Wrong Ways Down

  She didn’t move.

  He tried again. “Chessie. Oughta get you home, aye? C’mon, oughta—”

  Her eyelids fluttered. She sorta looked at him, through dazed, sleepy eyes. Then she leaned over and flopped onto the couch, curled up with her head on his thigh.

  Her head was on his thigh. Her head rested on it, and her hand wrapped around it so her fingers were on the inside of his leg.

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think, neither, causen all the blood he had left his head and rushed down. Thought he were gonna burst right through the buttons on his jeans. Chess’s head was in his lap, on his thigh, her breath soft and even.

  And it weren’t just where it was. It were … she’d fell asleep, and she’d fell asleep on him. Like she trusted him that much she could just sleep, she were that comfortable. She weren’t freaking out touching him or blushing or looking all embarrassed or rushing to get away, though he knew she might when she woke up. But for that moment she were just sleeping there, next to him. Like she was his.

  He still oughta take her home. Oughta at least carry her to his bed; she ain’t weighed shit, and she’d be more comfortable there.

  But it seemed like … like presuming something, putting her in his bed. And he ain’t changed his sheets yet since the last night Amy slept over. If he put her in his bed, too, she might wake up on the morn thinking something happened, and he ain’t wanted that.

  Most of all, iffen he put her in his bed she wouldn’t be there next to him no more, wouldn’t be touching him. Because no fucking way could he put her in his bed and get in beside her, no way. Even if she ain’t minded, he couldn’t do it. Hard enough being this close to her upright, on the couch.

  He managed to keep himself under control when she was with him. He managed to keep from grabbing her, from just … just fucking taking her, possessing her, making her his the only way he knew how. He managed to stop himself doing it by keeping, always, right up front in his head the memory of her walking away from him that night at Trickster’s, the memory of her face the next morning as she lied to him. He managed to stop himself doing it by not getting real close to her, not touching her, trying not to meet her eyes for too long when he looked at her. By not letting his body take over, fighting with it.

  He just … shit, he just wanted her so fucking bad. Wanted her naked under him. Wanted to bury his head between her legs until she begged him for mercy, wanted to fuck her until she screamed and then do it again, and again. It was all he could think about sometimes; seemed like every time he were alone his thoughts went back there, to picturing what she’d look like without clothes on, to imagining her body arched under him, throbbing around him.

  The way his was throbbing now, fuck.

  This was bullshit. No matter how much he wanted to pretend it weren’t so, no matter how he half-wished it ain’t happened, he oughta quit fucking lying to himself and admit he was in love with Chess. That’s what it was. He’d never felt it real before but he sure as fuck did now. Weren’t just that he liked her, weren’t just that he wanted her in his bed. Shit, he’d gotten a text a few hours past asking if he wanted to head over and have some fun with Sela, and he ain’t even thought for a second on leaving Chess, because he was in love with her so hard he couldn’t even breathe.

  A lock of her hair—her lighter blondish roots had started showing, and he wondered, like he had before, if all her hair was that color—had fallen over her jaw; he thought about brushing it back but decided not to. It might wake her. He wanted to rest his hand on her, but that might wake her. He wanted to touch her but couldn’t, and he couldn’t move, and there they were.

  He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. Shit, he was in trouble.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HIS PHONE WOKE him up. Took him a second to catch where he were and what happened, why he neck were so stiff. Then he remembered. Were causen he’d finally fell asleep on the couch himself.

  Chess was gone. Where—oh. Water running in the bathroom. So she’d got up afore he did. Would she find—shit. Phone. Right.

  Berta calling. His blood froze. Oh, fuck, no. Not another.

  Aye, another. And he needed to get over to hers fast, and that were it. Nobody’d called saying Archie were back, but he were finished fucking playing. He’d head to Berta’s, then break into Archie’s, and he wasn’t going to bed that night until this shit were done.

  He stood up—his muscles ached from sleeping on a sit like that, but it were totally worth it—and headed back toward the bathroom door, but before he got there it opened.

