the end of July. I got a call from this rehab clinic up in Ithaca, telling me Michael was a patient there, asking me to come up. It wasn’t until I visited her that she told me the truth herself, that everyone had it all wrong. She’d never run away with Addison. All that time she’d been at this hospital getting herself cleaned out. She wanted us to get back together.”
He shook his head and finished off his drink, then started chewing the ice.
“Did she tell you why she didn’t go with Addison?”
He nodded.
“Someone talked her out of it. She’d been on her way to meet him. They were going to drive to some place in Pennsylvania where he’d set up a fake identity or something. He was packing up his car. She was waiting for her dealer to drop off a load of drugs. But instead of her dealer, this other guy showed up.”
“Who?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the same guy Coy told me showed up at the Peer Group offices this morning. He knew all about her, all about Law’s plans to skip out, and he told her how they didn’t have a chance. That they’d only get caught and she would go to prison for aiding and abetting a fugitive. She was pretty strung out at the time and this guy offered to help her out.”
“Help her out how?”
“He told her he’d keep her out of it. He saw what bad shape she was in, she was hitting rock-bottom. He arranged to send her away for treatment, to this clinic up near Ithaca. And she went. And that’s where she’s been all this time, in rehab.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police any of this? They still think your wife’s a fugitive.”
“She begged me not to, and…and I was trying to complete my film. I couldn’t afford to be dragged into some… God! I still can’t afford to be connected with any of this. I wish she’d never come back here. I wish she’d just stayed where she was or else…” He didn’t finish the thought.
But it reminded me of his film’s final scene, the one that had seemed tacked on, in which the husband refused to co-sign his wife’s hospital release.
He gripped my arm suddenly and spun me on my bar stool.
“Look, you’re working for my wife, right? Tell her I need her to go away again. Just for a little longer until I get my film straightened out. She called me this afternoon for money. Tell her I’ll pay her anything. But I can’t afford for her to be here now. She’ll fuck everything up, I know she will. She always does.”
“I think she’s got bigger problems than that right now.”
“Please,” he said. “Tell her I still care about her. Tell her there’s a real chance we can get back together. Tell her anything! But please help me keep her away.”
From behind us, a voice said, “Keep who away? I hope you don’t mean me?”
We turned and faced Moyena. She was smiling, but had a troubled look in her eye. She placed a hand alongside Ethan Ore’s cheek.
“Ethan, are you okay? You look sick?”
“What? No, I’m fine. We’re just talking about the film.”
“Well, there are more important people you should be talking to right now. I’ve got a man from Lionsgate at the table in the back. He wants to meet you.”
Ore’s distress seemed to evaporate.
“Really? Where?”
He slipped off his stool and let Moyena lead him away. Neither one of them said a word to me in parting. For that matter, I was distracted too. My thoughts were in a jumble.
Someone put a buck in the jukebox and Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” started playing.
I felt a little like that myself. I’d been looking at things the wrong way all day. I was trying so hard to see things right that it took me a few moments to realize there was someone talking to me.
I looked to my right and faced an old man seated on the barstool next me.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He was a stubby old guy with bulbous features and no chin. He wore black hornrim glasses, and on his head was a stiff gray pompadour. He looked vaguely familiar. He was about the age of one of my dad’s golf buddies, but I doubted it. Given the crowd, I wondered if he was a character actor, someone I might’ve seen in a commercial or soap opera on TV.
He said, “Oh, I was just asking if you were one of these creative people. A film director, maybe.”
“Me? No.”
“What do you do?”
I lied and said, “I’m a writer.”
“Oh, well, there you go, that’s creative. I thought so. What do you write?”
“A little of everything.”
“Really? What are you working on now?”
“Oh, I…don’t like to talk about it while I’m still writing it. It dissipates the energy you should put into the work when you talk too much about it beforehand.”
The old man nodded his head judiciously.
It sounded good to me, too. Hell, maybe I would try being a writer. Nahh. I was broke enough as it was.
The old man bought me another drink. While he was paying for it, his back to me as he counted out his money, a couple of guys passed by and one of them pointed his way. The guy said to his friend, “Hey Rick, isn’t that your Mr. Gower guy?”
Rick saw me looking at him and told his friend to shut up.
The name rang a bell. The bar’s cash register opened.
“Down the hatch,” the old man said, handing me my drink. We clinked our glasses.
