Losers Weepers

  “When the guy who picked out that ring is back, he can ask me his question.”

  I COULDN’T FALL asleep that night either. Big surprise.

  After sitting at the bottom of those stairs for God knew how long—half wanting her to come back and argue with me, half wondering if I’d made it all up in my alcohol-induced stupor—I finally made my way back into the bedroom. I wheeled up to the same broken window and stared out it until my eyes watered.

  I kept both the bottle and the ring between my legs, too scared to let go of the bottle for one reason and too scared to let go of the ring for another reason. I could have one but not both. They couldn’t coexist. Of course I knew which one I wanted—that was a no-brainer—but I knew with just as much certainty I couldn’t have her. So really, the choice of which to let go and which to curl my fingers around was a simple one, but I wasn’t ready to let go of that ring and everything it symbolized quite yet. In the morning, when I was fresh from a few hours of rest and had slept off the whiskey . . . then maybe, but not tonight.

  I had a few hours left of pretending the girl I’d purchased the ring for was still mine.

  That thought must have lulled me to sleep finally because I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep until I snapped awake from the sound of something shattering. I was still in my chair and had a splitting headache to show for my drinking, but at least I could see straight again and didn’t feel like the room was slowly revolving around me.

  “Josie?” I called, my voice hoarse from sleep and whiskey.

  No reply came.

  I held my breath and listened. The old house might have creaked and whined and groaned like nothing else, but it didn’t make shattering noises. No, people made shattering noises.

  “Josie?” This time my voice was louder. I turned around in my chair and wheeled toward the doorway before stopping when I heard sounds coming from the kitchen. Not just the sounds of the fridge buzzing or the floorboards cracking or the walls creaking . . . the sounds of someone ripping open drawers and cupboards, searching for something. “Josie? Is that you?”

  The sounds in the kitchen came to a sudden stop. I swallowed when no answer came. It wasn’t Josie. I stayed quiet for a minute, waiting for the next noises, but nothing came. I’d almost convinced myself I’d been half-dreaming those breaking, rummaging noises when a different sound filled the house. This one I knew, and even though it was just the old floorboards creaking, they creaked the way they did when someone was walking over them.

  The sounds got closer, which meant whoever it was was making their way down the hall . . . past the stairway . . . coming to a stop just outside the doorway.

  My throat had gone dry and my heart had sped up some, but still I wheeled closer. “Come on out, you son of a bitch. Stop hiding like a coward.”

  He stayed there for another minute, but I heard his breath, heavy and rattling. Shit, I could smell him, and it wasn’t as if I were surrounded by a potpourri of pleasant scents.

  “Am I going out there or are you coming in here?” I called, and that was when he crept into the doorway and showed himself.

  He was a vagrant, a bum—probably one of the train jumpers who laid over in Missoula for a night or two on their journeys West. He wasn’t just a bum though—he was a junkie too. From the way he was shaking and how his pupils looked about to explode out of his eyeballs, he was on a serious tweaking trip.

  He looked close to forty, which probably meant he was close to my age, and from the way his coat and clothes hung off him, it was impossible to gauge his size. I could tell that I was taller than he was . . . although he was a hell of a lot taller than I sat in a wheelchair. He had the face of a fox—shifty, wide-set eyes, and a long, narrow face. When he smiled, he looked more like a demon than any kind of mammal or being of this world. His smile, like the rest of him, told the story of a long, hard life of using. What teeth he had left were decaying to the point of practically falling out, and his gums weren’t in much better shape.

  “I think you’re lost there, señor,” I said in a calm, quiet voice. Calm to hopefully rub off on him and quiet to hopefully keep Josie from hearing anything and running down the stairs to see what was up.

  “I thought so too.” His voice sounded as strung-out as he looked, and his words were more garbled than they were clear—probably because he had a whole five teeth that were a bite into an apple away from falling out. That creepy-as-all-hell smile of his twisted into place again as he studied me with those dilated eyes. “But then I ran into you.”