  Her hair were pulled back in a ponytail, her face all clean and fresh. She carried a travel toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste, a plastic bag with soap and lotions and whatany other shit dames used in it. Aye, made sense; she ain’t always slept at home, and he could just see her packing a little bag like that to keep on her, being prepared like that. So fucking cute.

  “Hey,” she said. Her cheeks flushed; embarrassed, he guessed, seeing as how she wouldn’t quite look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’m sure you didn’t invite me here so I could pass out and flop all over you.”

  Funny, having her flop all over him were pretty much his idea of a perfect night. Especially if she weren’t wearing anything.

  Of course he ain’t said that. In fact, given how nervous she looked, he thought of something else to say, something might make her feel better. “Ain’t so certain you were sleeping afore me, aye? Oughta be me giving you the sorry.”

  She ain’t looked like she believed it. But she looked like she thought maybe he believed it, and that were what mattered. She relaxed. “Well, thanks, anyway, for letting me crash here. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded. Now the hard part. He had to go. He had to get over to Berta’s, and he ain’t could think of a way to say it without making her feel like he didn’t want her there, like he wanted her to leave.

  He’d fallen asleep with her. She’d spent the night at his place; they’d slept together. Not the way he wanted, no, but still. She’d spent the whole night there, with him.

  And he was so fucking gone on her that he were trying to make that mean something. “Guessing my couch ain’t so comfortable for sleeping, though.”

  “Actually, I slept really well.” Her gaze cut to the couch, back to him. That color on her cheeks deepened.

  He didn’t know how to reply to that. Didn’t know what to say, but he had to say something. “Hey … I gotta get moving. Been—”

  “Oh. Oh, of course.” She almost jumped past him, sat down to start putting her shoes on. “I’m sorry, you’ve probably got—I can just walk home—”

  “Naw, naw.” Shit. “Been another robbery, dig, I gotta head over. But you can stay here, aye? Ain’t needing to leave iffen you ain’t wanting, no worryin on it.”

  “I’ve got to get to Church anyway. Thanks, though.”

  Damn. He guessed it were dumb of him to think she might be wanting to hang out at his when he weren’t even there; what was she supposed to do? But a tiny spark of disappointment still lit in his chest. Knowing she were waiting for him at his place … that woulda been pretty fucking cool.

  Nothing more to say. “Gimme a few, aye? Berta’s wanting me fast, only got a minute for getting ready. Can take you on home, though.”

  She blinked. “Oh, yeah, duh, you probably … um, should I wait outside?”

  While he got dressed, he figured she meant. Shit, he hadn’t even thought of that. “Naw, just gimme the wait here.”

  He grabbed some clothes and took them into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and shaved and all that shit. Wished he had time to shower up, but he didn’t, not with Berta waiting. Another five minutes and she’d start calling him again, he knew, asking why weren’t he there yet. He gave himself a quick soap-up anyway, and hoped that made a difference.

  Chess was waiting when he came out, flipping through the copy of Cannery Row she’d loaned him. He’d never read it before; shit,
he’d figured he wouldn’t be able to understand it, until Chess told him one day she thought he’d dig it so he figured it were worth giving the try. She waved it at him. “What do you think?”

  “Pretty cool, aye.” He did dig it, a lot, though it were taking him longer to read it than he wanted to admit. It weren’t that it was hard to read; actually, that was the problem. It wasn’t hard to read, which made him figure he must be missing something, not understanding something, because the writing on the back cover mentioned how the dude who wrote it won all kinds of prizes and shit, which should have made it way beyond him.

  So he was going slow, and really thinking on it, to try and work on what he were missing. He figured she’d ask, and she’d be wanting to talk on it with him, and he ain’t wanted to look stupid. First time a dame ever gave him a book to read. Definitely the first time a dame ever cared what he thought on a book. He wanted to get it right, especially since it was Chess asking.

  She smiled. “I thought you’d like it. Where are you in it?”

