David Levien - Where the dead lay

He felt like an express bus broadsided the car. The air went out of it, and him, too. His mind ran in twenty different directions.

“Did you plan on saying anything?” is what came out of his mouth.

“Of course. I didn’t know how. And I was hoping to give what happened to Aurelio some time.”

“I see,” he said, knowing the words weren’t enough, and worse, knowing his tone was all wrong. “How the hell did-”

“How do you think, Frank?”

A cold darkness squeezed his chest so that he was unable to breathe.

“Well, I can see you’re pretty excited about-”

“Susan-”

“What?” Silence settled.

“I don’t know.” He looked at her, pressed against the door, her arms crossed over her chest. He couldn’t tell if she was going to smile or cry. She’d never seemed so small to him. “Well, we should talk about-”

“I’m not raising a kid on my own. I can’t. You know what I’m saying?” she asked.

“I guess so.”

“Does that make me a horrible person?”

“Doesn’t make you anything-”

“So. Sorry, but it’s on you, Frank. You let me know what you want to do. And quick.” With that, in a blur of smooth speed and action, she was out of the car.

Sound track,” Kenny said, leaning up between the front seats and hitting the CD player. A low swaying beat kicked out of the speakers. Notorious B.I.G.’s voice filled the Durango.

“… Glocks and Tecs are expected when I wreck shit,”

“Respect is collected, so check it…,” Kenny rapped along, “I got technique dripping out my butt cheeks, Sleep on my stomach so I don’t fuck up my sheets-”

“Dude, I’ve seen Mom dealing with your sheets,” Charlie cut him off, turning the volume low. “Something’s dripping out on ’em.” Knute laughed in that silent way of his, while Peanut snorted out loud.

“Yeah, and don’t you got any new shit? From some motherfucker who ain’t dead?” Peanut asked. They’d followed his directions to Stringtown, past an endless stretch of by-the-hour screw motels, and parked in a little notch on Belmont where they could see the house on Traub Avenue.

“Biggie’s not dead,” Kenny said. All three heads in the car swiveled toward him.

“What you talkin’ about-,” Peanut said.

“He’s alive. He knew if he stayed in the game, he’d get killed eventually, so he stepped out,” Kenny told them.

“Stepped out?” Peanut asked.

“What the fuck?” Knute said.

“Look at the signs. He practically told everybody he was gonna do it. Albums: No Way Out. Even early on he realizes he’s fucked. Life After Death, he gets the idea. Ready to Die, he puts the plan in action. Then he’s “killed” in an L.A. parking garage. No one apprehended in the shooting. He’s “dead,” but does the music stop? Hell no-”

“Man, they got tracks and tracks laid down in the studio. They only release the best. Then, when they dead, it get valuable so they keep pumping it out. Anyone know that-”

“Oh, sure. But the style changes. It evolves,” Kenny said, sounding sure. “How do you explain that?”

Charlie just shook his head. “Don’t get him started. He can go on for hours.”

“He let his family mourn. He let P. Diddy mourn. Lil’ Kim. Where he at then?” Peanut asked.

“Probably Africa,” Kenny answered.

“Africa, shit!”

“He’d blend in. Live like a king. Think about it…,” Kenny said.

“Look,” Charlie said, pointing to the house. Several cars were now parked in front, and several others were arriving, trolling slowly down the street, searching for spots.

“Diddy probably visits him over there,” Kenny added.

“What about ’Pac? He alive too? His music keep coming out,” Peanut asked, seemingly unable to help himself.

“Nah. Music shows no growth. He’s really dead. Shot in Vegas for real-”

“Guys, shut it,” came Knute’s voice, low and gravelly, and shut it they did. They all watched as people exited their cars and entered the house. From the assortment of race, sex, and age, it looked like an AA meeting or a factory shift change. But it wasn’t.

“Lookit ’em all,” Charlie said.

“If the Latinos and negroids poured all this money back into their communities it would virtually stamp out poverty in the city,” Kenny said.

“Yo, dead that ‘negroid’ shit,” Peanut warned.

“You a social scientist now?” Knute asked.

“I read it in the paper when I was taking a dump,” Kenny laughed.

“I don’t like the approach,” Charlie said. “Too open. I don’t give a fuck about any neighbors,” he went on, referring to the few houses around the one in question. With their broken windows, dirt lawns, and wrecked paint, it was clear they were abandoned. “But it’s a dead-end street.”

Knute nodded. “Car could get boxed in by some late arrival.”

“Uh-uh,” Peanut said, “this was for looks. They’s a back alley. Cut across Belmont over there…”

Charlie glanced back at Peanut in the rearview with a look of near respect.

They reached the head of a shared back alley, pocked by tipped-over garbage cans and spilled refuse, which led to the back of the Traub Avenue house. There was a detached garage, but no cars visible on this side.

“Don’t front in,” Peanut advised, “back on down, then you be ready to leave quick.” Charlie jacked the Durango into reverse and backed quickly and smoothly toward the house. Through the windshield they could see Nixie doing the same with Peanut’s car. Reaching a place he liked, about ten yards from the back door, Charlie put the Durango in park. For a moment there was only silence in the car.

“Well…,” Charlie said.

“Hammah time,” Kenny said, drumming on the back of the seat. His was first, and then the other three doors opened. Kenny went to the back and popped open the rear hatch. He handed Knute an aluminum baseball bat, took a length of pipe filled with iron filings and capped on both ends for himself and a six-battery metal flashlight for Charlie. That was in addition to the. 40 Smith amp; Wesson Sigma Charlie usually had in his belt when they did this.

“You sure you don’t want in? We’ll find you something fun to use

…,” Charlie offered.

Kenny spun his length of pipe like a martial artist and struck a pose out of a chop-socky movie, topping it off with a “Waaahhh.”

“Just the cheese and thirty seconds to fly,” Peanut said. Charlie pulled out the money-ten crisp hundred-dollar bills.

“We’ll talk to you soon about the next one,” Charlie said. “And about that other thing…”

“A’ight,” Peanut said, without much enthusiasm. He took the money and hurried to his car. He got in the passenger seat.

“Go on, dog,” he told Nixie. He glanced out the back in time to see Charlie lock the running Durango with a second key. “Them Schlegels is sick, sick, sick.”

Behr drove as if he could beat the night. After dropping off Susan he hadn’t even gone home. The information she’d laid on him was resting heavy and cold in his gut, and he wasn’t going to be able to sit around on it. He knew the news was the kind that most people reacted to with much happiness. But he wasn’t most people. This was an awareness he dragged around with him every day. He’d had his child. He’d had his wife. He’d experienced the chest-swelling joy that they’d produced. But that had all died, literally and figuratively, and he had been forced to move on to a different kind of life. He knew you’ve got to be bullish, as the financial guys said, on the world to have a kid, and his days of unbridled optimism were long past. His time with Susan was also pretty close to done, of that he was fairly certain. They’d had a good run, but she was just a kid, and if he stared it down in an honest light, this is the way it had to end sometime.