  “Lucky for me.” I eyed the room casually, looking for anything that could work as a weapon when he finally made his move. Being up against a cripple in a wheelchair, he probably wouldn’t wait long. “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t have one.” He stepped inside the room, glancing around it the same way I was. Although he was probably looking for a stash of drugs or money instead.

  “So what shall I call you?” I rolled closer when he took another step inside the room, if for no other reason than to prove to him I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t the kind of guy who backed down, no matter how high the odds were stacked against me.

  “Whatever you want. I don’t care,” he said as a violent twitch rolled down his body.

  “Fabulous. How about Shithead?” I suggested. “That seems fitting.”

  “My stepdad used to call me that.” His eyes narrowed for just a moment before they went wide again as he searched the room.

  “Good, then you’re used to hearing it directed at you. That will make things easier.” I wheeled forward a bit before wrapping my fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle. Using good whiskey on a lowlife like this seemed like a hell of a waste, but I couldn’t bring him down with a couple swings as I could have before. The whiskey would have to be a casualty of war. “What do you want, Shithead?”

  His eyes dropped to my hand gripping the bottle, another shudder rocking through him. His gaze shifted just as quickly—he wasn’t looking for the hooch. That would have been all too easy. What happened to the days when a bum would have been thrilled with a half-bottle of decent whiskey?

  His hand twitched for his coat pocket. It twitched again when he pulled it out. Clutched in his trembling hand was a knife. It was a rusted old pocketknife, and he didn’t even know how to hold the damn thing, but with enough force, it could have broken the skin, and a rusty knife usually came with a nasty infection that required antibiotics and daily dressing changes. Not that I’d had any personal experience . . .

  “Where’s your wallet?” He held out the knife like it was a number two pencil. The upside was if he did take a slice at me, he’d probably wind up slicing himself in the process too.

  “Over there.” I nodded at the air mattress stuffed into the corner. “Under the bed.”

  He moved toward it instantly in short, shaking strides.

  “I gotta warn you that if you’re hoping to hit the jackpot, you’re going to be way disappointed, Shithead. If you dig deep, you might be able to pull out a couple of bucks. Enough to buy what? A trial-sized tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush so you can try to save what teeth you have left?”

  He didn’t reply to my jeer. Instead, he dug around under the air mattress until he pulled out my wallet. His fingers scurried through it, pulling out cards and receipts and whatever was left. In the end, he managed to scavenge a dollar bill and a couple credit cards. He shoved them into the deep pockets of his coat.

  “Yeah, Shithead, those are going to get declined if you try using them. Knock yourself out if you want to though. They’re of no use to me anymore anyways.”

  I was moving up behind him, hoping he’d stay distracted for another moment so I could take my best swing at him with the whiskey bottle. My reach wouldn’t have gone higher than his chest, so my plan was to whack him first between his legs, which would hopefully result in him dropping to his knees—providing he hadn’t rotted that part of himself off like he had his teeth. Then once he was at my level,
I’d take a solid swing at his head to knock him out until I could get to my phone and call the cops.

  I was hoping to get that all taken care of without alerting Josie. Panic settled deep into my stomach when I imagined what would happen if Shithead found out a girl was in the house—on the top floor I couldn’t possibly get to.

  Panic filtered into my bloodstream too.

  “Where are your drugs?” He chucked my wallet over his shoulder and kicked at the corners of the mattress. “Where do you keep them?”

  “Unlike some guy with guts burned out by battery acid and household cleaners, I don’t use. If you’re looking to burn what’s left of your throat, might I suggest the Carson Street Bridge back in town? You’ll find just what you’re looking for there.”

  He continued to kick at the mattress, lifting and moving it until he was convinced I wasn’t storing my stash beneath where I slept like he probably did. “Yeah, but you’re a cripple. That means you get the good drugs from the doctors.” He licked his lips, rubbing his nose as if he had an itch that couldn’t be scratched. “Where do you keep them?”

