David Corbett - The Devil’s Redhead

Through the floorboards Shel heard the drunken tottering steps, the sotted lunge onto the bed, the murmured negotiations. “Hey, call me Roger,” the man slurred, then came the scattering of belts and shoes and clothing around the room and shortly the yawning groans and yelps and the rhythmic knocking of the bed against the wall.

She went out for a trick, Shel realized. She must’ve worked a bar. Otherwise why bring him back here? And she didn’t just want her rate, she wanted every cent he had on him, so a car job wouldn’t cut it. Bring him back here, promise him something special. She’ll make it quick, he was drunk to begin with, she’ll wait till he nods off then roll him. Leave him here to sleep it off. Grab Duval and disappear. In my truck, Shel thought, staring at the ceiling.

She’d been unable to attempt the stairs, too weak, too much in pain, her limbs too soupy from pills. The cinder-block cellar walls smelled clammy and felt cold; a grave vault came to mind. She recoiled from the morbidity. Come on, girl, buck up. The pain does these things, she thought. The pain and the fear, they’re the evil sidekicks in this episode. Which reminded her. She dug the prescription bottle out of her pocket, fought with the cap using first her fingers then her teeth, and swallowed the first three pills that materialized. A Haldol, another Pavulon, one of the green jobs. The pills went down slow and dry.

Come on, she thought. It was time for something to happen.

As things grew quiet in the bedroom above, Shel renewed her search of the junk piled up on a bookshelf against the cellar wall. She’d already ransacked everything within reach, cardboard cartons, suitcases, shoe boxes. The object of interest was the amethyst Danny had given her in San Diego that first week after they met. She wanted to wear it from here on out, whatever happened. If Danny came to ID her body she wanted him to find it among her effects.

She thought it through as best she could, the move to this house, where she’d put what, and finally it came to her. She’d hidden it in a hatbox filled with snapshots, along with Danny’s letters. She’d put the box in the crawl space where Frank wouldn’t go rummaging around for it.

She looked up. Crawl space, dead ahead. Mustering the strength from a reservoir of will she feared was almost empty, she dragged herself up to the low concrete wall. Tongue between her teeth, she propped one knee onto the crawl space ledge, reaching as far as her fingernails could get her. The hatbox tottered from its perch atop a steamer truck, then fell open, spilling pictures. Letters. The black felt box.

Several car doors slammed outside. Withdrawing her hand from the crawl space, she listened. Scurrying down, she shambled to the window well, grabbed a stepladder near the wall and struggled up three rungs so she could peer out. The glass was filthy. She wiped the grime away with her fist, craning to see.

It wasn’t Felix. It wasn’t Dayball or Tully, either, or Roy or his brothers or even Frank.

Six dark men. They wore gray suits. Two of them carried valises. They marched across the gravel toward the house.

She heard the front door splinter off its hinges from one hard kick and Duval screamed in the living room. It sounded less like the scream of a child than the shriek of a bird. Rowena slammed out of the bedroom, running toward the sound and then she was screaming, too, her voice twice as hideous as the boy’s. The sound of blows and angry shouts in Spanish, then the rubbery screech of duct tape and the screams were stifled to whimpers. The men rushed about the house, searching rooms. Duval and Rowena got dragged to the kitchen, thrown to the floor. “Puta madre,” a man cackled. The other men laughed, followed by the muffled shriek of a silenced weapon fired six times- three in rapid succession, a moment later three again- then the same sound slightly softer, as though through a pillow, from the bedroom above. Call me Roger, she thought.

She watched the ceiling, trying to swallow and envisioning the footsteps seeping blood through the floor. The Mexicans, she thought. Christ. How’d they find out about this place? They must’ve captured Roy, or Snuff. Or Frank. This wasn’t part of the bargain, she thought. I didn’t come back for this.

Clambering into the crawl space, she scraped her elbows and knees against the concrete. She shoved the letters and snapshots back into the hatbox and stuffed it behind the steamer trunk where it wouldn’t be seen. Then she grabbed the black felt box and scrambled on, wanting the amethyst now more than ever. Reaching the far wall, she tucked her knees to her chest, pressed the felt box to her heart and prayed for luck.

The stairwell stood directly across from the crawl space opening, so Shel could watch as the cellar door eased open. Two men descended slowly in the harsh lamplight. Shel watched them appear, glistening black shoes, neat gray suits. The Tigers of Bacchus. The smaller one had a lithe, wiry, tap-dancer body. A birthmark erupted from his eyebrow like a smear. The other one was huge, dough-faced, cracking his neck as he walked, like a fighter. With the toes of their shoes they nudged the suitcases, boxes, scattered debris, moving it out of their path.

The large one spotted the cubbyhole first. He tugged at the little one’s sleeve and pointed. They eased apart. From different sides of the room they advanced warily. Each man held his weapon against his leg. Their faces in the light, the eyes in particular, glistened from the bare bulb. The eyes were stony and tense and a little afraid. It made Shel like them just a little, a tremble of hope, they were human after all, like her. Afraid.

“I’ve got no beef with you,” she shouted, trying to claw herself further back into the crawl space. Her voice echoed in the cramped surround. The two men stepped closer.

From his pocket, the larger one withdrew a Baggie filled with chalky crystal, lobbing it gently in one hand. Upstairs, to the tune of “Ave Maria,” one of the others crooned the epitaph Vaya con Dios , laughing as the syllables and the melodic line coincided. Shel inched back, pressing herself against the cold wall, staring at the bony disfigured man squinting at her as though wondering if he knew her. Under her breath, she heard herself tell him, “Be civilized.”

The little one reached into his coat pocket and removed a photograph. Studying it briefly, he murmured something then passed it to the larger one, who held the Baggie between his teeth in order to free his hand. He took the picture, studied it, nodded, and handed it back. The little one gestured for Shel to come nearer.

It occurred to her then what a merciful gesture it must have been: one moment, Amethyst fleeing in terror. The next, turned to stone.

Abatangelo lay the Sirkis on the seat beside him as he drove out the Delta Highway. He couldn’t shake the feeling that having it there was a sign of weakness. An indication of how much, as Cohn put it, he’d changed. In the old days, he’d driven cross-country with a trunk full of product, put down beach crew mutinies, settled scores with wholesalers trying to rob him blind. He’d never felt the need for a weapon till now. He’d been a natural at talking people down from stupid moves and besides, he was blessed, he could walk away, it was only money. Such was the insanity of youth and luck.

He headed down the gravel access road with his lights off. As he broke the first hill and the ranch house came into view he killed the motor, shifted into neutral and let the car glide. When it came to a stop he slipped it into park and dropped the gun into his pocket. Crouching, he ran toward the house.

Something was wrong with the door. It stood crooked in the frame, listing slightly in the porchlight. Moving closer, he saw that the hinge leaves were shorn from the doorjamb.