The Subtle Art of Brutality, page 13
The double doors open and the warmth hits me like a wall. Stainless steel and vinyl everywhere. Bright lights. I can smell butter, bacon and coffee as overwhelming as the scent of blood in a slaughterhouse. I walk up to the counter. The help is sandy blonde, early twenties, ripe. Her neck is all slender curves and creamy skin. Her breasts would fit nicely in my hand. She smacks her gum and looks at me. Her disinterest couldn’t be more apparent. No desire in being awake this early.
“Tall black coffee and the phone book,” I say.
“I don’t know if we have one of those.”
“A big cup of coffee? Or the phone book?”
“Phone book.” Annoyed.
“Check.”
“Just call 411.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Huff.
“Oh, and leave room for cream.”
A cup of coffee appears on the counter and I take it. She digs for a minute in the back and comes out with their battered copy of the city directory.
“Leave it on the counter. My boss doesn’t want you walking off with it.”
“Sure.”
She either doesn’t notice or care as I uncap the coffee and produce a flask from my jacket. If she watches me take it out she’s got to see my iron also. I top off the coffee with booze. She sets a half and half creamer carafe before me and I drop a single white tear into the cup, as milky as the skin running down from her jaw and disappearing into her blouse.
I take an envelope out from my jacket and open up a printed copy of my notes for the case. James Dobbins. Arrested two months ago on possession with intent to distribute. Released on bail. Arrested two years back for public intoxication. Three DUI’s. Criminal use of weapons. Resisting. Obstruction. Assault. I look at the address I found for him; look in the phone book. Bingo. Got him. Maybe four miles away. Too early for a convicted junkie to be awake.
I look at the girl. She’s still standing there, watching me. She has her own cup now, a tall one with very little coffee lurking at the bottom. She smacks her gum. I make eye contact. Hazel. Her left ear is pierced twice; her right once.
I look at her breasts. She taps her cup on the rim. Must be the fee for staring.
I shrug. I top her off with the rest of my whiskey. Tear out the page with Dobbins’ address just to be safe. I don’t pay. She doesn’t say anything.
The door closes behind me and the mountain-side air washes over me. This place feels so clean and pure, as if it were a pocket of Heaven cradled into the planet.
And I am going to look for the devils that nest here.
29
Three crisp cigarettes later and I hail a cab, maybe half a mile away from the breakfast joint.
The cab disgorges me a few blocks east of Dobbins’ place. I walk the rest of the way. Scouting.
Dobbins’ house: a shitty bungalow in a shitty neighborhood. Fifty feet by one hundred feet of land, all bland, flat and featureless. No bushes. One tree, struggling to be anything more than an oversized twig. Dead brown grass exposed through the snow by rings of dog piss. The siding is old. The windows are old. The roof is peeling like scales on a diseased reptile. The front door looks cheap. Easy to kick in. No car in the splintered, uneven driveway. No garage at all. One story. A stoop held up by two rotting wooden beams with the house numbers nailed into it.
He must have inherited this place from his folks. They probably paid it off back in the late ’70s, died in the late ’90s and now he crashes here and lets it rot. A junkie’s dream: having a safe pad to bump and virtually no responsibility for it.
Derne said this cat walked the straight and narrow for the time he was in and out of Delilah’s life. Married to a gal for a year or so before he started dating Delilah. Able to land a semi-respectable job with the skills he learned in some trade college before he doped out. Met Delilah, ruined it all. Got back on the poison. Leads him here.
You see them around; you went to school with them. They were all in elementary. All but one or two were in middle. Less made it to high school. A few held their brain cells together long enough to graduate.
The rest: folks who have talent, smarts and a good beginning to their lives. Clean-cut people who have a jagged edge to their decision making process. Sometimes the important choices fall into the crack underneath that jagged edge. They just up and try drugs one day. Then you see those same folks two, three, five years later and they’ve aged eighty years. They’re skeletons with no teeth, lines running through their patch-colored skin so deep you can’t imagine the things they’ve seen over dope. The things they’ve done over dope. Open sores are little more than a nuisance to be nervously picked at.
