Back And Forth

This is the second to last chapter from my novel Back And Forth. It's about a couple of heroin addicts that run afoul of some big time drug dealers (among other things). It's 3 and a half years worth of work and I'm pretty pleased with it, although I haven't submittted it to anyone yet. I would love to hear some feedback, pointers, critism and kudos on everthing from subject matter to grammar to writing style. It has not been through it's final edit yet, I've still got a more than half of that left. I repeat: IT HAS NOT BEEN THROUGH IT'S FINAL EDIT YET! Please let me know what you think. I've only shown it to my wife and a couple of friends so far and would love to get some unbiased feedback. Warning: It's pretty graphic and has some adult language and situations.



                                                                      23



He walked outside into the unforgiving cold and studied his surroundings, his gait neither rushed nor subdued. It was peaceful outside as he slinked over to the edge of Damien’s property and peered down the dark road, seeing no headlights visible in either direction. Walking back to the car, he slowly climbed in, being as quiet as possible the whole time and pulled onto the street, driving off without headlights. It wasn’t until he got to one of the main crossroads that he turned them on. He got on I-70 and tried to keep it under the speed limit while he checked his mirrors every few seconds.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he screamed as he drove, “What am I gonna do now? I’m a fucking murderer! A fucking murderer! Motherfucker!”

He left the Porsche on the other side of the block, where he’d been parking recently, and sprinted to the house, looking over his shoulders repeatedly as he unlocked the door. Paranoia was already getting the best of him. Sneaking in and locking the deadbolt behind him, he immediately crouched on the floor by the window and looked outside. Sitting on the couch, Rose sat watching it all happen.

“What are you doing?”

She startled him and he stood quickly and turned to face her.

“Hey baby,” he said breathlessly looking back out the window, “You’re up.”

“Uh-huh... you alright?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

He turned to faced her again, his bruised face distorting and changing from one of panic to one of pure desperation. Throwing his coat across the room, he fell against the wall, crouching down holding his knees. Letting out a loud wail full of lament and fear, he started bawling.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she said as she crawled over and put her arm around him, “Where were you? I’ve been worried...”

“I’ve been at Damien’s”

Rose thought for a moment that maybe Damien had told Mike about their tryst and that’s why he was so upset.

“What happened? What did he tell you?” she asked apprehensively.

He stopped his sobbing and looked her in the eye.

“I killed him.” he said.

“Wh.. what?”

“He’s dead... I fucking murdered him.”

Oh no, she thought, Damien must’ve told him everything and Mike killed him, it’s my fault. She felt horribly guilty, not because Damien was dead, but because Mike was now a killer. Sweet beautiful Mike had killed a man, and she was to blame. She leaned against him and started sobbing.

“Oh, Mike!” she cried, “I’m sorry... It’s my fault!”

“What are you sorry about? It was an accident.”

“Accident? How?”

He gathered himself and tried to speak slowly and rationally.

“I nodded out on his couch and when I woke up... he was...”

“He was what?” she prodded him.

No speech would come from his mouth as he shook his head and held his hands in front of himself. Forcing the words wasn’t working, try as he might, and his searched his mind for what to say, still in shock over all that had happened. He wasn’t sure, but he thought for a moment he might have been sexually assaulted and he suddenly felt like a pussy, like he was less than a man. The words finally began to come to him and he labored to make his tongue force them out.

“He was...”

“Yeah?”

“He was sucking my dick.”

She stared at him blankly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“He was sucking my dick!” he shouted, rising to his feet, “I couldn’t get him to stop... so I grabbed a big fucking vase and I... I smashed his goddamned head in... What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

Rose looked at him with an emotionless gaze.

“Why was he sucking your dick?”

“I don’t know... because he’s a faggot?” he yelled.

“I’m serious, Mike.”

“I’m being serious too. I have no idea why he doing that... I seriously think he was gay... or bi at least.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He said some weird shit to me before.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know... He told me one time that he thought I was attractive.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. He said that said you were attractive too... and he tried to rub my neck.”

“When was this?”

“That one night that we did X with Jimmy.”

“So you’re telling me Damien’s dead... are you positive?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” he said lighting up a smoke, “If you could’ve seen him laying there, you’d be sure too.”

“You don’t think you’re going to get caught, do you?”

“I don’t know... I don’t think anyone knows about it yet.”

After a few minutes he started to settle down and Rose kept prodding him for more information. She wanted to know if Damien had said anything else to him before he died. He told her no and that the whole thing was like a demented dream, surreal in every way. She finally suggested they get high and figure out the situation.

“You can get high but I’m not gonna.” he told her as he continued to pace and peek out the window.

“Are you sure? It’s the last bit we have left.”