  With him focusing on me again, I’d lost my window of opportunity for a surprise attack. Oh well, I could still take him. Or at least I thought I could, thanks to my handy bottle of whiskey. “Up my ass. Why don’t you come dig them out?” I lifted a brow and waited for his reaction.

  He didn’t fall for it though. He kept his distance while continuing to furiously rub his nose. “Where are they? I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you don’t tell me where you keep them.”

  “You don’t want to have to hurt me?” I repeated, stalling. He was getting worked up, his whole body bouncing and shaking with that pathetic little knife aimed my way again. “If that isn’t victim verbiage, I don’t know what is. Take control of your life, Shithead. Take responsibility for your own actions. If you hurt me, hurt me. You don’t have to do anything. No more than you had to take the first step down whatever road led you to this high point in your life.”

  That was when I heard more footsteps moving through the house—but these ones were louder and moving with more purpose. If I called to her, he’d know she was there and could trap her in the hall or on the stairs. If I didn’t call to warn her, she’d walk right into the middle of this stand-off shit-storm.

  While I pondered an impossible decision, Josie made the decision for me. “Garth?” She had just burst into the room when she repeated my name, followed by, “Who are you talking to?”

  “Fuck, Joze,” I said under my breath, shaking my head.

  She’d clearly been asleep and had stripped down to what she typically wore to bed at night—when she wore anything—a tiny tank top and her underwear. Not how I’d hoped she’d come dressed when a tweaker busted into our house.

  At first, her attention was only aimed at me, but when Shithead started another round of twitching, her gaze shifted to the corner of the room. Her eyes went wide as she side-stepped toward me. “What’s going on, Garth?” Her voice was a few notes high with worry, but she didn’t blink as Shithead stared at her, molesting her with those filthy eyes of his, his tongue flicking at his lips like the snake he was.

  “It’s okay, Josie. Everything’s fine.” My voice might have fooled her, but I was anything but calm. “Just come stand behind me, okay?”

  She kept sliding in my direction, her gaze drifting between me and the man who’d stepped out of his corner to move our way. The panic I’d felt earlier shifted into something else when I watched his eyes move over Josie. It shifted into fire that burned through my veins, making my arms shake with rage.

  “You don’t have any money. You won’t share your drugs.” Shithead licked his cracked lips a few more times, tilting his head as he moved closer, his stare never shifting from Josie. “Maybe you won’t mind sharing her then?”

  Her hand lowered to my shoulder when she stopped behind me, curling into me in a way that told me she was as scared as I was. The blood boiling inside me felt about to spill over.

  “You better stop coming closer, and unless you want to lose your eyeballs, you’d better take your eyes off her right now, Shithead.”

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t glance my way. It was like he hadn’t even heard what I’d said. His eyes stayed trained on Josie as he stepped closer every few seconds.

  Keeping my eyes on him, I tilted my head back toward her a bit. “I want you to run, Josie.” I indicated the doorway. “I don’t want you to stop running until you make it to one of the neighbors’ places. Understood?” I noticed her head shake, which made mine do the same. “Run,” I hissed at her.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she answered, her voice returning to its normal tenor as her fingers loosened their grip around my shoulder.

  Shithead kept making his tweaking, twitchy way closer.

  Panic tightened my airways. “I want you to leave me.”

  “Haven’t been very successful at that endeavor in the past, have you, Black?” She stepped out from behind me to stand beside me. A peaceful expression had settled on her face. “You won’t be successful this time either.”

  My hand curled so tightly around the neck of the bottle it started to tremble. “This isn’t about us, Josie. This is about you. Your wellbeing and keeping you safe.” My eyes narrowed as he kept moving closer, his smile cutting higher on one side. “I’m trying to keep you alive here, Joze. A little help in that department would be much appreciated.”

  “You can keep telling me to leave all you want if it makes you feel better, but I’m not leaving.” She looked at me with fear flashing in her eyes, but that peaceful expression still hadn’t crumbled. “I’m right where I belong.”

