Hold It 'Til It Hurts Page 8

  “No.” Bud threw his thumb over his shoulder. “That was it. We just passed the sweet spot. You give me the money. I tell you which house it is.”

  Achilles scanned the block. He had been distracted and lost track of where he was. Bud tapped his palm as Achilles counted out eight twenties. Achilles put two of the bills in Bud’s palm and held the others, as if weighing them. Bud tapped his palm again. “Don’t stop now.”

  Achilles shifted to look behind him. He had that feeling like water was in his ear. His breath came in short, shallow puffs, his heart thumped, his limbs throbbed with each flood of blood, his entire body expanding and contracting with every inhalation. Focus. “How do I know it’s the right house?”

  “I don’t know you either,” said Bud.

  “Half now, half later.”

  Bud handed the money back to Achilles. “You come get me when you’re ready to do business.”

  “I want to, but … He better be here.” He removed the keys from the ignition in case Bud tried to run, balling his hands into fists, only somewhat reassured by Bud’s steady, confident demeanor. Bud was now staring directly at him, as if this was the most important conversation he’d ever had.

  “He here, hand to God.” Bud touched the roof of the cab. “But, that’s not the question. The question is, is you a man of your word or not?”

  “Of course. My father always said a man’s word is his only honor.”

  “You keep your promises?” asked Bud.

  The question wasn’t, What if he’s lying? It was, What if he’s not? Achilles handed him the money.

  “Your father would be proud,” said Bud. “Who is it anyway? Owe you money? Stole something?”

  “My brother.”

  Bud folded the money into his pocket and opened the door. “Brother, huh? Ain’t we all?”

  “No!”

  Bud shrank back like Achilles was spitting venom. “You must want to find him bad. Turn around, go back two blocks, look at the green camelback on the left.”

  “Camelback?”

  “A house with a half top floor, like a hump in the back, like a camel. Don’t you know a camel, son?” With that he shut the door and gimped across the street, saying over his shoulder, “Another few years that truck will be a classic.”

  As Achilles made a u-turn, Bud gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed, “Good luck.” Achilles considered giving the old man a love tap with the bumper and taking the money back.

  CHAPTER 5

  ACHILLES CIRCLED THE BLOCK A FEW TIMES BEFORE HE SAW A CAMELBACK that looked nearly green. He parked two streets away, flipped off the overhead light so it wouldn’t come on when he opened the door, and walked to the house. The homes on either side of it were boarded up. Like Wages’s home it was a duplex, so he knocked on both doors. No one answered. He knocked again. Still no response. Cursing his naiveté, he walked through the narrow passage between the houses, his shoulders nearly grazing the walls, glass crackling underfoot. The backyard was a concrete pad littered with fifty-gallon barrels. Achilles picked his way around the barrels, knocked on the back door, and, out of habit, stepped aside. A voice called, “What?”

  Achilles identified himself.

  A sleepy-eyed teen with a squat neck and a boxhead opened the door a crack. He wore a fake camouflage shirt under a black hoodie, and the edge of his cigarette was blackened as if lit by an unsteady hand. “Who you?”

  “I’m here for my brother, Troy,” Achilles held up a church program.

  “St. Augustine?”

  Achilles flipped the brochure over so the kid could see Troy’s face.

  The teen said, “Hold on.”

  Achilles put his foot against the door.

  “Hey man, move your foot.” Another voice asked who it was. The teen’s face vanished inside the door as he said, “Some guy looking for his brother.”

  The other voice said, “Let him in.”

  “Lex say okay.” The teen opened the door, regarding Achilles’s foot like an uninvited animal.

  A stratus of smoke floated between the bare bulb in the ceiling and the kitchen table, which was cluttered with forty-ounce bottles and half-full take-out containers. Lex, seated at the table, looked to be about thirty. His wide-set eyes were perfectly round, like egg whites in a cast-iron skillet, and he had stars cut into the side of his fade. His most prominent feature was his nose, almost as broad as his lips, larger even than Merri’s nose, about which Merri himself always said, “I can smell what they’re cooking for dinner tomorrow.” Lex had cleared an area of the table upon which his bare feet were propped. He looked at Achilles just long enough to assure himself Achilles wasn’t a threat, then returned his attention to a callous on his big toe.

