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“Gotcha!”
“Damn!” yelled Ethan, slamming his thick, meaty fist onto the cushion of his armchair. He threw the controller to the floor, folded his wide arms over his leviathan chest, and pouted like a child deprived of his favorite sweet.
“Don’t do that,” rebuked Paul, who struggled to contain his joy as he picked the controller off the floor and slowly examined it. “You’ll break it. Besides, you usually win.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t this time.” The image of the buxom barbarian holding the head of Ethan’s titan faded off the TV screen as the PS3 reloaded, beckoning to be played again. “Besides, I own the damned thing; I’ll break it if I wanna. Why do you always play the women anyway? You know it always distracts me.”
Ethan did indeed own the controller, the console, the TV—everything in the basement of the dorm house. While such technological pleasantries were strictly forbidden by Alliance, Ethan’s father was good enough to purchase the house for the students, after the dorm burned down. As such, they granted his son a great deal of leniency, and Ethan in his infinite generosity, shared it with his friends. Though he did hold it over their heads each and every day.
Ethan was one of the fattest, widest eleventh graders ever to exist, while still able to walk and move about in the real world. A few more hamburgers, hot dogs and cherry Pepsis, and he would surely have been bedridden, condemned to be removed by a forklift after his death. He loved to eat, loved to watch TV, and more than that, loved his consoles. They were all stacked one on another, their cords swarming over the shelves. An Xbox, a PS3, a Wii, even a PS2, a Sega Genesis, and tucked in back, a watercooled PC with a $800 SSD, two $500 video cards and two eight-core processor overclocked to 4Ghz. Of course, he did none of the computer work. While he was mildly adept at playing the games, he had absolutely no computer skills whatsoever. His best and only friend Paul did all that work.
Paul was the near opposite of Ethan. Ethan was white, Paul black. Ethan was obese, Paul almost frighteningly thin. Ethan was socially inept, getting and keeping friends mostly because of the toys he had (it had been like that ever since childhood, with his friends ignoring his awful belches and noxious flatulence because he owned the largest collection of Legos and the most Hot Wheels they ever saw) while Paul had an easy going humor, almost self-deprecating, and rarely challenged his friends on anything they said.
And their talk was usually ignorant of racial pleasantries. They would moan about the drug-dealing blacks in the inner-city, moan about the woman-hating gansta rap, mock some of the Zorrell basketball players they knew while speaking in a mock stereotypical tone. Paul took it all, knowing he was too alone to fight them and too immature to teach them otherwise. He suffered in silence, biding his time, waiting for the day when he would be truly accepted.
Paul sat back in his chair, waiting for Ethan’s hurt feelings to mend. “Are they comin’?”
“Yeah, I texted ‘em all. Still can’t believe ‘bout Philip. I just wish they could’ve told us how the asshole died.”
Ethan lunged forward and put another disc in the PS3, while Paul fought a little war with himself.
“Phillip wasn’t so bad," said Paul cautiously. "Didn’t he tell you about Hellgate? That turned out to be a good game.”
Ethan sighed, reluctantly letting go of the anger. “Yeah, he did. And he had that sweet-ass girlfriend.”
Something clicked in Paul. “Have you seen Stacey? Did she answer your text?”
“No,” replied Ethan absently, acting a little bothered, as another game started up. “You gonna play?”
Paul grit his teeth, and glanced back at the door to the cellar, trying to will someone, anyone to come through. He was never good at handling Ethan alone. He fared much better when there was a consensus, when he didn’t have to fight alone. When he came to Alliance, the first person he was actually friendly with was Rachel. It was only to keep in company with her that he even deigned to speak with Ethan. But when Rachel’s parents visited, and Paul felt their cold shoulders when she introduced him, he knew he would have to make other connections, find other anchors to keep him grounded.
So they played for another hour, Ethan building up a sweat, Paul struggling not to throw up. Sometimes Ethan would go a few days in-between showers, as did many boys at his age. But boys his age were seldom as heavy as Ethan, and there was only so much of the stench of Ring-dings, Twinkies, pies and cakes coupled with the rancid odor of overactive masturbations that Paul could take. Finally, the cellar door burst open, and Paul anxiously turned to see Adrian, Rachel and Heather tumbling down the stairs.
“So how’d it happen?” asked Heather, plopping down on the sofa next to Paul. Though they never spoke much, she certainly knew of his attraction to Rachel, so she usually delighted in playing the role of spoiler. “Where’s his body?”
“Would you shut up?!” shouted Ethan, as he leaned forward, hammering on his controller. “I almost got this level.”
Heather squinted at the screen. “What, you’re still on twelve? I got up to fifteen yesterday.”
“You fuckin’ lie!” cried Ethan, laughing in derision. “Not even Paul’s gotten up to fifteen on this one.”
