of a barreling semi illuminate us in a blinding stream of brilliant white light. Putting my good arm up, I stare through the glare to see my assailant dart out in front of the truck, its driver pulling the air horn a second too late. I anticipate the sickening thud of the man in black being yanked and burst beneath the semi’s front tire as it shuttles past. The wind swirls around the huge truck, nearly knocking me off my feet, but I hear nothing, and the truck continues on through the night. It takes only a second for the truck to clear me, but I have come to a dead stop, and can only bear witness to the would-be killer, somehow still intact, running horizontally toward the median, stopping just short of splashing across the windshield of an SUV. Once that passes, he is onto the median, and over the center divider, crossing the freeway for the other side, and out to safety. I stand and watch, gasping for breath, irritated. My right arm feels sticky now, and I have nothing to show for it. The man, still wearing his ski mask, knows I am not going to follow him across the busy freeway and stops beneath a light pole where he is bathed in a beam of muted yellow light. The knife tucked back into its sheath on his belt, he raises both hands and flips me off. Lifting only my bloodied arm, I respond in kind. Then he turns, and goes jogging west, opposite traffic once more, and I watch him disappear down the length of the curving freeway.
—
I walk back to the motel, exhausted, wearily expecting it to be a sea of red and blue police lights, but there is nothing. No people milling outside, no noises from the victim’s room, only the same steady hum of the sign out front. The busted-out window and the chair, lying on its back amidst the iceberg-like plates of jagged glass, are the only proof that I haven’t dreamt the entire thing. Even the woman is gone, her suitcase missing, and it looks as if she’s split rather than involve herself further. Just another rat accepting its continued existence and moving on about its business—she’s probably right, though.
Incredulous, I take my leave of the Offramp Inn and its clientele, nosing the Charger for home. I’ll call Ivy and tell her the news in the morning—she deserves that much. There’s not much we can do about any of it tonight, and besides, I’m seriously overdue for a dose. My arm is sore, but the bleeding has stopped, and the wound seems largely superficial. I damn near died tonight because I stuck my nose somewhere it didn’t belong, though. And it was all because of some peroxide blonde with a soft spot for humanity. As I drive, I tell myself that this is a mistake I will not repeat.
Chapter 8
A Harold phone call wakes me just after 10 a.m. to pester me with news of another decomposing-body job—an old, dead alcoholic, at 5124 De Longpre Avenue. I scribble out the address on my nightstand when I can’t find a piece of paper. A dead alcoholic means there’ll be plenty of black blood and phlegm to contend with—exactly what I don’t need today. “There is more,” says Harold, his voice nervously choppy. “You have been found out. They here protesting. Handing out flyers.”
Fuck
. “I’m sorry, boss. They shouldn’t be doing that. I’ll deal with it.”
“I appreciate.”
Goddamn media coverage.
I dress quickly, not showering, but take the time to rewrap and tape the bandage to my arm. It’s actually more of an old black T-shirt that I tear a strip off of, but it does the trick. Just once I wish that Harold would take on a job, cover this one for me, and that I could stay in bed with the sheets up to my forehead, recuperating. But he hasn’t gone out on a job since he hired me, and he seems determined to keep it that way.
As I wind the wrap around my forearm, trying to get a firm hold but not cut off the circulation, my phone vibrates on the nightstand. “Damn it, Harold, I’m going,” I mutter. It’s Ivy, though, but I’m in no mood to have
—
I walk back to the motel, exhausted, wearily expecting it to be a sea of red and blue police lights, but there is nothing. No people milling outside, no noises from the victim’s room, only the same steady hum of the sign out front. The busted-out window and the chair, lying on its back amidst the iceberg-like plates of jagged glass, are the only proof that I haven’t dreamt the entire thing. Even the woman is gone, her suitcase missing, and it looks as if she’s split rather than involve herself further. Just another rat accepting its continued existence and moving on about its business—she’s probably right, though.
Incredulous, I take my leave of the Offramp Inn and its clientele, nosing the Charger for home. I’ll call Ivy and tell her the news in the morning—she deserves that much. There’s not much we can do about any of it tonight, and besides, I’m seriously overdue for a dose. My arm is sore, but the bleeding has stopped, and the wound seems largely superficial. I damn near died tonight because I stuck my nose somewhere it didn’t belong, though. And it was all because of some peroxide blonde with a soft spot for humanity. As I drive, I tell myself that this is a mistake I will not repeat.
Chapter 8
A Harold phone call wakes me just after 10 a.m. to pester me with news of another decomposing-body job—an old, dead alcoholic, at 5124 De Longpre Avenue. I scribble out the address on my nightstand when I can’t find a piece of paper. A dead alcoholic means there’ll be plenty of black blood and phlegm to contend with—exactly what I don’t need today. “There is more,” says Harold, his voice nervously choppy. “You have been found out. They here protesting. Handing out flyers.”
Fuck
. “I’m sorry, boss. They shouldn’t be doing that. I’ll deal with it.”
“I appreciate.”
Goddamn media coverage.
I dress quickly, not showering, but take the time to rewrap and tape the bandage to my arm. It’s actually more of an old black T-shirt that I tear a strip off of, but it does the trick. Just once I wish that Harold would take on a job, cover this one for me, and that I could stay in bed with the sheets up to my forehead, recuperating. But he hasn’t gone out on a job since he hired me, and he seems determined to keep it that way.
As I wind the wrap around my forearm, trying to get a firm hold but not cut off the circulation, my phone vibrates on the nightstand. “Damn it, Harold, I’m going,” I mutter. It’s Ivy, though, but I’m in no mood to have
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