Pulp Ink Part 26

Funk said, "Uh-huh." To the cute girl who handed him his coffee, "Thank you very much." He put a five in the tip jar.

Mal said, "Supposedly, Louis was looking to deal himself in with the compet.i.tion."

Funk said, "Which compet.i.tion?"

Mal and Bronson shrugged.

Funk said, "Uh-huh." He held the door open for them to the street.

Mal said, "Anyways, he went and got himself killed, regardless. Romano lost no sleep over it."

Funk said, "Did you?"

Mal looked at him.

Funk said, "I'm just trying to gauge how well liked the guy was, is all."

Bronson said, "He was a buddy of ours. So, no, it wasn't cool. But, yn'-know." He shrugged. "s.h.i.+t happens."

Mal said, "Agatha was his girlfriend. She just kinda disappeared after that. No one's seen her since." He shrugged. "I hadn't even thought of her since."

Funk said, "Uh-huh. And when was this?"

Bronson said, "h.e.l.l, almost ten years ago. And that's what's really weird. Y'know, why now?"

Funk said, "Ours is not to reason why. You remember where this Agatha lives?"

Mal said, "Banker's Hill someplace."

Bronson said, "Yeah, if we drive around a while, I'll bet we can find it."

Funk said, "I thought Mrs. Laliot.i.tis said Hillcrest."

Mal said, "She said near Hillcrest. Banker's Hill is near Hillcrest."

Funk smiled. "Then, near Hillcrest it is."

13. Midtown Positioning System Funk drove up 5th out of Downtown, until Bronson told him to turn left at Upas. They cruised down the street, Mal and Bronson looking hard at all the apartment complexes. Bronson told him to turn left at 2nd.

Funk drove down 2nd until it dead-ended just past Quince. He turned the Taurus around, turned left on Quince, and then stopped at 1st.

Funk said, "Left or right?"

Mal shrugged.

Bronson said, "Ummm... left. No, right."

Funk turned right, started back up towards Hillcrest. Bronson turned in his seat as they crossed Spruce, said, "Know what? I think that was it back there. You see it, Mal? That yellow building?"

Mal said, "I remember it being green before."

Bronson said, "Yeah, I think they repainted it."

Funk turned right on Spruce, made a quick three-point turn, went back down1st.

Bronson said, "Yeah, that's it there, man. She lived in one of the bas.e.m.e.nt studios."

Funk turned left on Redwood and parked. He looked back over his shoulder at the building, said, "Nice place."

14. Les Jeux Sont Faits The building looked like it had been a big old house converted into apartments years back. Bronson pointed to their right as they approached. There was a wooden staircase at the side of the house that led down. In front of it was a heavy security gate, like a big thick screen door with a deadbolt on it. Mal tried the k.n.o.b. Nothing.

Funk and Mal knotted their fingers and boosted Bronson over the gate. Mal glanced over his shoulder as Bronson opened the gate for them.

Funk pointed at Bronson, pointed at his eyes, pointed at the street. Bronson nodded. He closed the gate, holding the k.n.o.b open until it was in the jamb.

Funk and Mal stepped down the stairs. The windows into the bas.e.m.e.nt apartment at their left all had the blinds drawn. At the foot of the stairs were two doors.

Funk looked at Mal.

Mal nodded at the left-hand door.

Funk nodded, knocked on the right-hand one.

Mal frowned at him.

Funk winked. He knocked on the right-hand one again, louder.

The left-hand door opened a crack.

Funk drew his pistol from his jacket and fired.

15. Les Jeux Even More Sont Faits The wood splintered off the door jamb. Funk pushed the door all the way open with his foot. Mal just stood there.

Funk stepped inside over the girl splayed out on the floor. She had her hand to her neck, and blood dribbled from between her fingers.

Funk said, "Hey. Hey!"

Mal looked at him.

Funk said, "That her?"

Mal looked down at the girl's face. It was Agatha all right. Her eyes looked past him, just over his shoulder.

Mal looked at Funk, nodded.

Funk grabbed a big stuffed bear off her Murphy bed and placed it over her face. He held the gun to the bear's stomach and fired twice more.

Funk said, "Let's go."

16. Asking Questions Later Funk said, "You all right?" He lit a cigarette and cracked his window.

Mal shrugged.

Funk said, "You just look a little green, is all." He smiled at his rearview. "Both of you."

Mal said, "Just caught a little off-guard, I guess."

Funk laughed, said, "You weren't the only one. Right?"

Mal and Bronson said nothing.

Funk said, "Look, you guys, problem is solved. Am I right?"

Mal shrugged.

Bronson said, "Yeah, I guess. But s.h.i.+t, man. It was all... y'know, I guess I thought you were gonna, like... f.u.c.kin' interrogate her or something."

Funk laughed, said, "You guys watch too many cop shows." He sipped on his iced coffee. "Look, you guys are all right, man. I couldn't have done it without you. I mean that. And now the working day is done. Right?"

Mal shrugged. Bronson said nothing.

Funk pitched his cigarette out the window, said, "Hey, who's hungry?"

Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, CA. For more, please visit attentionchildren.blogspot.com. Many thanks for notes and edits to Cameron Ashley, Josh Converse, Garnett Elliott and Matthew C. Funk.

The Only One Who Could Ever Reach Me.

By Matt Lavin.

You wish Freddy would shove his G.o.dd.a.m.ned fist in his mouth and choke on it. Instead, he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his gray hoody and flashes you a nasty, tobacco-toothed grin.

"Glad you're here, Greg," he says. "I need some sleep."

