Ace Atkins - Dark End of the Street

The sound of his breathing matched my own blood before I got up and walked from the room. I knew it was the only thing that would help him tonight. And I hated that. I hated myself for not being more observant if someone was following us or for not arriving five minutes earlier.

Out in the hall, I grabbed Abby’s hand and dragged her down a linoleum hallway to the elevator. “I want you to pack your things,” I said. All the different rooms and hallways made me feel dizzy and small. A rock formed behind my voice box.

“What about-?”

“We’re going back to Memphis.”

RANSOM WAS PISSED. In all the years Perfect had known his broken-down butt she’d never known him to take a loss so hard. So she shot and killed some old black woman. Who cared? She knew Ransom wanted to find out about where to find her brother, but it was his damned fault he didn’t allow Perfect to work with her own talents. His moronic hick-ass thought a gun could do all the work. She wanted to tell him this wasn’t the ‘sixties as he continued to lecture them from the flatbed of his pickup truck parked in some Tunica cotton field. She wanted to tell him she needed time to learn about that old woman’s faults and desires. This was sophomore crap and she would not stay here and listen to how it should’ve worked.

“Goddamn it!” Ransom yelled, throwing a rock into a few acres of flat poured concrete as dawn crept over the cotton fields and his casino to the east. Early day was a strange time. They were tired as hell from the drive from NOLA but dawn brought a weird electricity to Perfect, almost like those tingling vibes before you make love.

“If that’s all you can say, I’m gone,” Perfect said, walking back to the rental.

He leaped off the flatbed, black leather jacket and one of those silk black shirts old men prefer, and came right to her, gripping his fingers into her shoulders, so hard it made her jaws clamp. “That boy saved us back there. We don’t need a damn screw-up right now. Do you know how big this is?”

“No,” she said, clawing her long red nails into his hairy hands. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell us. Why don’t you tell us why you’re so fuckin’ obsessed with some street-walking nigger?”

He grunted and walked back to his truck. The haze of the morning all dewy and crisp. The cotton popped and made swishing sounds in the rich dirt.

“I’m through with this,” she said. “I don’t work like some kind of street-trash criminal. When have I ever lost for you? Ever? What about that family who sold you the land where we’re now standin’? What about the Baptist preacher who knew all about that police detective and his problems with little girls?”

He shook his head. “There is no time.”

“Time for what? For doing a job right?”

“I don’t know who my enemies are,” he said. She studied the acne scars on his reddened skin. “I don’t know who they are. But the one thing I know is that they can use this man against me. He should’ve been dead thirty years ago.”

“I’m done,” she said. “This is not what I do.”

“You selfish little bitch. Aren’t you the same one who got your panties all wet at the Grove wanting to kill? You said you wanted to learn another talent, or some shit.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

“That was one man,” Perfect said, chewing on a loose cuticle. “He disrespected me at the casino.”

Ransom let out such a laugh that it echoed all around them in the clearing of trees. He put his hands on his hips, all loose and craggy in the face, and said, “Well, shit. You want to put a bullet in that boy for hog-tying you? That is professional… Miss Coahoma County.”

She looked away.

Jon remained on the hood of his rental. He toyed with his beard; he’d lost the hat and rain slicker around Vicksburg. His movements jolted and jumpy after he’d taken about fifteen more of those white pills on the way back. Singing Elvis songs along with a tape he’d bought at a truck stop over the Louisiana border. She told him if he didn’t slow down his heart would bust.

Ransom walked to the edge of the poured concrete and looked into the air as if he were imagining the way the new casino would take shape, like he could see all the neon, hear the slots, and smell all that nasty money in his mind.

“I quit,” she said.

He nodded, toeing the edge of the concrete. It wasn’t all the way dry and he made an indentation with his crocodile boots. He smoothed the edge away with his heel and grinned that all-knowing crooked smile at her.

“Them ripples kind of disappear.”

Her heart kind of changed gears for a moment, like a transmission shooting loose in her chest.

“How ’bout you stay the night?”

“I have to go.”

“With what? My boys are takin’ that car right now and lettin’ it loose in the projects. You been on the road all night. Take a room.”

“Where’s my car?”

He shrugged.

She said: “Your mind is crippled.”

“I don’t like fuckups. I talked to the boy. I don’t like folks who can’t control themselves. You gonna make me screw up this whole thing. That man is lost in Memphis and she was the only damned link.”

“What about Travers?”

“Our boy is takin’ care of him.”

“You don’t even know Jon. He’s crazy. He takes pills like vitamins and prays to Elvis like he’s Jesus Christ. Yeah, boy, that’s gonna work out just great.”

“Take a room, sister,” he said, cleaning the gray concrete off his polished boots.

He moved his hand up to her waist and she caught his wrist in her long, narrow fingers. He stretched his hand over the rim of her low-riding pants and hooked his thumb into her thong underwear. “Think we could all use a rest.”

She looked at the concrete.

She looked at the road map of a face and the brittle black beard. His breath smelled of cigars and butter.

When she glanced back to the car, Jon had noticed Ransom.

But he looked away the only time she really wanted to see his eyes. Needed to see his eyes.

Jon Burrows had cast her away.

Even before he saw her walk from the room later that morning, Jon could smell her. That sickly sweet smell like magnolia leaves when they get all mushy and brown. Decaying and ripe with tired sex. She wore a real slutty look about her, too. A halter top made out of black leather, and matching pants. High heels made out of clear plastic. Her blond hair was moussed up and combed straight back and behind her ears. Every damned thing about her looked fast. Speed. All slicked up and ready to go.

He felt his leg start twitchin’ in the little cove where they kept Coke and candy machines. That ole ice maker hummin’ at the same speed as his heart.

He watched her walk down the long hallway and take the stairs, silent as hell because none of the rooms on the floor was bein’ used by payin’ folks. He followed. The carpet of gold flowers swimming in blue made his head hurt. He imagined he was walkin’ on the sea as he caught the door before it clicked shut. Barely. Just a low tick as he pulled it wide and heard Perfect’s heels clicking down the stairs.

He watched her head getting smaller and smaller. Two floors. Three.

Blood in his ears. Teeth grittin’ in his head.

Three floors down in this damned motel. Ransom’s room.

He waited till he heard the metal door click and he ran down the steps. His bare feet not makin’ a sound. He was invisible. Floatin’. Peformin’ the miracles and usin’ the talent He’d left him.

He opened the door, peered into the long hallway. Same carpet. White, low walls. Smell of fresh paint. Same hum of the ice maker. Same hum in his heart.