I took a sip. It was stronger than the last one, not a 7&7, more like a 14&3.
Mr. Gower. The name echoed in my mind. Mr. Gower.
I took another sip.
Don’t hit me, Mr. Gower, that’s my bad ear.
I had it. That’s why it sounded so familiar. Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve always been good at Trivial Pursuit. It was the name of the shopkeeper George Bailey worked for as a kid, and later he appears as a disgraced wino in a bar.
I took another swallow of my too-strong drink.
Because Mr. Gower was an ex-pharmacist who Jimmy Stewart hadn’t been around to stop from mixing up a prescription with poison.
I stopped the rim of my glass against my lips and it tapped a tooth. I felt funny. And not the good kind of funny.
I was also remembering where I’d seen this old man twice before on separate occasions. The first time that morning, almost running into him in the lobby of the Bowery Plaza on my way out. The second time on Tigger’s computer monitor, “I was in the background in a photo taken by Craig Wales before he died.”
I turned to the old man and asked, “Whadyousay?”
“I said nothing.”
“Fuck.”
His face seemed to balloon out of proportion and fritter. His ears looked much too big, like tiny fetuses on either side of his head. I didn’t like looking at him, but I couldn’t stop. It was fascinating, like communing with a sentient lava lamp.
“Diden you jes…” I lost my train of thought, it had derailed and flung passengers and luggage all over the tracks.
I looked around for the conductor and instead saw the blond kid FL!P by my side.
“You don’t look so hot, dude.”
“Nigh…Thor…neither do I.”
The old man said, “We should help him get some air. Take his other arm.”
I said in Brooklynese, “Out you pixies go. Through the door or out da winda.” Shit, now what movie was that from?
They escorted me outside, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I couldn’t figure out why I was still hearing Patsy Cline singing. If I was hearing it at all. It could’ve just been inside my head like everything else.
I tried to put my feet up and rest, but I was still standing.
Somebody or somebodies huddled me into the backseat of a car.
“Wear…?”
I forgot what I’d been about to say.
Couldn’t have been very important then.
Nothing was very important then.
It gave me a chance to close my eyes and forget.
Sweet forget, how I’ve missed you.
Chapter Eighteen: HIDE NOR HAIR
I came to in a strange room. It reminded me of what it was like to be a baby again, you fall asleep one place and hours later wake up somewhere else entirely.
I sensed I wasn’t alone. I cranked open my eyes. When you live alone, you’re used to waking up alone, so waking up now with two people staring down at me was disturbing.
I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t. I was strapped down to some makeshift operating table. Also disturbing.
Why had I immediately made that snap judgment of ‘operating table’? Because of a chemical smell in the air? Or the greenish glow from a fluorescent ceiling fixture? Or was it the fact that the old man, Mr. Gower, had a pair of latex gloves on and was opening up the package of a brand new syringe?
The blond kid, FL!P, was fidgeting on a metal stool, playing with a set of scales on the marble countertop.
Mr. Gower said to him, “I’ll need your help with this part.” He fitted a new needle onto the tip of the syringe.
FL!P hopped off the stool.
I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up.” I was trying to gather my wits, but it was like reconstructing a blown-apart dandelion. “What’s on the menu?”
Mr. Gower said, “Lie still, we are going to ask you some questions.”
“Ask away. Don’t delay another second. But whatever you’re doing there, stop! You don’t need that, whatever it is. I’m more than willing to tell you whatever you want to know.”
Gower ignored me, spoke to the blond kid.
“Roll up his sleeve.”
I started to struggle. It was only a makeshift set-up, how sturdy could it be?
Pretty damn sturdy. I only got about a centimeter of give out of the straps.
“Hold up!” I said. “Listen, kid, this isn’t good, don’t do this.”
“Just tell us where Michael Cassidy is,” he said.
“Done!” I said.
“You know where she is?”
“Of course.” And this time I wasn’t lying, because suddenly I did know. Knew all along, I guess, just never put it together. Amazing how the threat of death can galvanize one’s mind. Something that had been bothering me earlier finally came into sharp focus. The stuff emptied from my pockets after Michael Cassidy hit me on the head in Owl’s hotel room. Now I knew exactly what’d been missing: the room’s magnetic card key.
“Where is she, then?”
“I’ll take you to her,” I said. “Right now. Just get me out of this thing. There’s no need for—”
“His sleeve,” Mr. Gower blandly repeated himself.
