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Considering that just behind the door is a reason for my arrest, I don’t have much choice, so I nod my head and amble toward the ambulance, limping on the way.
Happens
NEVE,three days later
Knock.Clink.Knock.Clink.
Knock.Clink. Clink.
Familiar, that busted engine sound that adds rhythm to these streets. It’s not even six yet, and already the small town is up, not wide awake but functioning. Plastic bags with bread rolls hang on the colorful doors. The distant sound of honking means the fish monger isn’t too far off.
As opposed to the night Styx got shot, the shutters are open and light floods the dark streets from the drawn-back curtains. TVs are on, and if I shut my eyes and stand still for a moment, I can hear the whispers of the morning through the old glass windows.
Above me, a couple discusses money. To my left, an old woman coos at her dog, who yips about ready for a shit. Somewhere down the street, a garage door opens and shuts, a trunk hood slams, a mother yells at her son, like she’s trying to board a herd onto a freight train.
Every step I take is a sign of life, a reason for me to relax—for my heart to stop beating in my ears—for today, no murders are planned on Pink Street. The day begins for those who have not died, and for those who have, they no longer matter.
If they ever mattered at all.
My throat tightens as I turn down the back road, taking the long way to my second job and up the hill— the one I desperately avoid because it leaves me winded and wishing that walking on stilettos wasted more calories.
Not even half way up, my lungs burn, my cheeks flash red, and my thighs sweat. Doing things the easy way, is apparently not a personality trait I possess. I could have just taken the flat road, ten-minute walk down the main way, and I’d be at the strip club, but I ran out of waterproof mascara.
Ever since a natural spring of salt water has taken up residence in my eyes, I can’t put my feet on the painted road without leaking. The cheaper sludge I wear today, that will probably make my eyelashes fall out in ten years, runs down my cheeks and is rough to scrub off. It stains the skin, and makes it appear like I took a few to the face.
I took a punch to the heart though.
Maybe a hundred punches in my lifetime, but this one—this one still aches inside me and I don’t know why.
Make-believe aside, I had never met Styx—Stefan Yuri Xavier Morano—in my entire life. And after what he did to his mother, I vowed to kick him in the balls the second I saw him in person, but I didn’t expect to be the one tosort ofkill him.
And steal from him, technically, but I’m not going to dwell on that. Not opening the door to a begging man surely trumps taking drugs from an almost dead person.
Well, dead person.
Another punch.
This one, in the gut, stirs the bile up from my stomach. It’s been three days since the doctor — a dickhead from my past — came to the waiting room and told me my efforts were bold but not enough to save Styx. With a pat on the back, he turned his back on me and left me feeling exactly the way I did four years ago.
Useless.
Inadequate.
Incomplete.
I ran out of that hospital before he had a chance to look down his nose at me. When I reached the bus, short of breath and about ready to collapse, I played that moment on repeat until I got the wording, the costume, the actions just right. In my mind, I had the upper hand, but in reality, I was the cautionary tale. Bloodied, at the center of an investigation, dressed like a hooker, what could I have thrown back at the guy?
Nothing.
Nothing but reason.
Not sure where to find the bright side in all of this, except for two kilos of cocaine underneath the cushions of the chaise in the reading room. Stupid move or not, at least I had the sense to take it. With a little luck, I’ll be able to convert that powder into paper and the paper into magic.
Good thing because I’ll no doubt be planning a funeral soon and I had a mother, who wasn’t mine to take care of, a store to keep up and running, and no energy to do any of it.
I’m exhausted.
Money problems aren’t what keep me up at night; it’s this constant tornado inside me, violently rotating around and around, destroying the strength I had been rebuilding with Mama Rosa.