I go around back. A few lawn chairs on a patio. Mounds of cigarette butts and beer bottles strewn about. I smell ordure and vomit. Party place. Opium den.
I draw my iron and nudge the backdoor. Quiet.
The rank scent inside hits me: a wet ashtray mixed with alcohol mixed with emesis mixed with the metallic odors of burning drugs. The hardwood floors are so chewed up and marred they might as well be firewood. The kitchen is filthy; the sink is spilling garbage and food like a dumpster after an animal picks through it.
I smell dog shit. I don’t see a dog. The curtains in the living room are drawn but the morning sun fights through. It creates an ashen, smoggy haze; a dungeon gloom. The bathroom is grimy. One bedroom is empty. Used and dirty drug paraphernalia litter the next bedroom. Inside it a TV is still turned on with some tripped-out Japanimation porno running in the background.
Cartoon sex and needles. A burnt spoon.
The third bedroom has a male, maybe thirty, scrawny, passed out face down on a mattress. No box springs. No frame. Just a mattress sitting on the floor. There is an indent where his head lays. There is one brown stain on top of the next where his crotch lays. I get the feeling he’s had this mattress for a long time and he’s been abusing it since day one. A single dresser with one drawer missing.
A wallet sits on the dresser. I open it. James Dobbins. Non-driver state-issued ID. He’s got two twenties. I take both.
I don’t see any weapons. I don’t see anything that could be used as one. No one asleep anywhere else. He snores like he hasn’t slept in days. Might not have. I kick him.
“James.” My voice carries through the still house like a titan’s demand rattling out of a cave.
He barely stirs. I kick again. Harder. Ribs.
“James.”
“Huhhh...what?”
His eyes burst open when they recognize the barrel of a gun pointed at him.
“Where is Delilah Boothe?”
“Oh my God, dude, Jesus fucking Christ, I—what the fuck is going on here man! Who are—”
“Tell me where Boothe is.”
I cock back the hammer. His bloodshot, watery eyes glisten with all the moisture he has left in his body. His teeth are varying shades of yellow and black. His track marks are ten shades darker than his light complexion. Black hair mussed and matted by days of indifference. His lips so parched they crack. New blood spots dried next to old blood spots. Sores. Hard lines. Sunken cheeks. Waste.
“Delilah Boothe,” I say. His eyes search for recognition of the English language.
People who are poor liars will show it. Their eyes dart everywhere looking for a convincing answer. I’ve had illegal Mexicans mumble and speak gibberish—not Spanish, gibberish—when I ask for ID. I’ve had drug dealers make up a new story with every breath when I ask for details. I’ve had warrant arrests that lie about what the warrant is for. They accuse police of making shit up. I took care of that last month, Officer. I swear. There must be some mistake. I’ve arrested a DUI who told me the reason he doesn’t have a license is because he was recently robbed at gunpoint. He gave me a fake case number. He never mentioned how his driving privileges were permanently revoked. And later on, I found one license in his front seat. I found another one in his glove box. Then he couldn’t figure out how in the world him having those was possible. Liars lie.
Drug abusers are disconnected from reality. Obviously. Their brains sometimes have to legitimately search for facts, details and chains of events. That makes things more difficult. Their minds are scattered and awkwardly jump from one important focus to the next. And the universal rule about that is: whatever is an important focus to a drug user during questioning is never what is important to the officer during questioning. Berating hopheads to keep them on topic is one technique I’m good at. Coming down hard on anybody for anything is one technique I’m good at.
And of course, most times the drug abusers are also poor liars.
“Dude, I got no fucking clue! Dude! I don’t even know a Deborah!”
“Delilah. You ruined your marriage for her. Remember her now?”
“My marriage? To Autumn? Hey, that was years back, man. I got—”
“Try harder. Delilah Boothe. She fenced some dope through you not too long ago.”