  Achilles nodded to him, relieved. For a moment he thought he’d been suckered. “Thanks.”

  The clipper clicked. Lex carefully folded it up and placed it on the table. Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Gimme that paper cut.”

  “What?” asked Achilles.

  “Pay me, zigga.” Lex wiped his finger across the table, then inspected it, like he was checking for dust.

  “What?” Achilles bristled. He’d never been called zigga before except by Merriweather, and he seldom used it, sensing that Achilles didn’t wear it well.

  “The mint,” said Lex.

  “The mint,” echoed the teen.

  “The mint?” asked Achilles.

  “Don’t give me that Schlitz. You from Nebraska? You know! Mint, seed, scratch, pocket pussy,” said Lex. “The ghetto passport. Monay!”

  “I already paid.” Achilles motioned with his thumb as if Bud was behind him.

  “What, zigga? You already gave at the office or some shit? You think this a charity? You think Sally Struthers gonna stroll in here with some bobble-headed African negro on her tit and just hand the little motherfucker over to you? Nothing here is free. This is a commercial enterprise.”

  “Like the spaceship,” added the teen.

  “What do you want?”

  “What you got?”

  “Maybe forty.” He had given the rest of his cash to Bud, whom he’d promised not to mention.

  “Forty.” Lex laughed. “That won’t pay cable. How I’m supposed to get my C-SPAN and ESPN off forty? What else you got? What’s that you keep touching at your neck? That or that watch.” He ran his fingers across the table again.

  Achilles cursed himself for touching his throat like a little girl. He could get another watch, but his mother gave him the locket the morning he shipped out. The teen stepped closer, pausing when Achilles reached into his pocket. He pulled out his mechanical pencil. “This is antique. It’s worth over a hundred dollars.”

  Lex and the kid laughed.

  “It look like this shit pertain to written correspondence?” Lex said, “Clark Kent–looking zigga tried to give me a pencil. Like I’m gonna write somebody. Take that shit to the Jew. Someone’s gotta pay.”

  Achilles felt claustrophobic. The kitchen was barely five feet across, and the door swung in, so he couldn’t open it without moving closer to the teen in the hoodie. The table was directly in front of him, so he couldn’t go deeper into the house without going around Lex. He handed Lex his watch and forty dollars.

  “Took you long enough. Through the next room, stairs are on the right. Blow, show him.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be out of here immediately,” said Achilles.

  “Whatever.” Lex had returned his attention to his manicure. A nail clipping pinged off a beer bottle.

  Blow cocked his head for Achilles to follow. The teen stomped more than walked, slapping his feet as if he wanted to sound larger than he was. Achilles followed him through the next room, which was cluttered with debris and candy boxes, to the bottom of the stairs. Blow called, “Yo, Black! Yo, Big Man! He here.”

  Big Man. Slim. Shorty. Son. Boo. Black people had so much slang, so many terms of endearment for people they didn’t know. They addressed strangers as if they’d been friends fo
rever. Jackson, from New York, had called everybody Son, and it made people smile. Wexler called everybody Chief, and it had the same reaction. And everybody meant every-single-thing. The convoy delayed by a herd of sheep at the gate: Merri said, Check out these ziggas. Jackson had leaned out the window to advise a straggler, Alright, son, you gonna hit that spit if you don’t speed it up. Wexler, hitting the horn, added, You heard him, Chief.

  “Might be sleep,” said Blow with a shrug. He tried again, calling louder, “Yo Tony, your man is here.”

  “Troy, his name is Troy.”

  “Right. Big Man! Yo!” When there was no answer, Blow shrugged and flipped the switch, but the light didn’t come on. “You can go up.” He gestured for Achilles to go upstairs, leaning against the wall like a ferryman who wanted to dock for the night, shrugging as if he’d already made the trip too many times that day. “Yo, Tony!”

  Achilles looked back at Blow, who was already turning away, and spoke into the darkness, “Troy!”

