Kick

  “Do you call him every day?” I said, throwing it back at him.

  He snorted.

  “Mr. York trusts me cuz I keep it tight. I don’t mess up, cuttin’ on college kids near a house—oh, he know about that one by the way. Saw it in the paper, and when I told him about those shoes he about flipped. You best call him or he just gonna get madder.”

  “I lost his number.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Man, your memory all messed up.”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cheap phone. The kind you buy at 24-hour drugstores, pre-paid. He dialed it for me and handed it over.

  Someone picked up after two rings.

  “Yeah?” A man said, sounding annoyed.

  “Sup, Mr. York,” I said.

  Dipshit crowded close, watching my face and trying to listen in.

  “Just shut up right there,” Mr. York said. “I don’t wanna hear it. I want you over here now—both of you.”

  He hung up.

  “Man,” I said. “He sure sounded mad at you.”

  “What? What the fuck I do? What he say?”

  I shrugged, letting him worry. I thought I had an idea what was going on, or close enough that whatever details I missed didn’t matter. But this time around, on this ride, I had a problem. Kevin was wiry and young, but he’d been weakened from regular drug use and the effects of withdrawal. I still had the knife from the first night if I needed to even things, but I wanted to avoid a knife fight if I could. Especially if it turned into a gun fight. Ultimately it didn’t matter how prepared I was: I wanted to meet this Mr. York.

  Dipshit was shaking his head, getting more and more agitated.

  “He going on again about me holding back? Man I never hold back—what, he think I got a bank account? Fuck York, all I done for him.”

  “Hey, calm down,” I said. “He wants us to go see him—you mind driving? I got a headache.”

  He snorted.

  “It’s the AIDS ain’t it?” he said. “Living in a fag house. Bet Mr. York like it here, could walk around in a dress.” He started to laugh, then stopped, eyes widening like he bit his tongue chewing gum. “Shit, man, don’t tell him I said that.”

  He looked scared. I let the moment stretch, pretending to think it over. When Dipshit’s sheen of sweat had achieved its maximum albedo, I nodded as if reaching a decision.

  “I won’t tell him if you drive,” I said. “Deal?”

  “Deal man, I’ll drive. Thank you—thank you man. You know Mr. York, man. Haha. He don’t play around about gay jokes.” Then he reached over and shook my hand—only this time he did it solemnly, without doing the little flicky hood thing at the end. I figured either Mr. York was gay or he was a violent homophobe.

  “Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing,” I said.

  “That’s not old school,” he said, laughing. “That’s just old.”

  Dipshit had parked up the street beneath a shade tree. It was another big car—a beige Cadillac Deville. I looked at him and then back at the car. The one driving the other made about as much sense as Kevin driving a Grand Marquis. I got in and buckled up. Dipshit didn’t bother with his seatbelt because he was too busy fiddling with the CD player.

  He cranked the volume way past what the speakers in the Deville could keep up with. There just wasn’t enough amperage to render the ridiculous amount of bass he set it to, so it tended to break up at the bottom of every beat. He didn’t seem to mind, judging from all the grooving going on as we pulled out onto the road. Even with the windows up, heads turned our way as we passed the touristy circle with all the shops and restaurants, each angling for a look at the gangsters cruising in grandpa’s dope ride. Moms with strollers, joggers, families waiting at crosswalks clutching beach gear—I stared them all down, daring any of them to disrespect me or my posse of one.

  Biggy D took us off the island and then past the grocery store where I bought the spaghetti, then on for a few miles before pulling into a drive with a sign, reading, Super Haven RV Resort. As RV parks go, this one seemed like a nice one, with paved roads and barbecue grills attached to every lot. It even had a swimming pool.

  “I’ma go in that pool sometime,” he said.

  Moments later, he parked in a secluded lot behind an enormous, modern-looking Winnebago. The RV had big square bumpouts on either side to make it roomier when parked.

  “Don’t say nothing about the fag joke,” he reminded me before getting out.

  “Not a peep,” I said.

