There was no alarm clock to wake him. He woke with the telephone's first ring and he began his day with that painful intrusion. Seeing as his business was in telephones that seemed the best way for Alan Douglas to wake-up, but he only received calls for his other line of work and his dad. As he opened his eyes, putting the phone automatically to his ear, a voice on the other end materialized-"Hello,"she said, but like she didn't know if she should. "Thank the lord its a girl," he thought then replied, "Yeah, hello."
"This is Low Ride, right?"
"Of course honey, but what are you looking for."
"Well, my friend said he met you on the corner of Baker and that little street by the warehouse and that you offer services?"
She didn't want to know what the services were. She knew what the services were. That was why she spoke so inquisitively about them. Every word spoken to him was a question; am I really doing this and what if I am?
"Yeah, I do. Whatever you want, but cash only. Got it?" Oh, today was his lucky day and he could feel it in her tender questions.
"Could you take me out-I mean I'll pay-and then well... say the whole thing takes 3 hours? Is that possible?"
"That sounds great, but it'll be... let's say 200 dollars. Also, I need a time and place to meet." He was ready for his big date and to wave 200 dollars of hate at his dad.
"Today at eight, but where should we meet?" She hated asking the questions. The answer always brought depravity to the forefront of her consciousness. She did not want to know any of it. She just wanted it over with, but for it be over she had to ask and was forced to know.
"The park at eight. You know. The one by the synagogue."
"That sounds as good as anywhere." She said it with nervous laughter to punctuate the statement's end.
"Ok, I'll see you at eight. What are you going to be wearing because I'll find you?"
"A black dress."
"Ok, see you at eight."
"Bye."
She made it seem like he was intruding into her morning with those hesitant questions. Her slow answers made her sound like she was cringing-not pleasure not pain, but doubt made her cringe. Alan didn't cringe. Waking on this morning was not Alan's usual intruder bringing dull pain. No lonely homo's or worse, his dead beat dad intruding upon his pleasures. Today he found himself intruding upon a girl's depraved innocence. Normally Alan took the day as it came to him, which was uncaring, reluctantly indifferent, and intrusive toward his violent pleasures. Today, with it's unusually pleasant beginning, promised plenty of violent pleasures, possibly more, and an imminent end. He never got it. He never understood why his dad was a piece of shit or why the days in his life never amounted to anything except another telephone ring. Today, though, Alan didn't care if he didn't get it. Today he got to give it.
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Brone Barnheart Apt. 223
I smelled it again. That scent that has been haunting me all my life...her. There in the graveyard I saw her, her silky blond hair playing across her face. She was not smiling. Trembling, she pulled out her pistol and pointed it right at my chest. I couldn't run, I couldn't draw my gun, I was frozen. "Meredith," I whispered. BANG...
ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR
I instinctually slammed my palm on the snooze button, again, but no sleep came. "It was just another dream," I thought, but that didn't comfort me at all. I finally opened my blood-shot eyes, and a slit of sunlight burned into them. "Agh."
I looked at the clock; I looked at my watch. The clock was wrong. The power must have gone out last night. Today was going to be beautiful. I fell out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, slamming my knee against the sink. "Ugh." I turned on the knob for hot water and splashed cold water onto my face, no surprise there. Looking in the fractured mirror, I ran my hands through my hair, pretending that sufficed for a shower. The sound of a muted phone reached my ears. "There's a phone in here?" After a quick search I located the phone under my jacket. I made sure it wasn't booby-trapped and then answered it.
"Hello, is this Low Ride?" a timid voice asked.
"Nope," I replied with a sigh and dropped the phone back on the receiver.
My grogginess finally subsiding, I thought "Wait a minute...how did I get here?" I couldn't remember. "Well, whatever." Seeing nothing entertaining in the room, I got all my stuff together. At the door I paused: cigarettes, holster, lighter, Spyderco folding knife, cellphone, Jericho 941, jacket, window punch, wallet, zip-tie handcuffs, ammo, shoes. As I glanced down, a white envelope slid under my door. Without thinking, I picked it up. Then I flung the door open, stupidly realizing that I should have done that first, but no one was in the hall. I examined the envelope's contents: 150 dollars and a letter in some ridiculous font. "Must be from that snot nosed kid." It read:
Brone
New target, car thief, likes to gamble, only known as “Sugar Macoy,” lives in Washington Heights.
“Oh, so that’s where I am.” I put the money in my wallet, threw the letter on the floor, closed my door without bothering to lock it, and sauntered down the hallway. I glanced at the numbers as I passed. 224, 225, 22 , 227…“pft.” Lethargically, I walked down the stairwell admiring the graffiti art as I passed. Out onto the sidewalk, the sun shone down on me like God’s high beams reminding me just how early it was. I lit a cigarette, put my hands in my pockets and let my feet guide me. I avoided the graveyard. “Shit, I need a drink.”
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