Irregular Creatures Page 12

  In the distance, he heard the bestial yawps of Bigfoot.

  “The end times are here!” one of the robed freaks yelled.

  “The Eschaton says eat the ice cream!”

  “Or thou shalt perish!”

  Benjamin yelled and whined and opened his mouth and took a big bite of the proffered awfulness. It was the price he had to pay, he knew, for his actions today. It tasted a little bit like black licorice, which was not entirely unpleasant – but then a little knot of dog hair tickled the back of his throat and he started to gag.

  “He is saved!” one of them yelled.

  “Aloicious be praised!”

  And then, with that, they dropped him. The swarm of yellow moved on to the next unfortunate sap.

  Benjamin rolled over onto his hands and knees, coughing and hacking up a wad of dog hair. Even as his tongue was trying to collect it from his cheeks and gums so he could spit it out, he was already up and running.

  He could no longer see Brother Jake.

  The monster had made it outside with the abducted mermaid.

  In Benjamin’s head, he pictured Brother Jake rubbing his golden cross with greedy hands, leering lecherously over the mermaid.

  The boy ducked a flying cat – Mrow! -- and ran to the door.

  ***

  Sure enough, Jake was getting into a car when Benjamin found him. The pudgy brother was fumbling with a set of keys, one foot already in the driver’s side of a wood-paneled station wagon.

  Benjamin took a deep breath, and enacting his plan.

  “Brother Jake!” he yelled. “Catch!”

  And he let the puzzle box fly, propelling it forward with a sharp snap of the handkerchief: a trampoline maneuver.

  Caught unawares, Jake did what anybody might’ve done.

  He dropped the keys and caught the box.

  The change was instantaneous. His jaw went slack and his eyes glazed over with the curiosity of lust (or the lust of curiosity). The man’s plump fingers traced the corners and contours of the gilded box.

  “So… pretty,” he mumbled.

  A line of clear drool descended from his lip onto the box. Brother Jake didn’t seem to notice. His God was gone. The puzzle box was all.

  With that, Jake toppled to the parking lot, legs folded up beneath him in an awkward sitting position. He fumbled with the puzzle box and started to unlock whatever secrets were contained within. People were spilling out of the auction doors, bolting to their cars, but Jake didn’t even seem to notice.

  Benjamin saw the wide wet eyes of the mermaid in the back of the station wagon.

  She smiled and waved.

  ***

  “I’m so glad you’re all right,” his Dad said. He gave him a big hug, nearly squeezed the life out of him.

  Benjamin picked another dog hair out of his mouth and looked distastefully at it before flicking it away. “It’s okay.”

  “Things got kind of crazy in there.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I left you alone, kiddo. I made a mistake.”

  Benjamin shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m okay.”

  “I know you are.” His father mussed the boy’s hair before unlocking the car door. “I knew all along you’d be all right, because you’re a smart kid. Smarter than me, for sure. You ran to the exit like a good boy, and stayed out of harm’s way.”

  “I guess…” Benjamin said, getting into the passenger side and closing the door.

  His father sat down, started the car, and adjusted his mirrors.

  “You ready to home, call it a day?” Dad asked.

  Benjamin paused. “Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that, kiddo?”

  A pair of clammy hands curled around the top of the back seat, and the beautiful moon face of a mermaid peered out. She smiled and blinked.

  “Can we stop at the Shore first? I think somebody here might want to go home.”

  The mermaid giggled.

  BEWARE OF OWNER

  The cat was back on the garage roof, and Pop was mad.

  “Dirty animals, those cats,” he said, pressing a .308 round into the Winchester rifle.

  “I think that’s Grandma’s cat,” I said, but I didn’t think so, I knew so. She called it Monkeyface because its dark, mottled tortoiseshell head gave it a chimpy look.

  “I know who’s cat that is.” He jacked the bolt forward. He rested the gun on the kitchen windowsill, handling the weapon gently like it was a carton of eggs. He peered through the scope. I could hear his beard stubble scratch against the texture of the rifle butt. “My mother has to learn that she should keep her filthy little shits to herself. They bring in parasites. What do I always say?”

  I swallowed hard. “We don’t abide trespassers.”