“Oh yeah. I almost forgot...” he said reaching into his jeans pocket, “I grabbed this on my way out.”

He handed her the bag of dope.

“Is this China white?” she asked astonished.

“Yeah.”

“My god, there must be a half ounce here... do you know what this is worth?”

“I don’t know... a lot?”

She nodded her head.

“Did you try any?” she asked while holding up the bag and looking at it..

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Good enough that I passed out and when I woke up there was a crazy drug dealer sucking my cock.”

“I’m gonna try some.”

“Go for it.”

“Aren’t you going to have any?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t exactly feel like it at the moment, Rose... I just killed a guy. What if the cops are looking for me?”

“Did you leave anything there?”

“No... I have his car though.”

“Why on earth would you have his car?”

“We drove out there together.”

“Oh, this is bad... You’ve got to get rid of it.”

“I know.”

“Do you think your fingerprints are on anything at his house?”

His heart leapt into his throat, his prints were on everything, the door, the CD, the beer bottle and the remains of the vase came to mind. Thoughts raced through his head, he wasn’t sure what else was there that could have his prints on it, but was positive there were several other items.

“Fuck!” he shouted in frustration.

“What should we do? Do you want to skip town?”

“I don’t know.” he said curling up against the wall again, “I’m so fucked!”

He began to weep softly and she crept up next to him.

“Mike.” she said sternly, “Mike, you need to look at me.”

He lifted his head up and gave her a sad, scared look.

“You need to back out there and get rid of any evidence.” she said as though she were lecturing him, “Do you hear me? Get rid of everything.”

Although he was absolutely mortified at the thought of returning to the scene of the crime, he knew that she was right and didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison. The thought of that terrified him. He was sure Damien had lots of friends in the slammer and they’d relish the chance to kill the skinny white kid who killed one of their own. Returning to the house was a must, he had no choice.

“You’re right... I need to go.”

“You don’t think Dante’s there do you?”

“I doubt it. Damien told me he was out of town but who knows.”

“You didn’t make any phone calls from there did you?”

“No.”

“Good... see if you can find any more of his dope. ”

“I don’t care about his dope.”

He grabbed his jacket and keys and walked to the front of the house. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. Rose stopped him.

“Be careful.” she said, hugging him.

“I will be.” he said as he held her close, looking deep into her eyes, “I love you, momma.”

“I love you too.”

She gave him a long passionate kiss, like it would be the last time she’d see him again.

“Now go.”

“Okay... I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

He returned to the Porsche and fired it up. Normally he’d be excited about driving it, but now it was just a reminder of his troubles. I need to get rid of this thing, he thought as he drove to the end of the block and headed back to Bob’s. He figured he could ditch it in the lot across the alley from the bar and jump back into his truck before heading out. The less he drove Damien’s car the better. Putting along slowly, he made sure to shift before the motor revved up too much and tried to keep it quiet as possible. Luckily it was past 4:00 in the morning and he only saw two other cars by the time he crossed Broadway and entered the alley.

The old Chevy was sitting a half a block down from him. Freedom, he thought. Right when he was about to shut off the lights, he noticed two Denver police cars sitting in the lot he planned on using. They were pulled up side by side, right next to each other with their windows down so they could talk to each other.

“Goddamnit.” he said under his breath.

He knew he couldn’t pull the switcheroo right then. It would look pretty suspicious to the cops, or anybody for that matter, if he got out and traded cars in the dark alley, especially at that hour. He continued to slowly approach, trying not to look directly at the police. Watching them out of his peripheral vision, he could see that they were both observing him closely. Ever so slowly, he cruised past them and turned at the end of the alley.

Driving away as he cursed to himself, he made sure to zig-zag up and down a couple of streets in case he was followed. There was no choice now but to take the car to Damien’s, he’d have to ditch it afterwards. That’ll be better anyway, he told himself, probably be easier in broad daylight.

There were no streetlights that far from the city so it was pitch dark as he pulled in the driveway. He drove past the house a couple of times before he felt safe enough to pull in, so it took a little longer to get there than when he drove out with Damien earlier. Everything seemed to be just as he left it when he pulled into the same space from before and looked at the light coming from the window by the back door.

A sense of foreboding fell over him as he approached the rear door. It was slightly ajar and a slit of light pried it’s way out. Did I not close the door all the way, he wondered, maybe he’s not dead. The image of Damien waking up covered in blood and finding both his dope and car missing gave him pause. Surely that would warrant a death sentence. He hesitated, wishing he had remembered to grab his gun before he left.

Concentrated on maintaining his composure, he placed his palm on the cold paint and nudged it. It let out a protesting groan and turned on it’s hinges, peeling away the darkness and he stood at the threshold in the glow emanating from the kitchen and lingered there.

“Hello?” he said apprehensively, “Anybody in there?”