  Dipshit knocked a specific pattern, loudly, and then waited. About ten seconds later I heard a click and saw the parking lights flash twice, after which he opened the door and stepped inside.

  Climbing in behind him, I almost tripped when he immediately sat down on the floor of the vehicle. The RV was spacious and high-end, with a big long couch along the wall and a recliner chair not a foot away, but he sat on the floor instead. There was even a dining table at the far end with two facing booths, but there he sat, legs folded, mystifying me. I stepped around him and sat on the perfectly good couch and relaxed. Nice couch—a genuine butt-hugger. I wondered where Mr. York was.

  As if sensing my thoughts, the door opened from where the bedroom would be and in walked an older man, late fifties, slight of build and maybe 5’5”, dressed casually in shorts and a plain red t-shirt. He didn’t say anything, he just walked over and slapped me viciously across the face and kept slapping until I crumpled off the couch and onto the floor beside Dipshit. He may have been a little guy, but he packed a wallop. My cheek went numb and my left ear started ringing from where he clipped me.

  “Who are you, the Queen of Sheba?” he yelled. It was the voice from the phone.

  I figured Kevin would have taken the slaps and stayed cowed, so that’s what I did, though it galled me.

  “Sorry Mr. York, I…uh…I forgot.”

  “You forgot,” he said, voice scathing. “I paid good money for this vehicle. Nobody depreciates it but me and who I say. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Jerry,” he said, still looking at me, “you may sit down now. Not the recliner—the couch will be fine.”

  “Thanks Mr. York.”

  Dipshit—Jerry—stood up and removed himself to the spot I’d been swatted from. I wanted to laugh.

  “Oh you think something’s funny? Jerry’s a good earner. I have him to thank for most of our retirement fund. When we go to Mexico in a few days, I’m going to let him sit up front with me.”

  “Can I pick the music?” Jerry said.

  “No,” Mr. York said, automatically. Then he seemed to reconsider. “Well, maybe—if we drive late. That jungle noise will help keep me awake. You see that Kevin? I’m not a bad guy, I respect disciplined, intelligent behavior. You know what I don’t respect?”

  “Depreciation?”

  He looked at me, suspiciously.

  “I’m talking about you, you nitwit. Jerry gets me pin numbers. I put on a wig and fake beard and I can go to the ATM every day until they’re cleaned out. He does not kill them first. Do you Jerry?”

  “No sir, Mr. York.”

  “How about mugging tourists on the beach outside a house? You do that, Jerry?”

  “No Mr. York,” Jerry said. “Not once.”

  “See that? Jerry’s a quality professional. What are you, squeamish? Afraid to cut off a few fingers? Can’t handle a little begging and screaming?”

  “I love begging and screaming,” I said.

  Mr. York sneered at me.

  “I think you’re soft. But I’m not a bad guy, am I Jerry?”

  “No, Mr. York.”

  “So I’m gonna give you another chance. There’s a new house I found, with a rich old lady living alone. Jerry’s kindly agreed to take you with him and show you his methodology. We both want you to succeed in this business, Kevin. You understand?”

  Not to be outdone by Jerry, I nodded vigorously.

  “Oh, Jerry?”

&
nbsp; “Yes Mr. York?”

  “Would you mind getting my bag from the bedroom? I’m feeling generous.”

  Jerry went to the bedroom and returned with a medium-sized black satchel. Mr. York opened it and extracted two medicine vials and a syringe. He handed one to Jerry and put the other one back.

  Mr. York held it up like a doggy treat, smiling encouragingly.

  “This is the good stuff, made by a real drug manufacturer. Not some inbred hillbilly with a chemistry set. Jerry says you’ve been feeling sick lately. Is that true?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I feel like shit.”

  Mr. York’s lips tightened suddenly, and his eyes grew hard like he wanted to slap me again. Then he shook his head, smiled and said, “Language, boy, language. Now, what did I tell you about moderation? When I give you something, you don’t have to use it all up in a day.”

  I shrugged and smiled. You know me.

  “Never mind,” he said. “You are what you are. That vial—” nodding to Jerry—“will make you feel better, give you energy and allow you to focus.”