  He told her in the car, and they talked about it as he drove her home. He’d been right there; she wanted to know what he thought, about the characters and the setting and all, and if he’d thought the female characters were kinda stereotypes the way she had but it were still a good book. And she ain’t acted like she thought his answers were dumb or any like that, neither, and by the time he pulled up outside hers he’d forgot to be worried on it. He was just talking on it with her, like any other conversation.

  “Well,” she said, grabbing the strap of her bag. “Thanks again. I hope you get everything worked out today.”

  He nodded. And there probably weren’t much point asking, since he didn’t know how late he’d be busy, but he couldn’t stop the words from slipping out anyway. “You around later? Got plans?”

  “Yeah. I mean, yeah, I’ll be around, no, I don’t have plans. Give me call, if you want.”

  “Aye. Ain’t sure how late, dig.”

  “I’ll be up.” Another smile from her, like the sun just rose right inside his car, and she was gone, slipping out onto the street in a swirl of freezing air. He watched her climb the steps outside her building, waited until she got inside.

  Then he headed off to Berta’s.

  Blue Bill and Rat were still outside Archie’s place when Terrible got there an hour and a half later. The good mood he’d been in while talking to Chess in the car had evaporated; it had evaporated almost as soon’s he drove away and the real world came back, but now it was replaced with fury. Drina, this time. Weren’t even supposed to be working that night, but was causen she had a son with a birthday coming up.

  That was it. That was fucking it. He was done.

  Rat took a step back when he got close, raised his hands in one a them “Don’t hurt me” type gestures Terrible saw a lot of and usually ignored. “He ain’t been back here, he ain’t, aye? We been watching, ain’t even left yon door unwatched even for a second, swearing it, we ain’t.”

  “Place got another entry?”

  Blue Bill pointed. “Side door there. Only one I were seeing. Been watching it, too.”

  “How many coming in an out since you here?”

  Blue Bill thought for a second. “Only a few. Maybe five.”

  “Were four,” Rat said. “Counted, I done, see? Kept me a count.”

  “Any you knowing?”

  “No.”

  “What they were? Dames? What?”

  “Three men. One female.”

  Shit. That gave him nothing at all. He kept thinking there must be some other ask he could give em, something that’d tell him whatany it were he needed, but he weren’t certain what he were looking for and so didn’t know what asks he should have.

  Instead he nodded. “Stay here, aye? Any going in, give me a ring-up. And Rat, you walk you around that building again, have you another check-out, dig? See iffen there’s any windows or whatany he maybe could broke out through.”

  He headed across the street, mentally checking over what he had, making sure he had what all he might need. Had he knife, and the thick chain he sometimes used, along with he brass knuckles. In his bag were the usual shit: ropes, duct tape, pliers. He ain’t usually had the need for lotsa tools or whatany, though. Hands were enough, leastaways enough for anybody not afraid to use em. Like him.

  The hallways were quiet. Dirty, and stinking of rotting food and sweat and like people used em for bathrooms, but quiet. Terrible weren’t fooled. Anybody could be—likely was—watching him through peepholes. They’d seen him outside, he knew it. So anybody could jump out at him, could be waiting til he passed by to jump out.

  Ain’t scared him. But he was ready, in case.

  Up the stairs to Archie’s place. The back of his neck tingled. Shit. Please don’t let that smell, that almost … invisible, though he knew that weren’t the right word, smell be what he thought it was, don’t let it mean what he thought it meant.

  He knew it was, and it did, though. Knew he’d found the reason why nobody’d seen Archie in a few days. Fuck.

  He pushed at the door, finding the spot where it gave the most, then stepped back and gave it a good hard kick. The cheap wood shattered under his foot.

  Archie’s place looked just like it had when he was there before. All shiny, all tidied up like somebody was gonna take fucking pictures or some shit. But that smell was stronger, and no way now could he pretend it weren’t there or that it were anything else.

  Past the kitchen, all the expensive machines shining on the countertop. Too quiet in there, in that apartment. He followed the hall down to the half-open door at the end. Not a lot of light came from it; heavy curtains blocked the window, gave everything a sort of blue-ish cast.