  It felt like a river was bearing his body downstream to a raging waterfall, and Achilles could do nothing to stop it. Was it because Blow said Tony? Was it because the top light was conveniently out, so the staircase faded into darkness? Was it because the entire time he’d been in the house, he hadn’t heard any noise upstairs? Was it because Bud had refused to come? Was it because Blow walked like he was warning someone he was coming? For some reason Achilles had that familiar feeling like being underwater, like someone had pressed the mute button. Blow speaks, but nothing comes out, as if he’s talking into the wind. Achilles’s body is backing up the stairs, turning away from Blow even as his mind says, Leave! Now! Retrace your steps and leave before you go over the edge. But Achilles climbs on. He’s caught in the current.

  A thud. The first blow surprises him. It always does, setting off a reaction he can see but can’t stop, like being drunk and driven to do something foolish that even as you begin you know will end badly. The base of his skull and jaw rattle and he crouches and waits for the gravel and debris to stop raining down on his helmet, because that’s what you do. You wait. You hesitate. You hesitate to open your eyes in case there’s another blast. Like now. You hesitate to open your eyes in case there’s something you don’t want to see. So you wait. Wait for the rocks to stop rolling, for your helmet to stop clattering. You paw your face. All there. You wiggle your fingers and toes. All there. You run your tongue across your teeth. All there. Then when it’s quiet, all you hear is the throb in your own head, the blood siphoning in your temples, and the distant yelling like now, Give it up motherfucker, you call them. You scream their names when it settles down. But the blows keep coming, the helmet keeps rattling. It isn’t settling down, and Achilles has to know, he has to, so he calls out, even though they might not hear, he calls out, Troy, Wages, Wexler, Merriweather, Jackson! No answer. Again, Troy, Wages, Wexler, Merri, Jackie! No answer. Then just Troy! The only answer a laugh and another strike to the side of the face, and another, and another, and a kick, the way his father kicked. His father’s kicks were precise and snappy, like his foot was the brick at the end of a long chain aimed at Achilles’s mouth. But this is different, this is “nothing personal,” as Blow is saying at the moment Achilles loses his hearing.

  It lasts less than a minute but feels like a marathon. Achilles instinctively tucks his chin into his chest and pulls his elbows in like wings to protect his ribs. Blow leans against the wall, balancing on one foot and the other kicks and kicks. Straight leg kicks. From a distance, it probably looked like he was warming up for a soccer match or carving a rut in soft earth. The kicks land on Achilles’s back and legs and the side of his head. One finds his stomach, and his breath rushes out in a whistle.

  Just as Achilles manages to grab Blow’s leg, Lex puts Achilles in a chokehold and jerks him up to a standing position. “Just relax.”

  Achilles turns his head just slightly to the side, nuzzling his chin into the crook of Lex’s arm until he can breath, relaxing to save oxygen. Lex says, “That’s right. Don’t fight it.”

  Frantically, spastically, like a scorned woman, Blow slaps and claws at Achilles’s neck until the locket breaks off, the loose chain snaking down to Achilles’s waistband, the cool metal locket skipping down his chest. Achilles kicks him away and Blow comes back jabbing and kicking, swinging in wild arcs like he’s swatting bees. The sound, like slapping a steak on cement, is more shocking then the actual impact of the punches landing on Achilles’s face and neck. Achilles kicks Blow in the groin and when Blow bows to the pain, Achilles boots him in the face.

  “Hush now. Shhhhh,” croons Lex, digging his chin into Achilles’s neck, snug as a lover. “It’s just like going to sleep. It’s faster if you don’t fight it. It’s only a little nap.”

  Knowing the occipital lobe is much harder than the nose, Achilles slams the back of his head into Lex’s face.

  The choke holds.

  Achilles rears his head back again and again, his own teeth rattling each time he connects with Lex’s chin. In his peripheral vision, Achilles sees blood sprinkle the flowered wallpaper as Lex swings his head from side to side to protect his face. It’s a pretty pattern, red roses and gold thorns. The paper is thick, like felt, and the blood sits on the top like little orbs, like Red Hots. Achilles keeps trying. Finally he hears a crunch as he catches Lex’s nose just right.

  The choke holds, but Lex curses, his voice nasal, “Motherfucker!”

  They fall onto the stairs, onto Blow, who bites Achilles’s thigh. All three of them now pile at the bottom of the stairway. Lex shakes Achilles, and the locket slips to the floor.

