Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“I’d better be going. Way past my bedtime.” I push away from the table. So does she.

The music is a little quieter now and the bar has turned more lights on. They want us to leave too.

“You want to share a taxi?” she suggests.

I was about to suggest a similar thing. “Sure.”

The night is still warm on account of the breeze. The night-clubbing population has dropped by around half. Others are floating up and down the streets, looking stoned and drunk. Several of them are coagulating in fast-food stores that make thousands at this time of night. A few are looking for fights. Some are just looking for something to do. The taxi stands have long lines.

“Shall we walk?” I ask.

She takes my arm to steady herself. She’s drunk far more than me, and that was the plan. “I don’t see why not, Joe.”

I carry my jacket over my arm so she isn’t leaning against the gun or knife. Then I ask the all-important question. “Which way?” I ask.

“Where do you live, Joe?” she says, giving the all-important answer.

“Not too far away. An hour or so if we walk.”

“Let’s start walking.”

I keep my arm around Melissa, and we’re walking, but the distance to my house doesn’t seem to be closing. I’m thinking about where I’m going to dump her body. Maybe at the faggot’s house. I can imagine his face. One morning he wakes up to crumbs and an empty Coke can, the next he wakes up to a corpse. We keep moving at an even pace, but for every step we take, our destination takes another pace away. After a while Melissa takes off her shoes and starts carrying them. She must be one of those women who chooses style over comfort. I’m nowhere near drunk, but there’s still a small amount of gin floating around my brain because things aren’t as sharp as they ought to be. Melissa is way beyond it. I feel like we’ve been walking forever, but she’s probably thinking five minutes have gone by.

We stumble west. Follow the roads. The ratio of hookers per corner slowly decreases until there are no hookers at all. We make clever conversation on the way, but it’s mostly me telling her about the case. An occasional taxi passes us, but we don’t bother trying to wave it down. The scenery starts to change, from new town houses painted funky colors to run-down homes with broken windows and doors covered in some kind of funky mold. Unkempt lawns and pieces of abandoned cars killing off patches of grass. Newspapers and advertising circulars litter the front yards.

After half an hour Melissa starts to complain that she’s getting cold, so I give her my jacket. It’s like getting Candy to carry my briefcase. It’s exciting to watch them carrying the weapon about to kill them. I imagine it’d be like getting somebody to dig their own grave.

“There’s a gun in there,” I say. The alcohol has dulled my mind, but it hasn’t taken the edge off the excitement.

“You’re kidding me.”

I shake my head. “It’s a Glock nine-millimeter automatic.”

“You carry a gun?”

“Standard law enforcement issue.”

“Wow.”

Nothing about my automatic is standard. The Glock 17 was issued to the New Zealand police, but isn’t carried by many officers. It fires seventeen rounds and weighs over a pound and a half. It’s made from a synthetic that’s stronger than steel and nearly ninety percent lighter. The gun itself contains a mere thirty-three parts.

“Can I see it?”

Mine, however, is the Glock 26. The basics are the same, but it’s lighter and far more compact. Much easier to conceal.

“I shouldn’t take it out.”

“I would really like to see it, Joe. And touch it.”

I’d like her to see it and touch it.

“Plus there’s nobody else around,” she says.

She’s right. We’re all alone out here. Well, if she wants to see it, who am I to object?

As I reach around her waist, she nuzzles her face into the side of my neck. Her breath is hot on my skin. Her lips flick against me. I unzip the pocket, take hold of Mr. Glock, and bring him out.

She leans away, looks at it, and repeats a previous sentiment. “Wow.”

I hand it to her. She studies the handle, the stainless-steel slide, the dark blue steel frame. It’s a nice gun. Some would say a ladies’ gun.

Well, sure. I’ve only ever used it on ladies.

“You ever shot anybody?”

I shrug. Look at the uncocking safety lever on the side. “A couple of times.”

“My God. I bet you killed them, huh?”

She’s looking the most excited she’s been all night. Some women love the element of danger. Some live for it. Some die. “It’s part of the job,” I tell her.

She puts her small hand around the handle, points it ahead, into the street. “Pow!”

“Pow indeed.”

It’s time to get the pistol back.

“Is it loaded?”

“Uh huh.”

The Glock, as I said, cost me a lot of money. That makes it difficult for me to be parted from it. I’m sober enough to identify that.

“German made, huh? Germans have the highest quality.”

I shake my head and lean my hand out to grab it. They do have the highest quality.

“Austrian,” I say. “Made guns for the Austrian army. They first started supplying them to Norway and Sweden, until the United States came into the picture. Then things really took off. Law enforcement agencies all over the world use Glocks.”

“You know your stuff.”

Sure, I know something about guns. I know if you use jacketed hollow-point bullets, you can make a real mess. The bullet has an opening in the jacket and, on impact, the bullet expands. Small penetration. Huge exit. Yep. I sure know that. Bonded hollow-point bullets can go through the person and carry on, sometimes hitting the next person down the line. The bullets in my Glock are fairly standard. They don’t do a lot of damage, and many law enforcement places don’t use them for that reason. They have a low stopping power.

I take the gun from her. Fold my fingers around the handle. Feels good.

“Feel safer now?” I ask.

“It feels so good holding the gun. Like there’s so much power in my hands. I like holding on to powerful things, Joe. I like touching things that go bang.”

I don’t know what to say.

“How much further, Joe? I’m anxious to start doing other things instead of walking.”

I’m anxious too. “Not far.”

I tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans and pull my shirttail out to cover it. A few minutes later we come across a park only a half mile or so from home.

“It’s quicker if we go through here,” I say, indicating the park with a sweeping gesture of my arm.

“You sure?”

I nod. Of course I’m sure. Nothing here except us and a whole lot of grass and a few dozen trees. Dawn is on its way. There won’t be any traffic for a few hours yet. Saturday is sleep-in morning for most. Only a few poor bastards have to work.

I’m not one of them.

The sky above becomes crazy with purple light as the dawn begins to intersect with the night. In the park everything is hazy gray, but not black. The breeze has cooled down since we started walking and become refreshing; the air no longer feels like the inside of an indoor swimming complex. Away from town, away from the drunken lights and insulting music, there’s just fresh air and this green park that is damp beneath my feet. This is the Garden City. My city. It feels invigorating to be away from the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and vomit, though a faint odor of it all is trapped in the fibers of my clothes. My ears are still ringing from the loud music.

I take Melissa deeper into the park. She’s still carrying her shoes. The grass is slightly slippery. It licks at the top of my shoes and wets the leather. Thick patches of trees and bushes break up the landscape, dividing the park into separate areas and hiding us from the street. At this time of the night it no longer feels like summer, but the autumn it’s supposed to be. Melissa has her arm around my waist. I sense she is beginning to sober up. Within a few more minutes she’ll be scared sober.