  “Goddamn right. You’re a good boy, Raymond.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Pop sucked a little air in between his teeth, sniffed a snot back up into his nose, then pulled the trigger.

  He wouldn’t let me wear ear-muffs whenever we went out shooting, said it was queer or stupid to wear those things. Of course, he was mostly deaf in one ear. When the shot rang out, I smelled the nose-burning sting of spent powder and my ears were left ringing. (Though I don’t know why they call it ringing, it was more like one of those tones they play to test your hearing in elementary school, except it doesn’t stop for hours.)

  The shot missed the cat, but must’ve hit close by. The cat jumped like it had just been bitten on the ass by a little rat, and then lost its footing. Its legs went akimbo and it slid down the tin roof, claws on metal, making a vvviiiiiiip sound.

  Followed by a thud.

  Monkeyface hit the ground, and contrary to legend, the feline’s internal gyroscope didn’t allow it to land on all its feet. Well. It landed on its feet, I guess. It just didn’t land successfully.

  “Scope needs adjusting,” Pop said. “Go get the cat.”

  I just nodded, and did what I was told.

  ***

  Three of the cat’s legs were broken. It wasn’t hard to tell, because they were bent at funny angles. The cat panted like a dog would, and made this low keening sound in the back of its throat.

  “That is an ugly cat,” Pop said, chewing on a thumbnail.

  He was right, but I wasn’t going to say so. I felt guilty just thinking it, because here this cat was cradled in my arms, crying and suffering. “What’re we going to do?”

  “Set it up for target practice, probably. Nail it to a fence, maybe put up some Ginger Ale cans or beer bottles alongside it.” He scratched the bald spot at the back of his head. “You could go get your .22, I’ll bring the .308, maybe call your uncle see if he wants in.”

  “I feel bad.”

  “For the cat?” he asked, incredulous. He barely stifled a bitter laugh. “That’s your mother talking, God rest her soul forever and ever. I hear her voice come out of your mouth sometimes. She was a good woman, but you’re not a woman, remember that always.”

  “Okay.”

  “Still,” he said, pausing. “We could give it to Whats-His-Name, the salesman. See what he does with it.”

  “Mr. Carlson,” I said, reminding Pop of his name.

  “Right. Carlson. Sure. Take Monkeyface to Carlson.”

  I looked down at the cat, who was moving his one good leg as if trying to set an example for the others.

  “Okay,” I said.

  ***

  Mr. Carlson didn’t look so good. His face was the color of paste, and his lips were chapped like they’d been rubbed with sand. He didn’t even seem to notice me coming at first, but when I got closer and flicked on the cellar light, he jerked his head up, eyes wide. He pulled at the shackle around his right wrist, almost like he forgot it was chaining him there.

  “Little Raymond,” he mumbled. His lips pulled back in a mean smile, showing off yellow teeth. “Want to buy some encyclopedias?”

  It was his joke, and I never laughed. That�
��s what he came to our house to do, sell his encyclopedias. Nobody bought those anymore, I said. What with the Internet and all. Pop said we didn’t need them (Pop said we didn’t need the Internet, either), and that the man was trespassing, and you know what he says about trespassers.

  “No, sir,” I told him. “I have something for you.”

  “What is it? Tell me.” He strained to see what I had in my arms. The smile vanished, and for a second he looked feral, worse than the meanest cat, even one that’s been shot at a bunch of times.

  “It’s a cat named Monkeyface.”

  “Why would I want a cat?

  “I dunno. My Dad wanted me to give it to you, I guess to keep you company.” I shifted nervously from foot to foot.

  Mr. Carlson hissed: “Did they get to have pets?” He jerked his head to indicate the other three bodies sitting against the wall. Two of them were all bones, by now, but the third still had a little meat on the skeleton. One of them was real estate agent. The other two were a Jehovah’s Witness and a UPS man that Pop said was trying to steal stuff from our garden. The room smelled bad, but I was used to it by now.

  “No,” I said. “Do you need anything?”

  “Please let me go,” he mewled.

  “Can’t. Pop says trespassers have to learn their lesson. Maybe you want some water?”

  “Water’ll just make me have to piss again.”

