Chris squatted in the bushes, noting that the big blue Bronco in Anderson's yard was gone. He hoped to God that meant that the big sonuvabitch himself was gone with it. Now all he had to worry about was if the Mrs. was home. Two of Gerardo's boys, Mark and that fat Chicano dude, paid Chris a visit in his apartment. How they found him, Chris didn't know. They let Chris know in no uncertain terms that he needed to square things with Gerardo by tonight. He rubbed his stomach in memory of the conversation, wincing as his fingers passed over the almost perfect boot print imprinted there in purple, black and angry pink. Chris pulled out his switchblade knife and tested it, making sure the spring blade worked properly. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it, but he would rather face a dozen Andersons than cross Gerardo and his boys again.
Chris pushed the blade back into the handle and hid the knife in his closed hand. He followed the line of bushes up to the house, shielding himself from the traffic at the intersection up the road. He heard a car coming up the road, and hid within the bushes until he heard it pass. He then continued along the bushes until they ended behind the house, scanning the field of tall, dry grass around the back.
Glad there ain't no other houses closer than three hundred yards or more from here. No nosy neighbors to worry about.
Anderson hadn't gotten around to fixing up the back of the house. It was still the same dry-rotted, gray-brown wood covered in flaking splotches of dirty yellow paint. Chris looked at the windows, wondering if he'd set off an alarm if he tried to open them, then noticed the back wooden door was open a crack. His brow wrinkled in thought as he debated whether or not to go in the door; all of a sudden a horrible thought entered Chris' mind. He was certain that Anderson was here and was waiting behind the door with a shotgun.
Still, Chris mustered up the courage to quietly walk up to the steps. Shaking, he bent over to look under the crack of the door. He saw movement, and heard the sound of someone slowly pulling the hammer back on a revolver.
He jumped back so suddenly he lost his balance and fell, pinwheeling his arms frantically as he landed square on his bottom. He scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily, and saw a Chihuahua come around the door. It panted and regarded him with thoughtless black eyes. Okay. Okay-okay. Calm down. The dog's what I saw moving. The sound I heard was the click-click-click of the little rat's claws on the wood floor. Nearly pissed myself over a fucking dog.
His heart began to slow, and he grinned at the creature. "Fuck you," Chris told it.
The dog made as if it were to bark a few times, inhaling and tensing, then loosed a high "arf." It didn't seem to know what to make of Chris, but he didn't plan to give the dog the chance to decide anything. Chris knelt and started making kissing noises, motioning with his hand for the dog to come closer.
It scampered toward Chris and yipped, ran back a little, hopped forward and yipped again, then sprung back. The dog then ran into the house, barking as it went. If anyone's in the house, they know I'm here now, Chris thought.
He opened the door, cringing as it squeaked, and padded slowly into the house. He knew where to step to make the least noise, but the boards still creaked under each step Chris took. The dog barked at him twice, then ran from the den into the dining room. He looked around the room. The baseboards, floor and wall had all been painted the same shade of light blue as the outside front of the house. Country Western and Indian-style paintings and hangings adorned the walls: a bull skull relief, a print of an Indian woman standing with a wolf on a snowy mountain, and a technicolor Indian head on black velvet. Trailer park chic gone Native. A brand new TV sat in the corner. If he'd only parked closer, he could add that to his nonexistent entertainment system. If he ever did rob this joint, though, Chris reminded himself to leave all the crap on the walls.
What the hell am I thinking? This is my new start. After this, I go clean.
The Andersons had put down brown carpet in the living room, and once he had gotten to it he walked more quickly, his footsteps muffled. He listened for noise; all he heard was the movement of the damned dog. He heard it growling faintly.
Chris turned the corner and entered the dining room. The Chihuahua was attacking a pillow shammy, and payed Chris no heed. Chris, thankful for the diversion, started ascending the stairs, carpeted in the same worn, stained tan nap from when he lived here. Chris wondered what dopehead was in charge of decorating the house.
He froze when he heard the thumping.
It was coming from upstairs. A pause, then thump, thump, thump, thump. Suddenly an image of Gerardo popped into Chris' head, which gave him the nerve to continue up the stairs; otherwise, he might have remained there, frozen in fear for hours, until someone shot him. As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard the thumping resume for a while, with a very faint squeaking noise accompanying it. Chris exhaled quietly, not realizing he was holding his breath, relieved. He had already figured out what was up before he edged up to the half-open door and peeked around it.
A plump, thirtyish brunette was being mounted by a tanned, muscular guy with pimples on his back. He wasn't the guy he chatted with yesterday at the door. The woman's small breasts and long, mussed hair swayed in rhythm with each squeak, with each thrust the man made. The guy had an intense expression on his face, which could be construed as agony in another context. Chris gritted his teeth. The floorboard the coke was hidden under was in the next room, but Chris had to get past this room without being seen. Their faces were pointed away from him at an angle, so they could still probably catch him in their peripheral vision if he moved.
