Dark End of the Street

“Them ripples kind of disappear.”

Her heart kind of changed gears for a moment, like a transmission shooting loose in her chest.

“How ’bout you stay the night?”

“I have to go.”

“With what? My boys are takin’ that car right now and lettin’ it loose in the projects. You been on the road all night. Take a room.”

“Where’s my car?”

He shrugged.

She said: “Your mind is crippled.”

“I don’t like fuckups. I talked to the boy. I don’t like folks who can’t control themselves. You gonna make me screw up this whole thing. That man is lost in Memphis and she was the only damned link.”

“What about Travers?”

“Our boy is takin’ care of him.”

“You don’t even know Jon. He’s crazy. He takes pills like vitamins and prays to Elvis like he’s Jesus Christ. Yeah, boy, that’s gonna work out just great.”

“Take a room, sister,” he said, cleaning the gray concrete off his polished boots.

He moved his hand up to her waist and she caught his wrist in her long, narrow fingers. He stretched his hand over the rim of her low-riding pants and hooked his thumb into her thong underwear. “Think we could all use a rest.”

She looked at the concrete.

She looked at the road map of a face and the brittle black beard. His breath smelled of cigars and butter.

When she glanced back to the car, Jon had noticed Ransom.

But he looked away the only time she really wanted to see his eyes. Needed to see his eyes.

Jon Burrows had cast her away.

Even before he saw her walk from the room later that morning, Jon could smell her. That sickly sweet smell like magnolia leaves when they get all mushy and brown. Decaying and ripe with tired sex. She wore a real slutty look about her, too. A halter top made out of black leather, and matching pants. High heels made out of clear plastic. Her blond hair was moussed up and combed straight back and behind her ears. Every damned thing about her looked fast. Speed. All slicked up and ready to go.

He felt his leg start twitchin’ in the little cove where they kept Coke and candy machines. That ole ice maker hummin’ at the same speed as his heart.

He watched her walk down the long hallway and take the stairs, silent as hell because none of the rooms on the floor was bein’ used by payin’ folks. He followed. The carpet of gold flowers swimming in blue made his head hurt. He imagined he was walkin’ on the sea as he caught the door before it clicked shut. Barely. Just a low tick as he pulled it wide and heard Perfect’s heels clicking down the stairs.

He watched her head getting smaller and smaller. Two floors. Three.

Blood in his ears. Teeth grittin’ in his head.

Three floors down in this damned motel. Ransom’s room.

He waited till he heard the metal door click and he ran down the steps. His bare feet not makin’ a sound. He was invisible. Floatin’. Peformin’ the miracles and usin’ the talent He’d left him.

He opened the door, peered into the long hallway. Same carpet. White, low walls. Smell of fresh paint. Same hum of the ice maker. Same hum in his heart.

Miss Perfect. He saw her beautiful back, shoulder blades movin’ up under her tanned skin and that heart-shaped butt wigglin’ in those leather pants.

The door opened down the hall; Jon ducked back into a little cove. Listening. Long caves of sound. A thousand rooms not yet used. The building just a castle for Ransom.

Bristlin’ fibers. Hands over flesh and body. The smack of a kiss and a moan of pleasure from Miss Perfect. He didn’t care. He had to see it.

Jon gave just enough of himself to look into the hall and see craggy-ass Ransom in a blue velvet robe pushin’ Miss Perfect against the wall, pinnin’ her arms over her head and buryin’ that nasty wrinkled face into the two most perfect scoops of flesh he’d ever seen.

But Jon knew who’d started the business. He knew Ransom was just followin’ her lead. That woman knew how to control the action.

Jon heard a pop in his own head and saw Perfect look down the hall.

He ducked back, sure she didn’t see him, and tongued a bit of tooth out of his mouth. He felt a wash of blood on his tongue, his heart racin’ like an overused mule’s. He tried to think about that cool ice in the metal bin before him and the way it just lay there, cold and unchanged. He fingered the chip of tooth off his tongue and spit out a long string of blood. Makin’ it loop back up to his lip, tastin’ himself and likin’ it.

Down the hall the door shut with giggles and laughter.

Jon walked back to his room, closed the door, and flicked on the television. Nothin’ but three channels and dirty movies. He watched a couple featurin’ Asian women and waterfalls and things. Didn’t help. He flipped back through to Spiderman and that only bored him.

He pulled the curtains, makin’ it dark as hell, slipped on his metal shades and picked up his Beretta. Jon swallowed some more blood, movin’ his mind away from Miss Perfect and them things that troubled him.