“I, uhhh...” The first sweat bead runs down his face. Bingo. I press my heater against his forehead. “Oh shit...you’re the five-oh, ain’t ya?”
“No.”
“You gotta be. With that hair cut? You gotta be. I think I uhhh...I think that—oh! Delilah! Yes. Yes she came over for dinner. It was just tacos and shit. I think she left a pair of panties here somewhere...just let me dig around—”
I lean in. “Where is she?”
Two ideas suddenly make a connection with James. A new look of horror now: “You...you with the dealer she took from? Oh Christ, say you ain’t—”
Let him believe it. New angle: “I’m willing to work with you on this.”
He tries to cry. I’m not sure if he’s trying to drum up sympathy in me or if he’s really this distraught. Either way, I don’t care.
“Tears don’t mean shit, James. Answers do.”
“Dude, I swear the last time I seen her was about three months ago. Okay?”
Me, staring.
Brink of hyperventilation: “Yeah, so it was like four—no! Five months ago and I, uhh...I—”
Me, still staring. The timeline is bullshit but asking a junkie for solid, unwavering numbers is like asking Nancy Pelosi to wipe that insane plastic surgery surprise off her face.
“She rolled in all scared, had a load of shit with her. Said she didn’t know where to turn. Knew I dabbled in the shit, thought I could help. She got all at ease with me when she realized I knew enough to score for us both. She’d been evicted, bro. Her old man or whatever tossed her ass from the house we used to party in and everything. I guess he got out of prison and came home and just threw her shit out. What a dick. But she needed cash. She didn’t have shit. Hell, she coasted into my driveway on fumes. I had to take a gas can like two miles down the road just to—”
“I don’t care about her fuel situation. I want to know about the dope and her.”
“Right, right. Give me a minute to remember. I’m not Einstein or anything. Well, I told her I knew some dudes who sold to me here and there. I woulda sold it myself but my PO, she’s a cunt. She doesn’t piss test me so often anymore but if word got ’round that I was dealin’...damn I’d be in stir for fuckin’ life.”
“What are you on probation for?”
“I was set up. Cops actin’ like I killed somebody but I just went for a drive and they’re sayin’ I was high or some shit—”
“What’s your PO’s name?”
“Officer Something. Bro, put your gun down.”
“Forget that,” I say. “Delilah Boothe. Talk.”
He’s sweating now. Nothing like waking up to a gun and the end of your life.
“Yeah, okay. Okay.” He wipes his face, then one armpit. He wipes the other, drags his hands down his flannel sleeping pants. I can smell the BO. “So anyways...I took some off the top of the shit—had to pay myself first, right? —and I brokered a deal with these guys. A cool ten grand for the shit. I got no idea where they scored the money, honest. The shit was easily worth fifteen or twenty on the streets but she jumped at it. I think she wanted to be rid of it, is all. They coulda offered her twenty bucks and she woulda took it. She’d take anythin’.”
“How’d she get it?”
“Said some friends left it in her house and then went to jail. Found it while she was packin’ to move out. Didn’t want the jail birds to squeal and her go down for it also.”
“Why not just dump it then? Or turn it over to the police?”
“How the fuck would I know, huh? Scared, I guess. No, no nono. It was more than that, I bet. Money, bro. The root of all evil. The reason why Nixon went into Vietnam, bro. Cash money.”
“Sure. Then what?”
“We sold it and she took her cut—supposed to be five—and stole most of mine. Bitch breezed right out the fuckin’ door while I was asleep.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Alright, I was passed out. But the meds my doc has me on right now are really bad for my skin and I’m just so fuckin’ tired all the time—”
“Then what?”
“Uhhh...then, then...then I called around for her a little bit, down at Roscoe’s and shit, but nobody seen her. Bitch fuckin’ rammed one up in me.”
“What is Roscoe’s? Why call there?”
“Bar. Watering hole, you know. I know people there. I introduced her to people there. People go there. Make sense?”
“No. Is that the place where you introduced her to the buyers?”
