Three Twisted Stories Part 7

They both laughed.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said. "You go first."

"I'm not complaining. I love my job. I need my job."

"I know you do." She had a photograph of a kid on her desk. A boy. Maybe ten years old. She didn't wear a wedding ring. "You're alone?"

"My husband died in Vietnam."

Charlie nodded, though he didn't have a frame of reference. "I'm sorry."

"Well." She shrugged, but her eyes were moist. "Anyway, if there's ever anything you need. I mean ... If you need me to show you how much I need my job. Because I do."

Charlie held up his hand. Her voice was shaking. He thought about the cop who'd shown up at his girlfriend's apartment the night of the stabbing.

My friends call me Jo.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s smothering his face. Her dirty hands roaming up and down his body. And then when he'd told her no, screamed at her that he didn't want to, she had looked at Charlie like it was his fault for starting the whole thing.

Had he started the whole thing? Charlie kept playing it back in his head. He must have done something to set her off. She had commented on his suit. He liked the flattery. Maybe that had turned him flirty with her. He'd somehow signaled that it was okay by the way he was sitting or looking at her or tilting his head to the side. She didn't just jump him out of the blue. So what had he done wrong? One minute, they were sitting and talking like two normal people, and the next minute she was on top of him. He could still taste the nicotine from where she had clamped her hand over his mouth.

"Mr. Lam?" Darla was still sitting on the edge of her seat.

"I'm giving you a raise in your next paycheck."

"Oh."

"You do a good job here. You deserve to be recognized for it. And stop calling me Mr. Lam. Call me Charlie like everybody else."

There were tears in her eyes again. This time, she let them fall. "Thank you, Mr. Lam. Charlie." She had a pretty laugh. It was contagious. Charlie laughed, too.

"Knock-knock," Deacon said, but he was already in the room.

Darla got up to leave. Deacon blocked the doorway so she had to squeeze past him.

Charlie struggled to keep his tone even. "Don't do that to her again."

"Do what?" Deacon plopped down in the chair. "Christ, buddy, are you crying?"

Charlie wiped his eyes.

"You on the rag or something?"

"Ha-ha," Charlie said, like that wasn't even a remote possibility. "What do you want, Deacon? I've got work to do."

"You don't gotta be a b.i.t.c.h about it."

"Don't call me a b.i.t.c.h."

"Oh, the lady's sensitive." Deacon put his feet up on Charlie's desk. The wood was already scuffed where he'd done this a thousand times before. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you hate me."

Charlie did hate him. He knew this now. He genuinely despised his brother. He didn't want him around. He didn't want to hear his voice or see his stupid grin or watch the way he chased all the women around the dealers.h.i.+p like they were prime meat.

But what would that say about Charlie-that he didn't love his own brother? That he threw him out onto the street? People would think he was a monster.

"You in there, buddy?"

Charlie cleared his throat. He couldn't speak his mind, but he had to say something. "I wish you wouldn't treat people the way you do."

"How do I treat them?" Deacon pushed himself up from the chair. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" Charlie felt the words start to flow before he could stop them. "How about how you don't treat me with respect?"

"Don't treat-"

"You parked in my s.p.a.ce last week."

"And?" Deacon shrugged, like he hadn't been told a thousand times not to park in Charlie's s.p.a.ce. Like the f.u.c.king s.p.a.ce didn't have a sign on it that said Charlie's name.

"You took out my car two months ago. I didn't give you permission. You left cigarettes overflowing in the ashtray. Who do you think had to clean that out?"

"I told you I'd do it."

"When?" Charlie demanded. "You said you'd do it, but three days went by and I had to do it myself."

"Get a f.u.c.king porter." Deacon threw his hands into the air. "What the f.u.c.k are you paying them for?"

"That's not the point and you know it. You made the mess. You should clean it up."

"Oh, f.u.c.k that, Charlie. It's not about the mess."

"Of course it's about the mess. I had to clean it up. Do you know how many things I could've been doing instead of cleaning up after you? Things that make money. Things that keep this business open. Things that keep your paycheck rolling in."

"Oh, that's what this is about. You pay me, so you own me."

Charlie shook his head. Deacon always managed to turn it back around.

"What else, brother? Bring it on. You obviously got a list somewhere of all the horrible s.h.i.+t I've done to you. Come on. Whip it out."

Charlie kept shaking his head. He should whip it out. Unplug his c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s and beat his brother in the head until blood came out of his ears.

Deacon said, "I can't believe you got your panties in a wad over a f.u.c.king hat I put on a chicken."

It seemed stupid when he said it, but Charlie countered, "It's not the chicken, Deacon. Or the hat. It's that I told you not to and you keep doing it. Why? Why do you keep doing it when you know that I don't want you to?"

"You're just crazy-talking now."

"Crazy?" Charlie asked. "You know what's crazy? That I work my a.s.s to the bone and you, and every worthless piece of s.h.i.+t in our family, expect me to keep doing it while you sit around smoking dope and f.u.c.king around and chasing tail and going through money like it's water. What about me, Deacon? When am I allowed to have fun? When in my f.u.c.king life am I ever going to be able to just sit back and let one of you useless, blood-sucking jacka.s.ses take care of me?"

Deacon said nothing. They both listened to the echo of Charlie's voice. He hadn't spoken these words to his brother. He'd screeched them like a jazz trombone.

"f.u.c.k this. And f.u.c.k you." Deacon slapped the pencil cup off Charlie's desk. Projectiles flew across the room. He slammed the door so hard the framed photographs banged against the wall.

