Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

“Men are the gory ones,” he said. “Put a couple more years into the job and you’ll see that I’m right.”

The other man didn’t say anything.

“Or you can read the research.”

Kyle’s car still protruded from the end of the driveway, although all the doors were now open and a man was poking around inside of it.

“Women like pills or poison, like they’re fucking Cleopatra or someone. Dainty even in death.” The man laughed, but the other officer silently continued to inspect the scene.

“After a little while, when the blood begins to settle and the skin turns black, no one stays dainty too long.”

One police car had its lights flashing, but the siren was turned off. The front tire of the ambulance had ridden over the curb and was partially sucked into the wet soil of Kyle’s lawn.

The man sipped his coffee; he seemed mildly amused.

“Women want to do it from the inside out; keep their image intact. Men,” he said, and now he was actually smiling, as if entertained by his own wit, “they do it from the outside in. With guns or knives. And they always do at least one test cut. Practice wounds.” He turned now, to address the other man. “One time, around last Christmas — Christmas is the season for this kind of shit, you know — this one fucker took his circular saw—” he said, but he abruptly stopped talking when he noticed the three boys standing directly behind him. His smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. The officer moved toward the boys, but they backed away.

“Come here,” he snapped.

Ray already turned around and started running, while the boy with the camera kept pace beside him. The officer struck a stance as if he would spring out after them, but he simply watched them running away. He was still holding his cup of coffee. The two boys laughed as they ran. The fat boy was long gone, furiously peddling his bike far ahead in the distance.

“Did you see that cocksucker?” the officer said. “He had a camera on me.”

But the other officer still didn’t say anything. He stepped away from the back of the car. He moved slowly, as if nothing could possibly interest him, especially the other man or the boys. The brown bag was on the ground beside the curb; the man picked up the bag and without opening it, walked back and handed it to the first officer, who set his coffee down on the trunk of the car.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“They dropped it.”

The first officer looked into the bag and smiled.

“Those bastards,” he said. Laughing, he pulled out several thick glossy magazines. On one cover, a skinny girl — with her head back, her skin pulled tightly over her ribcage, and her breasts rising up her chest, caught in motion, an action shot — was mounted upon a penis as thick as her own forearm. On another cover, a young girl grinned with a mixture of drunkenness and content as cum bubbled out of the corner of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. There were several other magazines, and the two men quickly began to shuffle through them.

Excited and greedy, one man pulled. “Give me that one.”

“I like her.”

The girl was on all fours.

“Daddy’s princess.”

The men laughed.

XIII

Small amid the towering buildings, the boy walked along a crowded sidewalk, and with every step, his wounded foot dragged upon the cement. Two women were reading a menu posted on a glass door. When the boy came up to them, he appeared to regard them as no more than cardboard cutouts because he began to shoulder his way between them. He made little grunting noises. One of the women instinctively hoisted her purse, like a football, under her arm.

“Hey, now,” she said, looking down at him.

The boy didn’t seem to hear her.

The two women stepped apart, to let him through. As soon as he passed them, the women turned their attention back to the menu.

The boy continued along the sidewalk. He was dressed in a set of navy green sweat clothes that were a little too big on him. Although his hair was neatly parted to the side, something in his hazel eyes made him appear unkempt, almost savage. He looked at the passing faces, with a broad gaze that simultaneously devoured and yet dismissed the faces. He walked up to a bakery. Wicker baskets of bread were displayed in the window. When the boy pulled the door open, a tiny bell tinkled. A young, dark haired girl looked down at him from behind the counter, apparently frustrated by the sight of him.

“Oh, God,” she said.

“The man,” the boy said fiercely, as if giving her a command.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“The man.” The boy turned his gaze from the young girl to a seating area where there were several tall, marble-topped tables and stools with black cushioned seats. A man with a gray beard lifted his head up from a book. A pair of adolescent students, both with backpacks, ceased talking and looked at the boy.

“The man,” he demanded of the customers, but they simply watched him with vague interest.

“Why do you keep coming in here?” The girl had her hands flat on the countertop. “I just gave you a bagel a few minutes ago. I’m going to have to call someone if you don’t stop coming in here and screaming like that.”

“Hey,” the boy said, “hey,” as if the girl had turned away from him. “The man.”

“I’m calling someone.” She stepped back from the counter and lifted the phone from the wall. “See,” she said. “You’re going to get in trouble.”

“Hey,” the boy persisted, with rapid bursts. “Hey. Hey. The man!”

He then turned and walked briskly toward the door, putting his weight upon the heel of his wounded foot. Apparently oblivious to any threat, he yanked the door open. The bell tinkled once as he left the shop.

The man with the beard suddenly stood up.

“Call the police.”

The young girl, as much fearful as confused, was still holding the phone, her eyes wide and her mouth partly open.

“Call them,” the man barked at the girl.

He stepped away from his table and started toward the door. He paused, however, in midstride to explain. “His neck’s all bruised.” He then hurried out the door, but less than a minute later, he returned.

“He must’ve ran or something.”

The girl was leaning over the counter, to get a better view of the door.

“I didn’t see his neck,” she said quickly. “I didn’t know.” Her bottom lip began to quiver, as if she might begin to cry. “I didn’t—”

XIV

In a car lot bordered by a high metal fence, a man in beige coveralls was squatting beside the battered station-wagon. He placed his hand upon the front tire.

“And what do you think I want with it?” the man asked. He had a round face and a dark complexion.

Ralph took a pack of cigarettes out of the interior pocket of his suit jacket, brought the pack up to his mouth, tapped its bottom, and pulled out a cigarette with his lips. He put the pack away and then lit the cigarette with a silver lighter.

“Tires are all bald, the hoses are brittle, and it’s burning oil something fierce,” the man said.

“Yes,” Ralph said, smoking his cigarette and staring out over the rows of cars. He had gauze and white surgical tape wrapped around his knuckles.

“This isn’t worth anything,” the man said.

“Well, how much will you give me for it?”

“It’s not worth anything.” The man stood up and patted the hood of the car, as if to prove his point.

“Five hundred,” Ralph said.

“I’ll give you a dollar to drive it out of here.” The man smiled with his broad mouth and fleshy, burgundy lips.

“Five hundred.” Ralph exhaled the cigarette smoke, apparently indifferent to the man’s humor.