  But the body on the floor ain’t looked blue. It looked red. Dried blood all over it, soaked into the carpet around it, spattered on the bed and the walls. Dried blood everywhere. A man, naked, shot to shit. Heavy-guage shotgun, from the looks of it; whatever it were, it’d been loaded with fucking buckshot or them shells had chains and whatany inside em, so his face were just a crater. Like he head were a volcano, exploded and sprayed blood all over the place.

  Terrible knelt beside the body. Archie’s body? Seemed like it ought should be Archie’s body; his place, nobody’d seen him in days. Seemed like the right height, the right build, the right stupid hair.

  But … was it the right build, the right height? Hard to tell on a body lying down like that, specially with most of the head gone, but somehow it ain’t looked quite right. Close, but not quite right. Terrible was real good at sizing people up; he’d spent his whole life doing it, and he had a good fucking memory for that shit, too. Were the corpse’s shoulders too broad, or the chest too narrow?

  Whatany it were, the more he looked the less certain he were that he was looking at Archie’s body. Just … like a hunch he had, a feeling, and that feeling told him this weren’t Archie lying there. Told him this was a fake-out, tryna throw him off so he’d quit looking.

  Not even to mention, Gav been shot in the head, too, but he’d still could be recognized. They hadn’t used a shotgun for that one, hadn’t turned his head into a stump. So why do that with Archie, lessin they was tryna make the body unidentifiable?

  This told him one thing, though, for certain. Archie wouldn’t be back.

  So where was he? If that weren’t him on the floor.

  The dresser looked like the place to start searching, and the first drawer he opened told him he was right. That weren’t Archie on the floor. Hardly any clothes were in there at all, a couple of t-shirts and some socks, a pair of jeans soft with wear. Any dude with that much pricey shit in his place wouldn’t have no clothes at all.

  He guessed it were possible they’d robbed Archie when they killed him, but—no. Why leave all the electronics, then? No fucking robbery, no way.

  He kept searching. The closet were almost empty, too. The bedside drawer had a couple condoms, some earplugs, some porn. The usual shit.
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  Nothing else of interest in there. Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing in the kitchen, or the living room. So where the fuck did he go next?

  Nobody’d seen Archie coming in or out. Nobody’d seen him heading in or out the Peace Factory, neither, and the whores he had calling there asking for him and for Brian Tyler kept being told them weren’t in.

  Ain’t mattered. They had to be fucking somewheres, and Terrible needed to find em. He needed to find somebody who knew something, because he were practically shaking from being so mad and he could feel it boiling up inside him, that rage that clouded his vision. Just thinking on it made it worse, sitting there on that leather couch. He wanted to shred it. Wanted to shred the whole fucking place, punch holes in the walls and tear the furniture apart with his bare hands.

  Where the fuck he was supposed to find the dudes, though, in the whole city with nothing to go on? Bump’s people ain’t found shit on Brian yet; no address, no phone, no nothing. Like he ain’t even existed. Maybe he ain’t. Maybe he were just a fake name on a computer.

  But Chess’d found his name listed as graduating college. So he were a real person. Could be that were a name Archie borrowed? Maybe—shit. Maybe that were true. Still ain’t helped him much. All he knew was that body there made it for certain that them Peace Factory fucks was involved—too much coincidence otherwise—and that Brian dude whose picture ain’t could be found had to be on top of it. Terrible needed to find him. Someway. He had to get out of there and get moving.

  Right, then. Somebody needed to wait in the apartment, see if any came by. But there was a dead body in there, and he ain’t wanted to call a van to come get it, causen he ain’t wanted to alert anybody they found the body. Meant he’d have to ask somebody to sit in there with the corpse, which he ain’t liked doing.

  Not because it weren’t fun hanging out with a body. It weren’t, of course, but he ain’t gave a shit on that. Be what they were paid for. The problem was ghosts was more likely to come back iffen them bodies were still around and intact. He really ought should get that body to the burn-house, but getting it outta there unnoticed … fuck. He ain’t could even play the “My friend passed out drunk” kinda game, seeing as how the body were practically headless.