“I introduced her to everybody there, man. It’s fuckin’ Roscoe’s.”
“Is that the place where you introduced her to the buyers?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“No one has seen her?”
“No. No. If they had, I’d get my money back. But like I said, bitch rammed one up in me.”
“That’s it? You just lose all that money and blow it off?”
“Look, bro, I been to prison and I’m on thin ice now. I dig too deep or cast a net too wide and my PO hears about. I go back on the inside. Officer Something ain’t got no tolerance for anything. I thought I’d seen the last of Delilah fuckin’ Boothe when she broke up with me after we were fired. She showed back up. She’ll show up again. It’s her way.”
I reach over to his wallet. His PO’s business card is one of the few things left inside now that I’ve taken his cash. There’s an extra-large condom which I take out, giggle and toss to the side. Some delusions are funnier than others. I keep the card. I’ll probably not do anything with it, but there are never enough small details.
“What about your ex-wife?”
“What about her?”
“She hunting for Boothe?”
“She was pissed as hell, sure. But she’s gettin’ alimony from my folks while I’m jobless so she can go fuck herself.”
“Your mommy and daddy pay your alimony?”
“Fuck you. It’s my trust fund. My mom and dad died. After the divorce Autumn took everything but this house. Everything. I shoulda never married the bitch in the first place. As soon as we tied the knot she was going on and on about kids. Fuck that. No kids. Not ever.”
“Really?”
“Never. If she got pregnant I had made up my mind to drive her ass right to the abortion clinic. Right to it. If she said no, there’s always a stair case.”
“That a fact?”
“Fact.”
“Get fixed? Take care of the problem on your end?”
“Fuck no. My spunk is all man. I ain’t trimmin’ my shit just because.”
“You sleep with Boothe while she was here with the dope?”
“Yeah. Until we sold the shit.”
“You pretty heavy-handed on the meth?” I ask. This guy is not the father. That much is obvious.
“None of your business.”
“I just don’t get meth. When was the last time you actually blew a load?”
“Fuck you. Ain’t none of your business,” he says, fuming under his sore-riddled skin.
“Meth increases the sex drive but severely lowers the ability to climax. But you already know that, don’t you?”
He just looks away. He hasn’t gotten up off his heroin mattress. Finally, eyes still examining the stains on his bed, he says, “Get out of my house, bro. I hooked you up already.”
“First things first before I leave. Name the buyers.”
“Dude, I don’t want—”
“Boothe isn’t around to take the hit, you won’t name names. You’re all I’ve got. You want to pay the price for it? Be my guest.”
He turns whiter than he was before. His sores and track marks glow like Christmas tree lights against his skin. He was getting comfortable there for a minute.
“Dude, if I tell you this then what’s gonna happen—”
“Worry about what’s going to happen if you don’t.”
“Danny, Blimpie’s older brother and some buddy of his. We call him Cherry but he hates it. That’s all.”
“Who is Blimpie?”
“Some fat retard over at Roscoe’s.”
“Last name. Address.”
“I don’t know the street. They both live with their mom. She makes lemonade and spikes it like you’ve never tasted—”
“Last name and address.”
“Gibbens, I think. Gibbens or Gibson or something. I don’t know. Danny, man. Danny. Lives on Holland. I know that. Holland, like where the drugs are. Get it?”
“How do I find them?”
“Blimpie. That’s how I find them. Only been to his mom’s a few times.”
“You better pack your shit and wind up somewhere on the east coast, my friend. I’ll be knocking on your door again.”
I start to walk out the door.
“Tell Cherry you’re looking for her. He might back off,” he says.
“Back off what?”
“Her. Delilah. He wants her too, you know.”
“Why is that?”
“You can’t score that shit once and let it go. And with his temper...if he finds her first and she says she ain’t got the juice to get some more...Cherry’s been in stir for what he’s done to women.”
“What good does having that much dope do? If he’s a user he’ll be set for quite some time. Or he OD’s and the problem is solved.”