You nod. Freddy has been the night guy for years. He came in when Duane moved to swing s.h.i.+ft to replace Hugo. That said, the long trail of snot on Freddy's arm is probably the most personal detail you've ever gleaned from him, and it's more than you ever wanted to know. Every aspect of his existence is disgusting to you. He is fat and ign.o.ble and perpetually wiping bodily fluids on wrinkled, unwashed clothing. Once, you swore you saw a footprint on his jeans.

As the door shuts behind him, you let out a long sigh. Were you holding your breath in antic.i.p.ation, or to avoid the stink? Try as you might, you can't imagine a scenario to produce such an odor. A possum s.h.i.+t milkshake left out overnight wouldn't come close. The industrial runoff from a Denny's in Pakistan would pale in comparison to the scent that wafts off Freddy's back fat.

f.u.c.k this daydream. The point is that he's gone and you're glad. Well, glad is an overstatement. You work in a dark, cold room with a hallway that leads to an endless set of darker, colder rooms. A series of dull lights mark the hallway, but they only remind you how dark it is everywhere else. But you are less miserable with Freddy gone.

You stare at nothing and listen to the sound of water dripping from leaky pipes. Your only job is to remain vigilant. No TV, no music. Get caught breaking the rules and somebody breaks you.

For the most part, you sit at your desk and listen to the dripping. Six days a week, the sound is rhythmic and unrelenting. On Fridays, the screams drown out the dripping noise, but you try not to think about that. As if the Doctor would know you were thinking of him and come for you.

The torture and Freddy's back fat aside, what it really comes down to is this: you do your f.u.c.king job. You sit. You ask no questions. You get paid. End of story. You do not worry about the men and women in the cages, who they are what they did. You do not bring home teeth to start a collection. You do not leer at the naked and crusty old woman in cell three and fling your s.p.u.n.k on her quivering, diseased backside like Freddy probably does. You sit. You ask no questions. You get paid. You do your f.u.c.king job.

A commotion rises outside. The scuffle of feet hitting pavement and shoulders b.u.mping the hallway walls. Your heart races. Only one thing that happens unscheduled in a place like this, and it's been weeks since the last one: a new arrival.

A long, flat buzz echoes through the hallway, signaling that the door is about to open. You hear the door unlocking. You catch a quick look at them as they hustle past your desk, down the hallway toward the cells. They wear black jumpsuits and masks. None of them address you, nor do they make eye contact. You count five team members, same as always. The new arrival has a hood over his head. His arms are bound behind his back.

As they rush him past, you get only a quick look at him, but it is enough to notice something rare and remarkable. He lumbers along, resisting with all his might, despite the fact that he is most certainly altered, drugged up. Not a hint of filth or pestilence or cowardice emanating from his form. He is almost pure anomaly: muscular, thick through the chest but well-toned. Young and unbroken. Nothing like the rest of them.

The team leaves without as much as a nod in your direction. You tell yourself they are all a.s.sholes, anyway.

You have to admit you are curious about the newbie. Any time now, you could walk over and look at the newbie in his cell, but you don't. No hurry.

At noon, you get to your feet and make the rounds. You gather a stack of five freeze-dried meals from the supply closet and dole them out, then go back for another stack of five. Two a day for the rest of their lives. You try not to count the number of prisoners, but it's impossible. The number finds its way into your head like a snake seeking warmth. Sometimes you catch a glance of a prisoner through a service slot. Always the silhouette of a ghoulish figure, hunched and foul, scurrying away from the sliver of light that the slot lets into the cell.

You ready yourself with food for the new prisoner. He's fresh; the newbies sometimes try to grab your wrist through the opening. Not so with this one. His cell is silent; he sits with his back against the damp masonry.

"You," he whispers as you slide the meal in. "Help me."

The words ask for help, but his voice is strong. He is calm and unafraid. No, he isn't begging for anything. More like he's offering you a chance do yourself a favor by helping him.

The only sign of vulnerability is the way he's breathing. Deep but rapid breaths, like he isn't getting enough air. You wonder what's wrong with him.

"My name's John," he tries. "What's yours?"

Speaking to the prisoners is strictly forbidden. You don't know how they know when you break the rules, but they know, they just know. Cameras maybe, but you've never seen any.

Hugo broke the rules. Brought an mp3 player to work. When he relieved you at four, he was holding the f.u.c.king thing in his hands like he just brought a new puppy home for the kids. That was the last time you saw Hugo. But you try not to think about that.

Your eyes return to the newbie. John. You wonder what he did to cross the Krechniak Family. Most of them owed money or knew something they shouldn't. Some die here. Others, they let go, only to gun them down a day later. You're only certain that ending up here means the death of all hope. The sound of water from leaky pipes is just mood music.

On the way to work, you tell yourself it was just a dream. You were in John's cell and you were a prisoner instead of a guard. You were in John's and he was in yours and you couldn't breathe and no one would help you. But it didn't mean anything.

John does not leave your thoughts. That dark, penetrating stare. He never takes his eyes off you.

At work, you notice Freddy is wearing the same gray hoody and jeans he had on the other day, snot stains and all. Jesus Christ.

The f.u.c.ker seems more animated than usual. You haven't seen him since the newbie arrived a few days ago. He rises to his feet as you enter the receiving area.

"This new one's something else, ain't he?" he says.

You nod.

"Clean cut."

You say yep and nod as he goes on and on. You picture Freddy with a long, fat gash across his face. If you weren't a coward, you would consider killing him. You can't imagine anyone more deserving, nor anyone missing him.