“But,” FL!P began, “I…I think he’s telling the truth.”
Mr. Gower remained perfectly still, holding the hypodermic needle shoulder-high, thumb on the plunger, while at the other end a milky dribble hung suspended. He smiled benignly.
“This will only make certain that what he tells us will be the whole truth. It’s perfectly harmless, I promise you. I believe he might even enjoy the trip.”
“Don’t listen to him, kid! Undo these straps and I’ll take you right over to Michael Cassidy and…and…Law Addison, too!” I said in desperation, falling back on lying since the truth wasn’t setting me free. “Yeh, that’s right, both of them together. Right now.”
Mr. Gower shook his head sadly.
“See what I mean? That’s a lie. We’ll never know the truth unless we do it my way.”
“What do you mean a lie? How the fuck do you know?”
“His sleeve.”
“Stop saying that!”
He stopped saying it, but only because the blond kid was capitulating. He had his hand on my sleeve and was tugging it back, revealing my bare, exposed, naked arm.
“Okay,” Mr. Gower said, extending the needle “this will only take a—”
“Look out, kid!”
I don’t know why I shouted it, reflex I guess, seeing that needle as Gower aimed it at the kid’s upper arm. I had no love for FL!P, but I absolutely hated needles. I didn’t want to get stuck by one and didn’t want anyone else to get stuck either.
Why he believed me, I don’t know. Must’ve heard something in my voice, the urgency, because the kid responded like a whip, flinging himself backwards. He landed on the floor, skidding out of view, screaming up, “What the fuck, old man! You almost stuck that into me!”
“I told you to hold him still,” Mr. Gower tried to explain. “You moved.”
“You tried to stick me! What’s in that?”
“Harmless, I tol—”
“Then stick yourself with it! Sh-uh’ya!”
“Please talk sensibly, just come back here and hold his arm again.”
“Hold this!”
FL!P sprang back up on his feet, holding his skateboard close to his chest like a narrow shield. Then suddenly his arms shot forward with the skateboard jutting straight out. Its edge caught Mr. Gower below the chin in the soft flesh of his throat.
I heard a crunch.
Mr. Gower dropped the syringe. Mr. Gower made hissing noises and scuffled his feet. Mr. Gower sat down on the floor. He didn’t get up again.
The kid was wild-eyed, he was mumbling, murmuring, “Y’see that, y’see that, motherfucker?”
I didn’t want to interrupt, but I urged steadily, “Undo the straps, undo the straps.” He must’ve heard me, because he dropped his board and his fingers began working at the buckles. I heard the wheels of his skateboard freely turning, the steely sound of its ball bearings a familiar one to me, the same sound I heard before something hit me in the basement stairwell.
The kid kept mumbling, “Y’see that, y’see that?”
Yeh, I saw it. And I saw how the wound looked on the old man’s neck, same as the one I’d seen on Luis’ throat.
Unrestrained, I sat up on the table, rubbing my wrists, and asked, “So who is—who was this guy?”
“I never met him before tonight. He came up to me at the party, said he had a way to get you to tell where Michael Cassidy and Law Addison were hidden. He knew all about it, so I thought, what can I lose? All he wanted was help lugging you up here. But he didn’t say nothing about shooting you up with drugs. Or me!”
I stood up, looked around the place as I worked the circulation back into my wrists. It was a mini chemical lab with scales, test tubes, beakers, and Bunsen burners. In addition to equipment were the varied and variegated ingredients for cooking up drugs, including nail polish remover, industrial pesticide, and several household cleansers. There were also piles of tiny glassine envelopes, the sort the post office gives with stamps, and for the same reason: to keep out moisture. The envelopes contained chunks of white powder, the finished product. It was scary what kids will ingest in any white powder form, never stopping to question what made up the substance they snorted, smoked, shot up, or swallowed in a pill, just as long as the longed-for numbness ensued.
Mr. Gower, or whatever his name really was, looked to have been some kind of low-level cook. And judging by how he’d showed up at the hotel this morning, he was probably the person who’d been on the other end of the phone when I’d walked in on Michael Cassidy. He must have been one of her drug suppliers, quite possibly the one who’d concocted the hot bag that took Craig Wales’ life. And he’d been ready to do the same thing to FL!P, and then surely to me, too, once I’d given him whatever information I had. I wouldn’t be shedding any tears over his death.