Charlie took a deep breath. He held it to the count of ten before letting it go. The office felt stifling. Deacon had sucked all of the energy out of the room. Charlie couldn't be here anymore.

Charlie stood up and collected all the pens off the floor. He arranged them back in the cup. He walked out of his office. He crossed the showroom floor.

Deacon was standing by the chicken. The Braves hat was back on its head.

Charlie rolled his eyes as he walked out the door.

Chapter Eight.

Charlie drove through downtown Atlanta. The city had changed so much since the first time he'd stepped foot on the streets. All the roads were paved. There were streetlights. Tall buildings reached up to the sky. As Charlie drove, all the memories came flooding back: the first time he'd ever ridden up in an elevator was in that building; the first time he'd ever had s.e.x with a woman was in that bas.e.m.e.nt; the first time he'd ever sold anything was in that back alley.

Who would've thought that twenty years later, he'd be driving a convertible down the streets with money in his pocket and credit cards in his wallet that had Charlie's actual name on them?

He wiped his eyes. He was crying again. This was getting ridiculous. He reached down between his legs to make sure his c.o.c.k was still plugged in.

Did it make a difference? Charlie didn't know. He had to think something was keeping him from turning into an all-out woman. Or maybe it just took time. He was already crying at the drop of a hat. He was talking to Darla like he was her girlfriend instead of her boss. And he was letting Deacon get to him when his worthless brother should be the last thing on his mind.

Why hadn't Charlie just beaten the s.h.i.+t out of him? That's what he used to do. It was a Lam family tradition. The only way to shut up any of them was with a fist.

Charlie turned on the radio.

"c.r.a.p," he whispered. Karen Carpenter. How many times could they play that chick? More importantly, how much more money did the Beatles need? They'd be living off their royalties forever.

Charlie punched the AM b.u.t.ton. The Braves game. Tomorrow night was the night. Hank Aaron was on the precipice of making history. Salmeri was right about one thing. It wasn't just about baseball. It was about the world changing.

"Yeah, this is George from Techwood," a caller said.

Techwood. That was over by Colored Town. Charlie knew what the man was going to say before the words came out of his mouth.

"I think it's wonderful news that a brother's gonna make this historic home run. Gives my kids hope that there's something more in the future."

Charlie rested his finger on the dial, but he didn't turn off the radio.

The DJ said, "Caller number two from Ansley Park, what do you have to say?"

Ansley Park. That was a toss-up. The caller would be white, but there were a handful of liberals over there. Charlie could've pretty much painted a map of the city blocking out who was happy for Aaron and who wanted to kill him. His own neighborhood was firmly in the kill zone, but what did he care? Live and let live.

"Yes," the white caller said. "I've long been a baseball fan. I remember as a child when my father took me to Spiller Field...."

Charlie smiled. One of the first baseball games Charlie had ever seen was at Spiller Field. The Atlanta Crackers used to play there. He was eighteen years old and had just found a job that would put a roof over his head. He'd sat in the nosebleed section and eaten so many bags of boiled peanuts that he'd made himself sick.

"Jesus!" He jerked the wheel hard, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a homeless man. Charlie slammed on the brakes. He looked in his rearview mirror, checked his side mirror.

There was no homeless man.

Charlie got out of the car. He stood in the middle of the street. This was the same place he'd first seen Finkelmeyer. The black skid marks were still burned into the asphalt where Charlie had hit the brakes. The man's shopping cart was still overturned on the sidewalk. Charlie walked toward it. The cart had been picked clean. All that was left was a piece of white cardboard stuck to the bottom of the wire rack. The edges were curled, like it had been rained on, then dried out, many times over.

Charlie used the toe of his shoe to unfold the cardboard. The poster fell open. It was an Alka-Seltzer ad from last Christmas. Sammy Davis, Jr., was holding a red stocking with white fur around the top. He was laughing. The words beside him read, "Falalalala ... lalala ... Ahhh!"

"Whatchu doin', b.i.t.c.h?"

Charlie looked up. There were two men walking toward him. He saw his car in the distance. The door was still open. He'd left the keys in the ignition.

"I asked you a question, mama."

Charlie took a step back. His heart was in his throat. He scanned the buildings. Checked the street. They were alone. Just him and two black men who looked like they had trouble on their minds.

"Comin' into our neighborhood," one of them said. "Whatchu want here, b.i.t.c.h?"

Charlie said, "I just ... I was ..."

The other man hissed to shut him up. He had gold front teeth. They both wore black leather jackets, dark sungla.s.ses, and black berets.

"I'm sorry." Charlie did the calculations, wondering if he could run past them and get to the car. He wasn't a fast runner. The extra weight wasn't helping him. "Gentlemen, please, I don't want trouble."

"Then you in the wrong street."

"Please," Charlie said. "I'm sorry. I just stopped here to-" He couldn't explain it. What could he say, that he'd hit a homeless man who wasn't really black and ended up watching him die, only to find out later that he'd pa.s.sed on some kind of curse that made Charlie's d.i.c.k unplug like a table lamp?

Charlie laughed. What were they going to do to him? His d.i.c.k unplugged like a table lamp. That would freak them out enough to give him time to run for his life.

"You want this?" Charlie unzipped his pants. "Come and get it."

The two men looked at each other for a moment. They looked at Charlie. They looked at each other.

And then they laughed.

The gold-toothed man said, "Shee-it, mama, you think we can't do no better than you? Get your skinny honky a.s.s outta here."

"Get on out," his companion said.

Charlie didn't have to be told twice. He ran toward his car. He jumped in behind the wheel. He didn't let himself smile until he was a few blocks from the dry cleaner's.