Darker Shades of Fear

(Installment 6)

 

He watched her with mischievous eyes as she dressed.  Her name was Foxi, or at least that was what she went by in the profession.  Kenny pulled another hundred dollars out of his wallet and handed it to her.

“What’s that for?”

“Just call it a tip.”

“You already gave me a tip.” She reminded.

“You were good.” He said.

She laughed.  “Honey, I should be paying you.”

“Just take the money.”

“I don’t deserve it.” She replied firmly.

“You don’t deserve to be fucking creeps like me to get by, either.”

She hesitated a moment, and then took the money.  “You’re not a creep, Kenny.”

“So I’m staying in the Shitsville Inn, reeking of gin and cigarettes with a prostitute because of my upstanding moral values?” He replied.

She sighed with a smile and rolled her eyes.  “You should see some of the freaks I get.”

“Not much of a sight, are they?”

She grimaced.  “You’re the first real orgasm I’ve had in four months.”

He smiled, “Nice to know I’m good for something.”

She playfully ruffled his hair before opening her purse and removing a business card and pen.  “Here’s my number, call me sometime if you wanna go out for coffee… or something.”

He took the card and looked it over before putting it in his pocket.  “I’ll do that.” He lied.

She nodded.  “Okay.  I should be going, I guess.”

“Bye, Foxi.”

“You know, um, you can call me Maria.”

“Okay, Maria.”

She smiled and left as Kenny closed the door behind her.  He sat on his cheap excuse for a mattress and turned on the even cheaper television.  He flipped fuzzy stations until he got an only half distorted news report.

“…with temperatures in the low forties.  Back to you, Gina.  Thanks, Tom.  Our top story this morning, drug trafficker and convicted felon Jack Salantino was found dead behind this building.  His body was discovered near a dumpster with a syringe containing what experts have concluded to be heroin.  Salantino’s car was found, the trunk alone containing over forty million dollars in illicit drugs. Autopsy reports conclude that the drug king had been drunk and tried to inject himself intravenously with heroin.  It was not the drug but perhaps an air pocket that officials say appears responsible for the death itself.  Officer Bryan Montgomery will be given a medal of achievement for his outstanding work on the Salantino case, going back almost twenty years.  Salantio was most noted for his alleged involvement with a group of minors and young adults in the Northeastern area ten years ago.  The charges under which he was indicted include soliciting narcotics to minors, organized crime and, illegal smuggling of narcotics among others.  Also charged was 18-year-old Clark Campbell.  Campbell was-”

The television abruptly went black.  Kenny lowered the remote and rose to his feet.  On his way out he tore the TV’s plug from the wall and slammed the door behind him.  It was time to check the papers.

 

Clark Campbell.  He hadn’t heard that name in years.  It hadn’t crossed his mind in God knew how long.  It wasn’t the name that bothered him.  Names were just nouns denoting specifications in reference to a person, place or thing.  It was the connection associated with the specific person, place or thing that tended to disturb an individual and Kenny was no different.  Names and dates and places… they were easy to forget.  It was simple to purge the mind of a word or a number or a phrase.  It was not so easy to erase the connection and emotional response associated with the mentioning of those nouns.  The name Clark Campbell had no meaning whatsoever.  It was the connection, the emotional response that was triggered upon the hearing of those words that caused the disturbance.  It was the mental projection of the image that filled his head upon utterance of those words that filled him with overwhelming emotion.  Those words were the catalyst for rage, hate, regret and so many other conflicting feelings.

It wasn’t like him to be in such a state.  Occasionally the past would resurface and on such an occasion, he could easily suppress it and move on.  He supposed that this time, the memory would be more difficult to purge.  Thankfully, he’d found a shitty little Speedy Mart to divert his attention.  He could buy a newspaper and a new box of cigarettes.