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “Yes…awesome,” he said, then turned to Jerry. “Do you have the address I gave you? The one with the rich lady I told you about?”

  “Uh…yes, Mr. York,” he said, throwing a furtive glance my way.

  “Take Kevin to that place you’re staying, give him a dose, and when he’s ready go see that rich lady. Think you can do that?” His tone was that of a father trusting his son with the family car.

  “Yeah Mr. York, sure, no problem,” Jerry said, stealing another look at me.

  “Excellent,” Mr. York said, clapping his hands. “Well, up you go—out, out. There’s money to be made and you won’t make it sitting here depreciating my vehicle.” He chuckled, kindly, and made shooing motions.

  Jerry got up and headed out, with me following. The look on Mr. York’s face as we exited the RV had grown even more fatherly. If I were the real Kevin, I imagine I would have felt warmed by his sudden generosity of spirit. Maybe I would have felt resolved to redeem myself in his eyes and make the most of my second chance. I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt like sitting down somewhere and not getting back up.

  Ever since my suicide I’d lost the ability to lie to myself, but sometimes I still pretended to. Right now, I was trying desperately hard to pretend the casual nature of what I’d fallen into hadn’t shaken my faith in the rightness of the universe.

  I’ve seen how bad people can be to each other, but cold-blooded, systematic slaughter was something else. Even Jake, the serial killer in New Mexico, hadn’t been so completely evil. He was pretty messed up and had done some awful things, and I punched his ticket for it. But back in his hotel, I found around fifty composition journals filled with dark ramblings about being the reincarnation of an Aztec god. I figured that, like me, after he died the Great Whomever would send Jake off to get fixed up.

  This thing with Jerry and Kevin, though—Mr. York knew exactly what he was doing and he just didn’t care. I’d looked in his eyes. He wasn’t a sociopath—he was a willing predator. He needed money for gas and restaurants and RV parks. Other people worked and saved their whole lives for that lifestyle, but not Mr. York—he murdered old people for it. On top of that, he’d browbeaten and brainwashed two imbeciles to help him do it. How could there be any redemption for someone like that? And if so, if there really was a Great Wherever or something like it for Mr. York, could it be that what I’d done to Sandra was equally wrong? Was it right to imagine there were even categories for evil? For my own sanity, I had to believe so. To be right with myself, I had to know I was different from people like him.

  Most of my rides are as the name implies—a vacation from limbo. It’s the rare exception where my interest grows much beyond that. Mr. York’s operation not only disgusted me, it had done something worse: it made me doubt things about myself I thought long since squared away.

  Chapter 16

  Jerry drove us back to the island. On crossing the bridge he turned right, away from the slain couple’s bungalow. He wasn’t talking much and I thought I knew why. A few miles later, he pulled up the driveway of a large house on the water, painted pink and white. It rose from the ground on a thick concrete wall built to survive even the worst storm surges. Easily worth a few million. I waited for him to turn off the car but he didn’t. He just sat there.

  “We going in?” I said.

  He shook his head, just once. I gave him a minute to collect his thoughts.

  “I can’t do it,” he said, then pressed his lips together tight, staring straight ahead.

  “What, kill me with the bad dope Mr. York gave you?”

  Eyes widening, Jerry turned and looked at me.

  “Shit, you knew? How’d you find out?”

  “I got mad skills, yo.”

  “Damn, you must,” he said. “So uh, you ain’t pissed or nothing?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “Nah, you were about to tell me right, how could I be?”

  Jerry nodded. Then nodded again, with vigor.

  “Fuck Mr. York. Always telling me what to do, like a dog. Now he want me to kill my friend? Nah, man.”

  Jerry could kill harmless old men and women without a qualm, but poisoning a friend with bad drugs made him feel guilty. I hate it when people go and get all redemptiony on me. It interferes with my righteous indignation.

  He gave a short laugh.

  “I like how you sat on his stupid couch without asking—you depreciated the shit out of that motherfucker.”