  “I’m going to put the cat down now,” I said. “But don’t grab at me or anything, or Pop will have to take off your other foot.”

  I think Mr. Carlson started crying, then.

  I laid the broken cat down next to the salesman, and it tried to run away but just plopped down onto its three shattered legs and cried out.

  “You two play nice,” I said, and I meant it. I felt bad for what they were going through, but Pop liked things a certain way around here, and I wasn’t going to argue with him.

  I turned off the cellar light and went back upstairs. Hopefully, Pop wouldn’t be mad anymore. You just never knew. But I didn’t worry too badly. I was a good boy, and I didn’t abide trespassers either.

  DO-OVERS AND TAKE-BACKS

  Outside, thunder split the pants of the sky and rain poured down like piss.

  “Shortcut my ass,” Taye said, pouting. The 12-year-old looked out the half-shattered window of the burnt-out tenement’s lowest floor. The streets glowed like radioactive bile as the downpour battered the asphalt. Nobody was out there, except for a three-legged mongrel dog sniffing through a garbage bag on the opposite sidewalk. Lightning flashed and the cur fled for an alley. Taye frowned.

  Little Bitch tried to light a cigarette he found next to a dead potted plant just inside the door of the abandoned building, but his lighter wasn’t doing more than throwing sparks. He tossed the cigarette away.

  “It was a shortcut,” Little Bitch insisted. “And a good one, too. You’d have seen that, Taye, if it didn’t start raining like a motherfucker out here.”

  “Yeah,” Taye said. “Uh-huh. Taking us into some scary-old crack house down on Blanchard Avenue. That’s a real good shortcut.”

  Little Bitch laughed. He yelled: “Any crackheads in here?”

  Only response was the rain outside and a siren somewhere in the distance. The city was quiet, and no crackheads spoke up.

  “See? Not a crackhouse.”

  Little Bitch was always doing stuff like this. Fucking up the bread in that Korean’s grocery store, stealing orange traffic cones, throwing pennies at people on the street from rooftops. And shortcuts. Little Bitch was always one with the shortcuts. No money for the train, no money for cabs, so they had to walk everywhere. And sure as anything, Little Bitch always had a quicker way. Once in a while, he really did. Most times they got lost and dumb stuff like this happened. Not that my parents give a fuck, Taye thought. Let’s see. What would the old folks be doing tonight? Pops would be watching basketball and smoking dope. Momma would be eating pie and crying into it, and probably later Pops would either throw her a beating or a banging. Or both.

  She’d cry, he’d yell. She’d yell, he’d storm out.

  End over end. Night after night.

  Maybe the crackhouse wasn’t so bad, after all.

  And by the way, where the hell was Barley at?

  ***

  Beauregard Montrose ate a Power Bar while sitting on the edge of the bed while listening to the distant thunder thrum in the distance. He popped his knuckles. Wiped sweat from his brow. Chewed a little on his tongue. As usual, he couldn’t concentrate. Nameless, faceless anxiety clawed its way through his veins and arteries. He felt at his side, thought maybe he was getting a tumor. Wasn’t true, of course: he was fit as a fiddle, but it didn’t stop him from worrying. This week it was cancer. Last week it was AIDS. Who the fuck even gets AIDS anymore, he thought? Whatever.

  He grabbed the remote from off the dresser and flipped on the flatscreen in the corner. CNN flared to life, the volume blaring. The 24-hour news-cycle gave him succor.

  “Jesus Christ,” Lila moaned from under the comforter. “What fucking time is it?”

  Beau sniffed. “Three in the AM.”

  “We just finished two hours ago, and you’re up already?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” Or, rather, I never sleep.

  Lila withdrew her head from the comforters. Her black hair lay in a lion’s mane tangle around her head. Beau looked her up and down. She wasn’t pretty. Not in any traditional sense. But beauty had nothing to do with hotness, and that’s what she was. Hot. Trashy. Slutty. A heroin-addled Molly Ringwald. This girl fucked like every part of her body was a member of an orchestra. She didn’t mind the restraints, either. Or the candle wax. Or, for that matter, the money.

  “I’m watching CNN,” he said.

  “Why do you watch that garbage?”