He heard her moans start to build, and Chris decided he'd use their screwing to his advantage. He waited until she was almost yelling, then dashed across the doorway when she did, praying they were too involved to notice. His ruse apparently worked, because he heard them moan some more, then pant heavily. He crept into his old room, which now looked like a guest bedroom, and noticed that there were the old dry, squeaky panels in here. Anderson didn't bother carpeting this room. That would make getting the coke from under the board easier, but he knew he'd be heard if he started in there now.
He stood there a few minutes, trying to formulate a plan, when the squeaking started again; slowly and quietly at first, then it started to build momentum. Chris held his breath again, and stepped into the room. He stepped slowly and cautiously, avoiding the worst parts of the floor and trying to time his footsteps with the squeaking and moaning. He got to the stash area in the corner opposite the door, and carefully took his knife and pried up a hardwood board there; it fit tightly into the other boards and blended into the rest of the paneling, but wasn't nailed down.
He got an index finger under the board and pulled it up about three inches, making a loud creak. The squeaking in the other room stopped, and Chris felt his stomach turn over. Mumbling, then moving around, and then after a pregnant pause the squeaking and moaning started again. Chris heard them fucking on the floor this time; all the better to obfuscate the noise Chris made. He pulled the board up a few centimeters at a time, timing it with the happy couple's rhythm. Once the gap was wide enough, Chris reached his arm into the floor, searching for his little bundle of salvation.
He was overjoyed when he felt his cool, taped, secure plastic bundle there. He winced in confusion as he felt another, unfamiliar something a few inches from it. Chris pulled them both out. He gasped and dropped them when he noticed the other object was a dead rat. There was white around the rat's muzzle and front paws. Cocaine, pouring from the holes gnawed in the plastic, dusted the floor and Chris' clothes. He muttered "fuck," and started trying to brush the powder off his clothes and from the floor into the hole. The sharp, choking scent of cocaine hit Chris, and he immediately wanted to snort the whole goddamned bag, to fill himself with that energy and heightened awareness. Chris closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to banish the desire.
Chris suddenly realized the squeaking had stopped, and looked up to see the tanned man standing in the doorway, a beer bottle clenched in his hand. Chris' guts turned to water. The man was hairy, short -- no more than five and a half feet tall -- and still naked.
Chris offered his yellow smile. "Uh... hey there, how ya doing? Buh-betcha wonderin' what I'm doing here, huh?"
The short hairy man stepped forward and raised the brown bottle, but both men froze when they heard a door open and close downstairs. They both uttered "Oh, shit" in near unison, and the short hung man ran off, Chris forgotten. Chris tried the window right above him. Locked.
Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs, each thud foretelling Chris' doom.
Chris fixed the board, grabbed the coke, and ran for his escape route. He bolted into the closet and quietly closed the door behind him. He started panting heavily, a panic attack coming on.
What the hell, might as well take a sample. The package is already compromised. Just a boost. That's all I need.
Chris held the bag of coke up to his nose and snorted from the hole. He almost fainted as he felt his old friend's power course through his head, his limbs, filling his body with power. His heart began beating like a trip hammer, skipping double beats from the chemical overload, and his lungs loosened up. Powdered God. Jesus Fucking Christ, hallelujah. He wiped around his nostrils with his fingers and inhaled the residue with gusto.
Cocaine and adrenalin sharpened Chris' senses. He heard steps in the hallway, then the Andersons started fighting. A lot of yelling and things breaking, then a loud slapping followed by the woman's screaming and crying. He imagined the old man was slapping her around a little bit, and he couldn't really blame the guy. He'd do the same thing if he caught any bitch of his fooling around. He just didn't want Anderson to get around to him.
Chris smiled as he felt along the wall to his left, and found a finger-sized hole. He felt inside the hole for a latch and undid it, then gently pushed the panel in, confident that the screaming and other noise concealed the noise. He closed and latched the panel behind him. I wonder if Anderson knows about this place? He inched along the passage between the walls, heading for the rope that led down to freedom. This handy escape route was here when Chris moved in a few years back, but he had added the rope. He probably would have escaped that police raid a few years ago if it wasn't for that snitch bastard Eric telling the pigs that Chris was hiding back here. Chris reminded himself to hunt Eric down and beat the hell out of him. But this time the passage would work.
He heard the closet door he entered through open behind him.
Giddy with fear and excitement, grinning maniacally, Chris stuffed the packet of coke in his jeans pocket and quietly shimmied down the rope. His feet landed softly on the concrete floor, and he navigated sightlessly toward the west wall. Chris searched for the small hole, and pulled it toward him, barely catching two brooms and a mop as they fell. He set them in the corner of the downstairs closet he came out of, and daintily stepped around dark shapes he figured were buckets, tool boxes and bags of other stuff; his eyes had adjusted to the near-darkness by now. He pulled out his switchblade and held it in his hand, ready for anyone trying to stop him, but hoping he wouldn't have to use it. He quietly and slowly opened the closet door, seeing the Chihuahua sitting there, wagging its tail like it was waiting for him. Stupid little shit.
As he stepped out of the closet, he slowly peeked around the door, just to be safe. He saw a baseball bat coming at his face.

Chapter Three ->