The Grim Room (chapter 12)

My thriller novel

Photo by Drew Murphy on Unsplash

CHAPTER 12

            Silver needed cocaine. Anything to take his mind off the constant throb of his head. That bitch really messed him up. He’d fallen right onto the goddamn curb running across Van Ness, cars nearly hitting him as he flew. He had to bandage his forehead, a gash running across it.

            Cunt. 

            He had cocaine coming. Julian would be here shortly, thank god for small miracles.

            Silver stepped into his spare room. He opened a cupboard above the bed and extracted a box. The box contained stolen silver jewelry.

            Silver licked his lips and poured out the contents. Silver bracelets, necklaces, rings, anklets, watches. You name it, he’d stolen it. Most of his victims were women, though on occasion he’d rip off a man. He didn’t like to though. Women were easier. Rohypnol would usually do the trick, either for stealing or for sex. But often, as with the Muscle Beach incident, good old fashioned force was necessary, sometimes fun. The trick was to snag them behind a dark, empty alley if possible.

            Rubbing a fat, silver ring between his thumb and index finger, he heard the loud explosion of the Chevelle. Silver lifted his bandaged head. He quickly grabbed all the jewelry and dumped it back into the box, shoving it inside the cupboard. He wanted to see his booty; to sniff its metallic aroma. He was proud of his loot.

He never worked a 9-5, hell no. His folks left him alone from a very young age, one of the few things they’d done that he approved of (other than providing a platform for learning how to steal). He didn’t have to work for The Man; he didn’t have to be an American Sucker. He took what he wanted. Real men always did.

            Silver unlocked the door and Julian pushed himself inside. “What the hell happened to your face, Silver? Jesus. You look like Muhammad Ali’s opponent after a bad K.O.”

            Silver sighed.

            Julian, scratching his black beard, ran his fingers through his greasy tangles, seeming tired. He dug fingers through his pockets and came up with a baggy. Silver snatched the baggy out of his hands and looked at it, grinning sadistically, as if the cocaine itself had the power to maim somebody Silver didn’t like. 

            They did the exchange. Julian created two lines. They each snorted one, their tradition when doing a deal, and Julian, sniffling and rubbing his nose, stood to leave.

“Hey,” Silver said, with a heightened tone.  His eyes creepily wandered up from the coke to Julian. “You seen your punk ass brother around?”

Julian studied the bandaged forehead, the swollen eye, the bruised arm. He crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s around. What’s it to you?”

Silver’s mouth tightened. “You tell that kid I’m lookin’ for him.”

Julian lowered his voice. “You listen to me, Silver, and you listen good. You are my client. Chris’s my baby brother, he’s family, and he’s fresh out of the pen. He’s a good kid. He’s trying to change his life. Whatever issue you may have…let it go.”

Uncomfortable, shifting in his seat on the couch, Silver squinted and lifted a haggard finger, pointing it at Julian. Then he realized that was a bad idea. He didn’t want to lose his coke connection. Shrugging, he said, “Alright, Julian. I’m cool.”

Julian pulled at the lapels of his jacket and said, “Damn right you’re cool. Till next time.” He started towards the door. “And Silver.”

Silver jerked his head in response.

“Chris ain’t a punk ass. You are. Remember that.”

            Chris ain’t a punk ass, you are, Silver thought. Bullshit. So what: he’d been to state prison. That didn’t scare Silver. Ok, maybe it intimidated him a bit, but he wouldn’t allow that idiot to scare him off. And he sure as shit wouldn’t let Julian swat him away like a filthy fly. His gums felt numb. He produced another line, snorting it up his nose. Now he was feeling better, feeling alive, feeling almost resurrected. Ready to take on the evening.

            He was going to Captain’s place. He’d stop at Smuggler’s, pressure Red to get her apartment number (he knew Red dropped her off to her apartment before, when she was too drunk to walk, holding her shoulders, steadying her up the stairs) and then he’d go there. He possessed a professional skeleton key.

            Rubbing his nose and adjusting the forehead bandage, he waltzed into Smuggler’s Cove. It was cold and dark, the red pulsing light familiar and lovely for his now receding headache. He felt the stimulation from the coke running through his veins. Merle Haggard was on the jukebox. A flood of warmth filled Silver’s psyche; maybe he’d stay for a drink after all.

            He took a stool. The place was abandoned. Two other people, playing pool, were the only other signs of life. Red was polishing the usual pint glass with the rag. He watched Silver skeptically. Irritated, giving Red a look which said, I don’t want to talk about it, Silver said, “Guinness and a shot of Pyrat.”

Red, scanning Silver’s head bandage thoroughly, got the shot. He flipped the filthy rag over his shoulder, opening the mini fridge and pulling out a cold pint glass. Pouring the Guinness, he spoke with his back to Silver. “Alison make it home the other night?”

            “Sure she did,” Silver said. Chuckling, he added, “You know. For such a tiny girl, she sure does weigh a lot when she’s dead weight.”

            “Uh huh,” Red said, as he placed the shot and the pint in front of him. Red wiped his hands together and sniffled. “Six bucks.”

            Silver twirled the shot around and around and around. The he lifted it, held for a second, and slammed it home. He chased it with a slug of the beer.

            “She was pretty out of it. Messed up, you know,” Red said.

            Silver’s face was partially obscured by the lifted pint. “What’s it to you, Red?”

            “I only served her three pints, I believe. She’s been coming to this bar for a while now; I ain’t ever seen her that out of it. I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’d been drugged.”

            For a flicker of an instant, he felt sadness. How was it that he had become such an amoral scumbag? He knew, realistically, that he was a piece of shit. It pained him to admit this truth to himself, but he couldn’t deny it; not to himself. It always came down to the same excuse: his parents.

            “I’ll admit,” Silver started, and Red’s eyes widened. “That she was pretty tanked. I guess the chick’s a light weight. Maybe she hadn’t eaten.” Red squeezed his eyes half shut. “Say, you know what her apartment number is, Red?”

            Red looked at him as if he’d slapped him. He threw the rag over his other shoulder and placed his wide, freckled hands on the laminated bar. “I thought you said you dropped her off, ace?”

            In that moment, Silver understood that Red could be vicious, that he could hurt Silver physically, if he wanted to. His nickname had been given due to some fight in 1975 at a bar in Ireland—or so the Smuggler’s Cove legend went—wherein he beat a man nearly to death with his bare hands, till the man’s face was only red. He’d done time in an Irish jail. But that had been nearly four decades ago; Red was old now, a faded relic of the past, like this bar.

            “Yeah. I walked her home, Red. But I’ll tell ya, I had a lot to drink that night. Remember how many shots I slammed? I walked her. I barely remember, but I walked her. I need to see her. It’s important.”