  “It’s just what the fuck I do,” I said, then did the little handshake finger-snappy thing with him.

  We got out and went to the front door. I wondered if Kevin had been here before.

  “I wish I had a house like this,” I said, trying to fish it out of him.

  “It’s nice ain’t it? Wait till you see inside.”

  Mad skills, yo.

  He opened the door and stepped inside. I followed him. Nice house, furnished with sturdy wooden furniture that looked manufactured by the same company. The art on the walls was pretty enough, but generic and inexpensive. Nothing like the house with all the sailboats. This looked more like stuff the owner wouldn’t cry about if it went missing. No chandeliers, either. All these subtle clues had me thinking I was in another vacation house. Also, there was a stack of Norton Realty brochures on a table beneath a sign telling guests where to leave the keys on their last day.

  I sniffed. Then I sniffed some more, but I couldn’t smell anything. No death.

  “Smells nice,” I said, daring to hope Jerry’d been pulling Mr. York’s leg and had only been robbing people.

  Jerry grinned.

  “Follow me Kev.”

  He led me upstairs. Down the hall on the right was a door sealed thick in about five rolls of silvery-gray duct tape.

  “That’s how I do it. I came up with it on my own. Mr. York didn’t even tell me how, neither.”

  We stood looking at the sinister looking mess together. Admiring it, I suppose.

  “So, uh, what’s behind it?”

  I knew, but I didn’t know enough.

  “Some old man and his ho.”

  That was odd.

  “A man and a prostitute?”

  “What? No, man, not a ho ho. Just a regular ho. You know, his bitch.”

  “Ah, his bitch,” I said. “Totally get it now.”

  Jerry looked at me.

  “Kev, I been holding back sayin’ on account of you being a recovering sick person and all, but you like, I dunno…like, weirder than usual. Like you bought a dictionary and shit.” He held up his hands, defensively. “I ain’t saying you did or nothing—just saying.”

  “I been so bored I started reading this book I found. Kinda stuck on me.”

  Laughing, he pointed at me.

  “See I knew it was something. Anyway, what you gotta do when you take a house is tape ’em in a room like this. But you also gotta
tape up the windows inside so the stink don’t leak out. Vents too. Now, we up on the second floor and the neighbors ain’t stacked all close, ya know? So I probably be ok if I don’t do the windows like I did. But I do things right cuz I a proud motherfucker, got my new callin’ card tight and everything.”

  “Calling card?”

  “I told you. You really don’t remember?”

  I smiled, sheepishly.

  “I was probably high at the time.”

  Jerry laughed.

  “You always high. So you know what happens when the cops finally come and look in that room? Know what they gonna find?”

  “An old man and no ho ho?”

  “Uh…yeah, but…no wait, what they find is—get this—it look like they having sex. I used the rest of the tape to make it like they fuckin’. She on top, hands taped behind her to his ankles. Wait a second, I took a picture for you.”

  He ran downstairs.

  And here I’d started thinking Jerry was just misunderstood.

  “Got it,” he yelled, sprinting back up.

  Whatever Jerry wanted to show me, I didn’t want to see. I hadn’t wanted to look at Eddie Jacobi’s double tongue, either, but I did. That was in fifth grade. We all did. He’d stick his tongue out as far as he could and make a sound like “lowaaiee”, and at the back of his mouth behind his tongue there’d be this little flap of skin sticking up. Grossest thing we kids got to see with any regularity, so we never missed looking when he felt like showing it.

  The picture Jerry showed me made Eddie’s double tongue seem positively commonplace. It showed a man and a woman in a spacious bedroom, positioned in the middle of the floor. Naked, with multiple stab wounds visibly draining into the carpet. The man looked like he was pushing seventy, his head almost completely bald. The woman was about ten years younger, a little heavy, with a thick mane of glossy red hair. Her head lolled backward and to the side, mouth and eyes wide open, staring into the camera in a ghastly echo of stunned horror. Jerry hadn’t just killed them. He completely robbed them of their dignity.

  Jerry leaned in close, looking at it over my shoulder.