  “It’s interesting. People living interesting lives.” He squinted at the screen. Someone foiled another terrorist plot. The danger was exciting. Beau’s anxiety levels cooled.

  “If by ‘interesting,’ you mean ‘depressing,’ then yeah, you’re right.” Lila sat up and rubbed the red marks around her wrists. Her lips split into a wicked grin. “You wanna turn the box off and have another go? I think I got a little more juicy-juice in me.”

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Nah, forget that. I’m spent up. I’m good with this.”

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “That’s fine.”

  “Well, can we go get some food or what?”

  Beau turned around, shot her an eat-shit look.

  “Asshole,” she spat. “This whole relationship is for assholes.”

  “Sure. You call this a relationship? Is this what relationships are? I’ve been in those, and this isn’t it. Relationships are about love and trust and understanding. This thing we have is about me banging the dogshit out of you and giving you a lot of my family’s money so you can go and play and buy new shoes and get new tattoos and have a generally nice time without me. Get that last part? Without me.” He turned back to CNN and stabbed the volume up another couple of notches.

  “Prick!” she hollered over the din and rolled off the bed. She started tugging on her skirt and top. “What do you know about loving relationships? When was the last time you saw your wife? Your kid? How many months since you even called them?” She marched around in front of him, in front of his view of the TV, hands on hips, dark-ringed raccoon eyes angry and unblinking.

  He reached down into the pockets of his pants, pulled out a money clip. He withdrew a hundred dollars in twenties and handed it to her.

  “Here,” he said. “You can either go to the kitchen and get a Power Bar, or you can go out, go down to that nice ritzy weirdo artist diner on the corner and get yourself a cinnamon roll and some coffee. Or some eggs.” Or a cup of Drano, he thought, but to his surprise did not say.

  Lila blinked and looked down at the cash i
n her hand. Her brow lifted.

  “Feel better?”

  She nodded, like a little child.

  Then she left.

  “I’m going to go jogging,” Beau said to nobody in particular. But he didn’t go jogging. Instead he went to the master bathroom, stood on the toilet, and reached across to the high top of the medicine cabinet. Sitting there was a bundled-up dishtowel, which he grabbed. He unwrapped it, and pulled out the gun.

  ***

  “Holy shit! Bullet holes!”

  Barley’s voice. From down the hall somewhere.

  Taye and Little Bitch gave each other a look and walked—not jogged—toward Barley’s voice. Barley was always full of shit; not because he was a liar, but because he was dumb as a block of cheese.

  They found him in a rotten apartment where the ceiling was caving in—not a big drastic cave-in, but a slow and steady collapse, like a mudslide filmed in really slow motion. The little tow-headed white kid was standing, mouth wide, holding a lighter in one hand and pointing at the wall with the other. His eyes were wide in awe.

  “Those aren’t bullet holes, dummy,” Taye said.

  “Yeah,” Little Bitch said, “I seen bullet holes, and bullet holes ain’t as big as a fuckin’ softball, white boy.”

  Barley frowned and crossed his arms over a Calvin Peeing t-shirt that was a hand-me-down of a hand-me-down. “Look like bullet holes to me. And just ‘cause I’m white don’t mean I don’t know what bullet holes look like, fool.”

  Sure, Barley was white, but he lived down on Temple Row just like Little Bitch and Taye. He’d seen his share of bullet holes, but Little Bitch wasn’t having any of that. He pshaw’ed, waved his hand dismissively, and said, “Let’s see what’s upstairs.”

  Taye didn’t want to see what was upstairs—hell, he didn’t want to be here at all, but Little Bitch grabbed the working lighter from Barley’s hands and jogged off. Barley chuckled like a dummy and followed after. The light surrounded them in a flimsy, flickering sphere—at its edges lay uncertain shadow that offered glimpses of cracked walls, water stains that looked like faces, and roaches scurrying. Taye didn’t mind the dark most places, but there was something about this place. It felt like it was alive somehow, but close to dying. Like that old homeless dude down in King’s Park: yeah, he was still kicking, but his gums were rotten and you could smell the death on his breath. Local kids took bets on how long it would be before he finally coughed, puked, and died.