“Yeah, but Philip did,” ventured Adrian meekly, sitting on a small chair near the sofa. “Weren’t you there when he broke it, Ethan?”
Ethan paused the game and sat back. “Yeah, guess I was. Where’s Bill?”
“And Lizzie,” pressed Rachel. She always had to remind him Lizzie even existed, even though she felt they would make a good couple. She thought that since they were both fat, that they would at least have something in common. “You text her?”
“Yeah,” sighed Ethan. “She shoulda been here by now.”
They heard the outside door slam upstairs.
“There she is!” proclaimed Heather. They could hear her stomping, heavy footsteps as she went into the kitchen. “Probably puttin away her food. So all we need is Bill.” Heather looked back, and saw Rachel had gone around the sofa to whisper something to Paul. There were days Heather would look on Paul with such extreme hatred that spots would dance over her eyes. When she snatched the phone from Rachel to read the text, she did so hoping Rachel misread it, and it said "Paul" instead of "Phillip".
“You guys want anything?” yelled Lizzie from the doorway to the cellar.
“No,” most of them yelled back, though Heather muttered something under her breath.
“Come on, Lizzie!” yelled Heather. “Mackey’s gonna be back from the police station any minute. Is Bill up there?”
“I don’t—wait, here he comes.” They heard the door open again. “Hey!’
“Hey, Lizzie,” he answered, as they both came down into the cellar. “So, Phillip’s actually dead?”
“Yup. Cops took him out in a big black rubber bag a couple of hours ago.”
“Who did it?” asked Lizzie, as she sat on ‘her’ chair, a wide recliner Rachel purposefully set up next to Ethan’s. Seated next to each other they appeared as king and queen, lording over a land of potato chips, cheese twists, and game consoles. “And where’s Stacey?”
“Dunno. She didn’t reply to my text,” said Ethan.
“Alright!” shouted Heather, as she leapt up, and stood before them. “Do you wanna see it now, or after Mr. Mackey gives us his ‘consoling/grieving’ speech.”
“See what?” asked Bill. “You hiding somethin’?”
“Maybe . . .” she glanced at Rachel, who for the first time was completely focused on her. “It’s in my room. But you all gotta keep it secret!”
“You mean I gotta get up?” demanded Ethan, twisting to muffle a fart. “I just got comfortable.”
“You’ve been too comfortable,” rejoined Rachel. “You need a bath.”
“Yeah -- sure do!” added Paul enthusiastically, immediately regretting it after seeing Ethan’s face contort into various shades of fury. “Come on, who knows who might come through that door! It mig
ht be some gamer, who --”
“Whatever.” He let out a long sigh. “So, whaddya got?”
“Well . . . no, you’ve all got to --”
They heard a car pull up, and the engine turn off.
“Damn, Mackey’s back.”
“And you know it’s gonna be a long night. ‘What are you feeling?’” mocked Bill in his best imitation of Steve Mackey, complete with a lazy drawl and slight nasal whine.
Rachel snickered. “And ‘are you scared?’‘
They all laughed, until they heard the backdoor slam.
“Well, turn off the game, Ethan. Don’t think you’ll be coming back to that for a while.”
7
Lee ran like he never had before, not even when he scrambled down the sidelines for the touchdown in the game last week against the Hoosiers. He darted through back alleys, down side-roads wet with mud, scrambling up sudden hills and over chain-link fences. The rain had eased into a thick carpet of water, smothering the sky in an ominous grey, punctuated by brief flashes of light. Lee hunted for an umbrella in his beat-up Passat that died earlier, but figured one of his friends took it.
As he ran along Route 30, a ball of fur in a ditch caught his eye. Even though he needed to get on as quickly as possible, for his life depended on it, the small dead thing stopped him as if it were a wall he couldn’t pass.
“What happened to you?”
He knelt down, in the mud and rain, and carefully turned what looked to have been a small dog over. Its paws were wrenched out of their sockets, and its limbs twisted unnaturally. Lee never could take the sight of death—not in the movies, and certainly not in real life. Even when his grandpa died, and he went to the viewing with his mother, he kept his eyes averted away as they passed by the coffin. And though he normally would haven’t even taken a second look at a dead animal, for being in Iowa, he had passed his share of roadkill, his hands were drawn to this poor lost soul, who most likely died in excruciating pain. He saw himself as that dog, yelping in the roar of rain, desperately hoping something stronger and kinder would happen along to help, but ultimately taking joy in the end of life, the end of pain.
“And I am in pain.”
He pet the dog’s head once, then ran on, his body freed from whatever hold the corpse had over him. He ran out of Crescent, ran along a road that became loaded with bush and tree, where tall walls of rock buffered him against the howling wind. As he came to the summit of a small hill, the rain had stopped, leaving him shivering in the cold, his clothes wet and foul.