He keenly listened for a response that didn’t come. The faint sound of music could be heard and nothing more as Jane’s Addiction continued to play for a truant audience, giving him goosebumps as he cautiously stepped in. The vibe he was getting from the house felt sinister somehow, like he didn’t belong there. Anticipation and trepidation both mingled in a stream of consciousness that was telling him to neither move forward or flee. How did I get get myself into this, he wondered as he stepped lightly into the living room.

Damien still lie in his awkward stance like a circus contortionist that was sleeping on the job. Mike turned his head, momentarily averting his gaze, as it was extraordinarily disturbing to see. When he recently found Jimmy dead it seemed almost natural, peaceful in a way, but this was something quite contrary to that. He hadn’t taken Jimmy’s life and left him in a distorted, unnatural heap, like what he’d done with Damien. Trying to remember what brought him out there in the first place, he looked around the room.

He studied the debris field that surrounded the corpse. Shards of glass and bits of broken vase were spread out in a pattern around the point of impact like one would find in the aftermath of a controlled explosion. The table, before Damien fell through it, had a top made of half inch thick clear glass. The violent collision left a thick layer of jagged pieces, the largest concentration of them still near the table frame and dead body. The bits of glass near his head glistened red with the blood that had trickled through them.

Leaning forward, he gingerly grabbed the largest fragment of the vase. Part of the bottom was still attached to it and it would adequately serve as an impromptu vessel for carrying the other vase bits. He went about pulling the larger pottery remains from the mass of the broken table top, taking great care in not poking himself.

Finally he stood and tried to grasp what task needed to be done next, his recollections of what went on earlier were still a little fuzzy as he examined the room and furniture. He knew he’d touched the stereo and some of the CDs and would have to give them a good wipedown. Did I touch the TV, he wondered. Turning to the stereo, he spied his used syringe on the floor in front of the couch and picked it up on his way to the entertainment center and dropped the rig into the beer bottle he had been drinking from.

Cleaning was something he abhorred at his own dwelling let alone at someone else’s. He carried what was left of the vase and the beer bottle to the kitchen and tossed it in the trash and removed the liner, figuring he’d pull the garbage bag from the can on his way out and throw it all into a random dumpster across town.

A quick visual of the kitchen revealed no cleaning supplies, at least not out in the open. Checking in the cabinets, he found a spray bottle of glass cleaner under the sink, but there were no rags or paper towels. The drawers near the sink had nothing but silverware and junk in them so he worked his way through the kitchen. Each of the drawers were opened and closed one by one, as he methodically went through the kitchen, being careful to pull his sleeve over his fingers and thumb so as not to leave any prints. Finally he pulled out the drawer near the stove and froze in place. A Beretta nine-millimeter lay on top of a stack of opened mail. He placed his good hand on it and stroked the cold black steel. Nice, he thought, I’ve always wanted to shoot one of these. Examining it carefully as he turned it in his hand, it seemed to be heavier than his Glock, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but it did have a certain substantial feel to it. The weight of it made him wonder if it was loaded and he popped the clip and let it slide into his broken hand. The copper casings of the bullets were visible through the ports on the side. It was full.

A noise from the living room suddenly unnerved him and he pushed the magazine back into the pistol, straining to listen. Some kind of a shuffling, almost jostling sound was barely audible over the stereo. Did I just hear that, he wondered with an intense expression of concentration. It was like all the air had been sucked out of the house and he was in a vacuum. He took a step towards the refrigerator and stopped. Voices could be heard through the din, coming from the front of the house. Adrenaline instantly rushed though his veins like no drug he’d ever shot up before, suddenly energizing his muscles and nerves with molten steel.

“Yo, Damien!”

“Hey man, are you awake?”

It was voices he didn’t recognize. He looked for a quick exit and saw none, he’d have to pass the living room to get to the back door and would get caught.

“Damien! You home, bro?”

Dante’s voice was recognizable in a micro second and Mike fought to keep his composure, knowing they would see Damien’s body at any moment. His heart pumped raw energy through every fiber in his body, from his feet which were poised to run to his hand clutching the gun. Reality was rushing in at him from all angles, everything he heard and saw was coming at him enhanced. It was as though he’d transformed into a machine, processing information before calculating a reaction. Time moved so slow that it ceased to exist. He struggled to keep from hyperventilating as the voices suddenly grew silent.

“Damien!” Dante screamed.

“What the fuck?” asked a second distressed voice.

“What happened?” came a third.

“No, no, no!” Dante protested.

Mike could hear the tinkling of broken glass as they approached the kill.

“Damien!” Dante shouted again, “Who did this to you?”

“We need to find who did this... Make that motherfucker pay!” the second voice proclaimed.