He entered the filthy excuse for a convenience store and purchased exactly that.  He tucked the paper under his arm as he lit another cigarette and exhaled into the cold afternoon air.  It was bright despite the temperature and for some reason, he felt like a walk would clear his head.  He was in no real hurry to read the paper, as he already knew what would be on the front page.  He’d bought it so he could see it for himself and read the article, to laugh at the stupidity of the law and those involved in “upholding” it.  He wasn’t the sort who kept newspaper clippings of every murder he committed, that was just weird.  He might be fucked in the head, but he wasn’t that obsessive.  It was quite the opposite, actually.  He could care less who his target was, unless it ended up being someone like Salantino.  Then he’d have the satisfaction of seeing his efforts rewarded on paper.  He’d throw it away afterward, souvenirs were pointless and they accumulated.  Besides, who’d want to rent a room to some weirdo who carried around two suitcases full of newspaper clippings?  Shit like that was fucked up.

He took another drag on his “death stick”.  He laughed to himself.  If only they would kill him, he thought, he’d smoke more often than he did.  They took the good ones, as he’d been told.  Whatever higher being that was in charge of the universe made sure that people like him lived long, miserable lives.  His life wasn’t all that miserable, but he was still alive so it was nothing to be excited about.  He didn’t hate life by any means, but he didn’t care too much for it either.  He was indifferent about it, like he was everything about else.  He concluded a long time ago that suicide was far too good for him and he deserved whatever he got for the remainder of his existence. 

Sometimes he felt as if he existed backwards.  As if his crimes now were what he’d paid in advance for earlier in life.  He didn’t recall anything particular about his childhood at the moment, but knew there was a reason he’d forgotten it.

 

He stopped in the dilapidated bar in which he played poker the previous night.  He approached the counter and ordered as he always did, and offered a tip as customary.  He met the stares of the few occupants evenly, telling them he had nothing to hide and was unashamed.  He could see that they too, were guilty of some infraction and confessed it with their eyes.  They were all the same here.  A commune of unprofessed criminals.  Most of them in denial, repression or shame; they still felt remorse over their transgressions.  The casual air surrounding Kenny made them envious.  He could see it in them.  Even the bartender offered no conversation.  Kenny could see he was debating whether to ask about his customer’s involvement in Salantino’s murder.  He knew it was because he looked so young.

“You played one fucking hell of a game last night.” He said finally.

Kenny smiled enigmatically.  “Hate to say I told you so.”

A smile graced the bartender’s face.  “How’d you like to play for me?”

Kenny lowered an eyebrow skeptically, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I get you in, you play poker and we split the winnings 25/75.”

Kenny considered this.  He had nothing else to do.  “That depends.  Who you got me playing against?”

“Most of ‘em millionaires who come around for a thrill.  That’s where the real money is.”

He sighed.  “I don’t give a shit about money.”

“You just won over twenty thousand dollars last night.”

He shrugged.

“What’s the problem? I’m cutting you seventy five percent?”

He exhaled a puff of smoke.  “Poker isn’t really my game.”

The bartender’s eyes exploded.  “Not your game?  Kid, if that ain’t your game, what the hell is?!”

“I play a nice round of billiards.”

“Okay,” he sighed, “15/85.”

“I don’t care about the money.  You can have the eighty-five.  You can have the whole goddamn thing for all I care.” He said, grinding his cigarette butt in the ashtray.

The bartender appeared to be studying him for a moment.  “You know, most people come in here, and I can figure ‘em out in a minute.  But you, you’re something else.”

“Got that right.” He said in a sigh.

“So, you gonna play for me?”

“Depends.  When?”

“Tuesday night.  Big place in the nice side of town.”

He sighed.  “All right.  Once.  No promises.”

“Thanks, kid.  Maybe you should buy yourself a suit or something.”

“I got better things to blow my money on.”

“These guys play pretty rough.  I don’t want you to be humiliated, that’s all.”

To be humiliated would require dignity, of which he had none.  “I could care less.  Let them judge my appearance.  I’m sure they’ll find I’m quite deceiving.” He said standing and tossing a fifty-dollar bill onto the counter.

The bartender cocked his head in confusion.  “What’s your deal?  I can barely get a word out of you and when I do, you’re spouting proverbs.”

“Still waters run deep.” He said with the corner of his lips turned upward in a sly grin as he disappeared out the door.

 

Truthfully, Kenny didn’t understand himself, and he figured it was best left that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©Danielle Lovallo, 2004