“‘Bout time,” said a figure seated on a park bench next to a tree, letting out a long stream of smoke from his cigarette and swishing a bottle of pop around and around. “Where’s your damned car?”
“Died on me again,” moaned Lee, as he sat across from the man. He always felt intimidated by this man, and struggled to put on a show of bravado just to keep his self-confidence. “Got a smoke?”
“Not for you—where’s my damned money?!” yelled the figure, after taking one more look around. “All you got is wet clothes and a damned foul stench of fool about you.”
“She never showed, Greg!” barked Lee, slamming his fist down. “I waited and waited, but she never showed.”
“Not my fuckin’ problem" spat Greg, angrily emphasizing each and every syllable as he spoke. "Way I see it, she did ten dicks, you owe me one thousand. I don’t give a shit if she showed or didn’t. You’re my boy in charge; you gotta deliver. Or I find another boy who wants a free fuck every other day for the little bit I’m askin’ for.” He chuckled. “Think I’ll find any?”
“No, no, Greg.” He sighed. “I’ve got it. I got enough in my account. I’ll bring it by the Deli tomorrow, and—”
Before Lee could blink, Greg whipped around the half filled bottle of pop in his left hand and slammed it against the side of Lee’s head, bringing forth a pathetic yelp.
“You stupid or somethin’?" yelled Greg. "Never bring anything by my Deli—DON’T EVEN MENTION IT! Why the fuck do you think we meet all the way out here? Damned you’re stupid. For a fuckin’ college kid, you are some kinda STOOPID.”
Lee swooned on the ground, stumbling back and forth, trying to regain his balance and focus. He felt blood flow down his scalp, and for a moment, an image of the dog flashed in his mind. And like the dog, he knew no one stronger and kinder would come along to help him.
“Alright Greg,” said Lee, as he slowly regained his balance. Lee was actually a perfect physical specimen who worked out religiously two hours each and every day. While others on the team took some kind of steroid or growth hormone, Lee didn’t need it. He could bench press 250 pounds for an hour, then run full-bore for another, and then go on to practice, and still outclass the entire team. So while most times he would defer to Greg, this time his finely-tuned muscles cried out to be let lose, to show their power.
Greg could see it in his eyes, and laughed.
“So, you think you wanna take me?” asked Greg, as he carefully placed the bottle of pop on the ground and took another smoke. “Don’t blame you. After all, you are the quarterback; one tough piece of shit. I’ve seen you on the field! You tear through ‘em like you was a linebacker, brushin’ off guys almost twice your size without even flinchin’. Yet somehow, you’ve always known I was out of your league. Oh, you might know I used to play, and that a back injury stopped that shit cold. You might think that all it would take is one perfect punch, one hammer on the right point in my back, to bring me to the ground in a hail of tears.”
“Well, you might be right,” continued Greg, as he took another drag from his cigarette. “Maybe I still got a weak spot, an ‘Achilles heel,’ somewhere on my back.” He crushed his cigarette. “On the other hand, you’ve seen me lift. You’ve seen me punch. And you know that for all your six-pack of abs, for all your killer shoulders, I got arms that will break you down without a second thought. I will break you, little boy, not just because I got stronger arms, but because I’ve been at it a long time. I’ve had dozens of boys just like you get tired of me demandin’ things, and decide to try to take me down. Maybe you heard of ‘em; Jeremy Franks? Bruce Donner? Victor Scevenetza? They all got tired of me – they all tried to fight me. And they all, somehow, suffered a career ending injury. Supposedly it happened on the field. But really, it happened right here, and they were smart enough to suck it up, walk straight, and make everyone think it was the game that got ‘em.”
Lee took a step back, as he had heard all those names before. Star quarterbacks of Zorrell, who got injured during a game, never to play again. The disturbing thing was how long ago a couple of them played.
“So you’ve heard the names, eh? Well that’s good. Now, you will get that money. Take only enough that you need to fix up that dungpile you call a car—you see, I’m not all bad. But get the rest to me. And if somethin’s happened to your little Miss Stacey, if she happens to turn up dead in the back of my Deli in a pool of her own blood, then you just take it in your stride, and find another bitch to milk for the money. Got it?”
“Yeah, Greg,” he said, now white as a sheet. The moon was high, and it seemed to turn Greg’s eyes into pitch black pearls of tar. Lee knew he had never faced such evil before, and more than that, he knew that there was no way out for him, that he had to suffer for another year and a half, until he graduated, and hope he made it out in one piece.
“I like you Lee. I think, more than the others, that you get what your position is. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you needlessly. I didn’t like hittin’ you upside the head, ‘cause I know you get access to all those fine little sweet things because of what you do on the field. But if you fuck with me, I WILL FUCK BACK!”