  “Can you ever listen to anything I ask you to do?”

  She peaked an eyebrow, still able to muster up a smile with some creep’s eyes on her. “Yeah. When you stop asking me to do stupid things.”

  “Leave,” I hissed again.

  “Never.”

  Shithead sniffed, coming to a stop a few yards away. “She’s not leaving.”

  His head bobbed violently and his eyeballs seemed to revolve in his head a few times before the tremor calmed. The guy was showing some extreme signs of withdrawal, and I knew enough from growing up on the rough side of the tracks that people like him—ones with nothing to lose—would do just about anything to get their next fix. Wherever that next fix might come from.

  That his eyes hadn’t shifted from Josie since she’d burst into the room, I knew just what he had in mind to serve as a temporary substitute to the battery-acid-and-Sudafed cocktail he really wanted.

  He lifted his pocketknife again, pointing at Josie with a shaking arm. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” He gave a twisted smile right before he lunged toward her, leading with that rusty blade.

  “No!” I bellowed, my voice filling the room and echoing down the hall. I managed to sweep Josie behind me, and just as he was steps away from her, I angled myself into his path and threw my shoulder into his chest.

  We tumbled to the ground in a heap. I landed on top. I didn’t know where the bottle had gone, but it definitely wasn’t still stuck between my legs. But I didn’t need it. I had the advantage of being on top of him, and I also had the advantage of having so much adrenaline and rage from him threatening Josie that I could feel it spilling out of my ears. Besides, I didn’t want to hit the son of a bitch with a bottle. I wanted to beat the shit out of him with my own fists. I wanted to break something, several somethings, so whenever he took a step on his sorry, sad way or moved his jaw or took a wheezy breath, he’d ache and remember what had happened when he’d threatened a woman.

  I didn’t want to just hurt him though. No . . . as I swung at him over and over, feeling my knuckles connect with his flesh and bone, looking into those same eyes he’d defiled Josie with right in front of me, I wanted to do more. I didn’t want to stop punching him until the light had gone out in those filthy eyes. I didn’t want to stop until his body had gone
limp beneath mine.

  I heard Josie’s shouts from behind me, but it was as if I were stuck in a dream. I could hear her, but I couldn’t make out her words or the message she was trying to get across. I was lost in the world of my own rage and destruction.

  The eyes below me closed, but I didn’t stop. I just kept swinging at him, over and over, his head rocking one direction and then the other, like a pendulum moving inside a grandfather clock. He’d threatened her. He’d wanted to hurt her. Those were the reminders my mind switched between as I continued, knowing the life was almost beaten out of the worthless sack beneath me.

  “Stop, Garth.” Josie’s voice cut through my haze when I felt her hand curl around my shoulder. “Come on, baby. Stop. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

  Hearing her say it only made me keep swinging. Plenty of places on his face were split open—plenty of places on my knuckles were split too—but I couldn’t stop. Josie. He was going to hurt her. If I hadn’t gotten to him first, he would have.

  I screamed again, followed by another punch that felt as though it broke a few bones in my hand.

  “Enough!” Josie pulled on both of my shoulders, trying to pull me off the limp piece of shit. “You hit him anymore, and you’re heading to jail instead of him. I won’t let you push me away like that either.” Wrapping her arms around my chest, she gave a hard pull and managed to pry me far enough away that my fists couldn’t reach him. They didn’t stop punching the air for a few moments though. “Nice try though.”

  Josie didn’t let me go, even after she’d dragged me all the way off him. It was only then, once a layer of adrenaline had fallen away, that I could acknowledge what was sticking out of my thigh. The blade was almost completely buried in my leg, and as adrenaline drained from my system, the pain from the stab started to burn down my leg.

  “Son of a bitch.” I groaned, reaching for the knife to pull it out. Damn rusty pocket knives. That was the second time I’d been stabbed by one.