CHAPTER TWO: Something Resembling Chunky Spaghetti
Blair went into a convenience store and bought two bottles of the cheapest gin he could find. Then he sat on a curb and watched as pedestrians and traffic zipped along while he tossed back gin as if it were mother’s milk. Without warning, he drifted into a state of euphoria beyond his wildest imagination.
Down the block and across the street stood the old, red brick building Matt rented to house his pizzeria. The structure was holding up nicely, having sheltered and served people for more than three decades. It was easy to imagine co-owner Johnny DeMario’s disappointed face when he realized that Blair Vaughn, his unofficial cleanup man, wouldn’t be coming around again tonight.
Blair stood up, stretched, and then walked off down the street. He passed billboards, traffic signs, and wall after wall filled with graffiti. Symbols for various gangs in the city were spray-painted on telephone poles, streetlights, traffic signs, and everything else the kids could reach. Blair spent most of his time in an area considered neutral territory for the young hoods, but within the last year or so, a few of them had been branching out.
Staring down at the black dots on the sidewalk where wads of chewing gum and countless cigarette butts had been discarded, Blair noticed that his steps were not as sure as they had been earlier. The gin was fumbling his agility; he would have to find a place to pass out soon.
Sitting down on a four-foot, brick wall surrounding a Presbyterian church to rest, Blair placed the half-empty bottle of gin carefully between his legs. The afternoon heat had passed with the rain, and the cool, dark night felt refreshing against his skin. Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, Blair found the seventy degree air chilly in his nostrils. A coughing spell struck him, a tubercular kind of cough, drawing the attention of a man and a woman passing by.
Not able to drink another sip, Blair tumbled off the wall and staggered down the street. Resting his back against the stucco wall of a shoe repair shop, Blair folded his arms around the bottle. As he slid down the wall and into a sitting position, he watched blurry headlights go by with a ditzy, little smile on his face. Red lights, green lights, yellow lights, and then red lights again; everything seemed so beautiful, especially the signal lights with their angelic faces and rhythmic blinking set almost in time with the beating of his heart.
Dozing off came easily, happening before he even realized it. Blair felt at peace until a loud noise disturbed his slumber. The lights had changed; no longer did he see the traffic lights and headlights of passing automobiles. Instead, there was just one blinking red and white light above him. His head was throbbing, and he found it difficult to breathe.
“What’s going on?” he said. “What’s happening?”
The noise he’d heard was a human voice, a woman’s voice, crying and screaming off in the distance. Squinting, Blair soon discovered that he was in the middle of an alley. He was clutching something soft in his fist and was surprised to find a man’s felt hat in his hand. It was a bowler, a British derby. “What the hell?” he said, looking around.
After a slew of muffled whacks, the woman’s cries became low moans. To get a better look, Blair ducked down and crawled closer to where the sound was coming from. A bunch of garbage bags had been stuffed full, tied, and then stacked in front of him.
“From Matt’s Pizza Parlor,” he whispered, touching the red brick building with both of his hands. “It’s right here.”
Looking over a tower of pizza boxes, Blair spied a woman lying on the ground with a man in an overcoat kneeling beside her. The woman’s face and head were all bloody, and the man seemed to be searching for something. He was rummaging through her pockets and purse.
Blair closed his eyes and shook his head; everything was getting fuzzy again. What a dream! It actually felt as if he were in the middle of an alley with that man and woman. When he dared to look at them again, the woman moved her head to the side and looked past her attacker. Blair’s heart raced as he met her familiar gaze with a certain surprise. Even the blood couldn’t conceal her. It was Cynthia Maxwell, an old friend and colleague of his.
Blair could hear Cynthia’s voice floating out of the misty night even though her mouth didn’t move. She said, “…didn’t kill him. Do you understand?” in faint echoes, as if reciting lines from the past. When he looked at her again, she was still watching him, her face bathed in blood. Cynthia reached out to him, just before her assailant brought the flat end of a pick down against her head.
“Bitch!” the man rasped, tossing the purse aside and standing up. As he pulled out a flashlight and glanced around, Blair ducked behind some garbage cans and observed the goings-on from a more cautious position. Even in his dreams, he didn’t want to take any chances.
There was a length of beard on the man’s chin and the small, oval glasses he was wearing made him look venomous. Everything about him alluded to his being a very cold and detached person, from the angle of his chin, thin lips, and distinguished nose, to his ears, which stood as erect as a cat’s. Even beating Cynthia’s head into something resembling chunky spaghetti didn’t seem to bother him.
The man dropped the pick from his left hand and tucked the flashlight under his coat, illuminating his cream-colored suit and tie for an instant. Glancing around as he dusted off the knees of his pants, he soon started rifling through the garbage as if looking for something. That gave Blair cause to glance down at the felt hat he was holding. Dropping it quickly, Blair quietly backed out of the alley.
When Blair bumped into a garbage can, the man stopped short and listened carefully. “Anybody there?” he asked, turning his flashlight toward the sound and stepping cautiously around a pile of pizza boxes.
Slipping off his jacket, Blair threw it over his head and tried to blend in with the trash. The other guy definitely had the advantage; with that flashlight, he would be able to see Blair clearly. Even so, a weak attempt at camouflage was worth a try. All Blair could do was to keep his head covered and hope to wake up soon.