Lee stumbled back onto the grass, trying to run away.
“Now get outta here!” he yelled laughing. “Run, you stupid sonofabitch, RUN!”
Lee ran back the way he came, down the road now turning into a sheet of ice, hiding from the few cars that did pass by. He remembered where
the dead little dog was, and wished he had buried him before the ground froze.
8
A new day dawned over the city of Crescent; cold, yet optimistically sunny. It wasn’t a bad place to be. There was no litter, no graffiti; the inhabitants were friendly towards one another and to the college kids. In return, the college kids held fund-raisers for the small population of poor within the town, holding plays and classical music concerts that the townsfolk could get some culture from. And in general there was little crime. Besides the occasional drunk-driving arrest or underage drinking bust, there was little friction, even between the high-schoolers and the college kids.
But none of that rosy picture appeared in Mealey’s mind, as the body of Stacey was brought into the small hospital on the edge of town. There was no morgue, no Medical Examiner’s office, as they just hadn’t needed one before. So he stood in one of the cadaver rooms as Doctor Harget examined her body, looking down at a girl he had seen too often for his liking.
“Looks like blunt-force trauma to the head,” he said, as he turned her head this way and that. “One blow. It spun her head around so hard that it severed her spinal column. Death was near instant.”
Mealey resisted the urge to stroke her hair, to give some comfort to a girl he shouldn’t have known. “So . . . it was murder?”
“Yup,” said Harget, with a nod. He took off his gloves, and put his massive hands on the cold steel rails that ran the length of the examining table. He was a strong man, stronger than even Mealey believed, as he learned once when he watched Harget perform an autopsy on a linebacker from Zorrell who dropped dead of a heart attack on the field. Mealey had rarely been scared in his life, but watching Harget pry open the big boy's chest with such calm, deliberate ease sent shivers through his spine. Harget took a deep breath, and said; “you should also know that when she came in, we took a blood test, which is standard when examining a possible murder victim.”
“Something special?”
“She had AIDS, Mealey. She wasn’t even taking anything for it, so it seems to me like she was infected recently.”
Mealey nodded. “She was Philip’s girl, you know. The boy who was killed over at the Alliance dorm.”
Harget lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. “You know, she was a lot of boys’ girl.”
“What do you mean?”
He pulled down the cloth covering her body, to expose her crotch.
“I checked her, just in case she might’ve been raped. She wasn’t, but she has extensive tearing down there. I used to work in Chicago, in a hospital that saw all kinds of things. And what she’s got looks like what some streetwalker women I knew had. Extensive abrasion and tearing, consistent with regular sex with different men using too little lubrication. She’s a prostitute, Mealey, and she was a prostitute with AIDS.”
Mealey nodded, feeling an anxious fear creep up his spine. The first time Harget said it, Mealey didn't quite register the immediate danger to him. But now, even though he knew he was always careful, there was still that chance . . . “Did you test Philip?”
Harget shook his head. “Not enough blood. That kid was drained dry. I’d hafta peel him all the way apart to get anything.”
“No sense in that.”
“But you got a real problem, Mealey. I’ve seen stuff like this happen before. A hooker gets infected, but either doesn’t know it, or doesn’t care. She sleeps with some men, and one of them is the paranoid type. He gets tested, finds out, and knows the only place he could’ve gotten it from. He gets angry, angry enough to kill.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“How many others has she slept with? How many will they? This is a college town, filled with kids who think they are one step away from immortality. She was a pretty little thing, and obviously very popular. I think you need to spread the word, and fast, and get as many people tested as possible.”
“Do you know what would happen if we did that?” demanded Mealey, for the first time irritated at the immense increasing pressure he was getting under. “Let’s say you’re right; she was a hooker, and ten other people are infected. Think of the uproar! Parents would pull their kids outta Zorrell so fast, it would collapse the college and the town. A permanent stink would be over that college.”
“What’s your other choice?! Let those infected ones infect others, until you truly have an epidemic on your hands?”
“Now, now, most of these kids are smarter than that. I talk to Harry on a regular basis, and if there’s one thing his pharmacy does great business in is condoms. He needs to order in bulk just to keep up! So, I think we need to just move quickly, but quietly, track down who she might’ve been with, and quietly test them. We might only have one or two infected, or none at all, especially if you think she got it recently.”
“But who’d she get it from? A John? She doesn’t look like a bad kid, and neither did Phillip. I heard about Phillip—he wasn’t popular enough to be sleeping with many women. Where did it come from?”
“Don’t know,” said Mealey, as he pulled the sheet over her head. “But the more pressing matter is who killed her, and why was it someone close to Phillip.”