  Blow slips the locket into his pocket, and staggers triumphantly to his feet, standing with hands on hips, panting, leaning forward with each exhalation like he’s breathing fire. He stomps on Achilles’s stomach. Achilles swallows hard against the vomit bubbling up his throat. Blow makes a cutting motion in the air, like he’s feeling his way through heavy curtains on a dark stage. Is that a knife in Blow’s hand? Sweat, or blood, stings Achilles’s eyes. Blow’s face hovers there, and before grabbing the hand with the knife, Achilles sees that Blow has near-perfect teeth, like his parents always got him to the dentist, a slightly oily forehead splotchy with acne, that faint teenage mustache, a left eye slightly larger than the right, a ring that says Washington High. Achilles grabs the hand with the knife, finds the pinkie, and bends it back until it snaps, then the ring finger. Snap. Then the middle. Snap. Blow drops the knife and cries, “Shit!” backing into the corner, clutching his injured hand to his chest, cradling it like a bird.

  Lex pushes with his legs, pulling Achilles up the stairs as he twists Achilles’s head sharply to the side. Achilles claws weakly overhead at Lex’s face. He was never good at getting out of headlocks; Sgt. Click always teased him about that in basic training. He could see the drill sergeant now, pacing back and forth in his T-shirt and creased BDUs, taunting Achilles. “Don’t be a sissy, Connie. Don’t panic. It feels like forever, but it’s only been thirty seconds, and you can hold your breath for sixty. Don’t panic. Release a little air to let out carbon dioxide so your body doesn’t panic.”

  There’s movement above him. He’s sure of it this time. Troy? At the top of the stairs the darkness unfolds as shadow ripples over shadow like an undercurrent. He pushes upstairs, toward that movement, even as Lex squeezes tighter.

  The pinch in Achilles’s neck is sharp as a pin through the eardrum, hot enough to make him emit one high cry, “Troy!”

  He sees his mom in her backpack, in his room, surrounded by boxes, stacks of paper, and those old Playboys he never threw away.

  Pain gallops down his spine, running in spikes, leaving a trail of fire that’s doused by the sensation of cold oil rising up his back the way it climbs a wick, the dark tide fingering his limbs until they’re heavy, as if he’s wading through a marsh. His legs twitch, his arms jerk involuntarily, his fists and feet knocking holes in the sheetrock. A cloud of white dust settles on his face
and his body convulses, wanting to sneeze. With each beat of his heart, he feels he’ll explode, his lungs grating, his skin straining like it’s two sizes too small, his entire body growing taut as if overinflated, his head heavy, filled with water. The tingling in his limbs passes to burning then blistering then warm. They are almost to the top of the stairs. His eyes adjust. On the landing, wearing a Saints cap, leaning casually in the corner like a referee, a coat rack watches over them. Relaxed, Achilles pisses himself.

  “Shit!” Lex shifts. Achilles finds air.

  Come on, Connie. God hates a coward. Achilles reaches overhead, grabs one of Lex’s ears with one hand, pulls out his mechanical pencil with the other, and stabs overhead three quick times. The first blow bucks off Lex’s forehead, the second glances off the side, hitting the carpet. The third finds the eye, soft and wet. Achilles feels a primordial cry—mournful and panicked—travel up the big man’s chest and clatter in his throat.

  The chokehold breaks.

  His voice dry and chiseled with fear, Lex whispers, “Arnold, help.”

  Lex crab-walks up the stairs. Achilles struggles to his feet, holding the wall for support. Blow shrinks deeper into the corner, pressing his back tight against the wall, that squat neck all but disappearing as he drops to his haunches, tucks his bad hand under his arm, and waves his good arm like a white flag. Achilles kneels before Blow and calmly extends his hand, palm up, holding it there until Blow returns his necklace. When he does, Achilles first pockets his locket, then throws Blow to the floor, forcing him onto his back, kneeling on his chest, choking and punching, slamming Blow’s head against the floor until the dry thuds become wet. Blow’s face contorts with each blow, the web of red spit stretching across his lips and breaking just as panic passes into shock. He looks as if this is the first time he’s lost a fight, as if Achilles popped his cherry.