“What the fuck happened?” the third one asked again.

Mike drew the weapon up by his face and held it with both hands, clutching the grip tightly with his good one. Breathing fast yet controlled, he eyed the door across the empty void between himself and Dante’s crew.

“Marcus, go to the kitchen and call up our homies... I know who did this.” Dante said calmly.

“Who do you want me to call?” Marcus asked.

“Everybody... I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.” he said coldly.

Mike could see a shadow on the carpet approaching, each step taking an eternity. Closer and closer he came, fate was just a second away and he was prepared to meet it. He grit his teeth and thrust the gun out, locking his elbows and aiming chest high. Every muscle was flexed and poised to respond, steady as stone.

A tall, thin hispanic stepped around the corner briskly. His body jolted to a stop as he stepped in front of the business end of the gun. It was happening so slow that Mike could see his expression change from urgency to panic to despair. His mouth was opening to speak but Mike didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He squeezed the trigger.

The gun thundered in the confined space of the kitchen. A black, smoldering hole fluttered on the front of the gangster’s shirt and his hand slowly went up and clutched his chest as blood spilled out of him like a faucet. The gun roared again and he took one between the eyes. His head snapped back as skull and grey matter splattered the ceiling and he fell to the ground without making a sound. The unknown gangster slumped against the fridge and lay motionless.

Mike strode through the gunsmoke rapidly towards the living room, a storm of controlled mayhem, an entity that was neither judge nor juror. No thoughts ran through his mind, he was just doing what he had already programmed himself to do. He’d become a machine set on autopilot. He was pure.

Rounding the corner, he raised the pistol once again. He had killed Marcus so fast that Dante and the remaining gangster barely had time to pull their weapons. They had a look of shock and  disbelief on their faces as they raised their pistols towards him in a panicked, clumsy fashion. Mike already had a bead on the second gangster before he had even stepped all the way into the room.

“Fuck you!” Dante shouted.

Mike pulled the trigger once more, striking the smaller gangster in the throat. His head cocked back so violently that his blue bandana sailed ten feet behind him, almost touching the ceiling. He dropped his weapon and grasped at his neck as a crimson geyser gushed outward like a lawn sprinkler. His body fell so fast he hit the ground before his bandana did. Mike kept his feet planted and drew the weapon on Dante who already had his gun aimed.

“You’re fucking dead!” he screamed.

They fired nearly simultaneously. The report from the two guns overlapped in a horrific explosion not unlike a thunderclap. Mike could hear the cracking of air as Dante’s shot whizzed by him and feel the concussion as it embedded itself into the wall behind him. Dante let out a groan and slumped over holding his gut and Mike calmly pulled the trigger once more and caught him in the chest. He watched him fall limply to the floor.

He stood for a moment with the gun still out in front of him, ready to shoot. Reality rushed in again like a jolt of electricity and he knew it was over. Through the whole battle the only sound he heard, besides gunshots, was his own breathing and heartbeats.

The room was now quiet except for the music playing softly in the background and Dante’s labored breathing. He lowered the weapon and looked at his own torso and limbs and saw he hadn’t been hit.

He lifted his head and looked at Dante who was crawling on his belly towards the front door, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. A bloody trail followed him. Mike approached him from behind and stood looking down at him feeling neither remorse or pity.

“Where you going, Dante?”

“Fuck you, man!” he said breathlessly as he continued to crawl.

Looking down at his bloody nemesis, he casually stepped in front of him. Dante stopped and struggled to roll over, his wheezing getting more labored by the second. Mike put his heel against his shoulder and pushed to help him turn over. Dante lay on his back, gurgling.

“Fuck you, man... let me go.” he said between breaths.

Mike shook his head sympathetically and didn’t speak, his normally sweet demeanor all but evaporated. There was no internal struggling to make any kind of a decision, be it cold blooded or compassionate. He’d never thought of himself as a hard ass, he always considered himself to be more logical and calculating. He knew what he had to do.

“This ain’t over...” Dante wheezed, “My homies are gonna find you... You’re fucking dead!”

“I don’t think so, Dante.”

“Suck my dick, bitch!”

Mike slowly pulled the pistol and aimed it at Dante’s face.

“Remember that conversation we had about last words, Dante?” he said calmly, “Do you?”

He glared up at Mike with a look of utter contempt on his face.

“Fuck you!” he screamed.

Mike looked at him with empathy.

“Sorry.” he whispered.

The gun roared one last time and he lowered the pistol. Standing over Dante with a blank expression, he felt nothing. Any fear he had prior to tonight was gone, there was nothing left for him to be afraid of. He turned and walked though the smoke to the couch and sat down, pulling a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. Setting the pistol on his lap, he lit up a cigarette while Jane’s Addiction continued to play softly.