No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Read online

  No Human Involved

  Barbara Seranella

  1997

  1

  "BUY YOU A DRINK?"

  Munch turned to size up the man who had spoken to her. His sad, baggy eyes were set in a basset hound face. A five o'clock shadow rolled in and out of the loose folds of skin on his cheeks and chins. Deep lines creased his forehead. She squinted a little to bring him into focus, then looked at her glass.

  There was only ice left.

  What the hell. She shrugged an indifferent acceptance.

  "Jack Daniels, Black Label." She always said "Black Label" when she ordered. She didn't know what it meant or if it was any better than any other colored label, but she liked the way it sounded.

  The man pulled a worn leather wallet out of his back pocket. He extracted a twenty and put it on the bar. He held up two fingers to Benny the bartender, and the money was swept away.

  "What's your name?" the sad-eyed man asked.

  She glanced at the fancy bottles stacked against the mirror behind the bar. "Sherry," she told him. "How's that? And we'll call you John."

  "Sounds fair enough."

  His skin was sallow even in the dark and forgiving rouged light that reflected off the bottles of liquor. She thought he looked tired, beaten down. The calculation that followed was automatic. Taking into account his age, his clothes, and the bulge in his wallet, she knew he'd probably go thirty enough for a spoon, a six-pack, and a bag of Fritos. Not that she was interested. That part of her life was over. She was getting a fresh start, beginning today. He smiled at her. Maybe even an extra twenty; she amended, making her mouth curve upwards, if he were stupid enough to leave his pants in the room when he went to the bathroom. The man collected his change, and while his attention was diverted, she took a second long look. At least he wasn't old. She hated it when they were old. It took them forever. The negotiations would begin after the second drink, each of them speaking in carefully coached phrases.

  She had once been busted for telling a middle-aged man in a Chrysler that she had a place. That was all that she'd said. "I got a place." It was right after he had asked her if she was looking for a date.

  "Everybody's got a place, don't they?" she had protested as the vice cop slid the handcuffs on. They hadn't even discussed a price or service to be performed.

  The cop had just shaken his head. "Save it for the judge," he said.

  Supposedly if you asked them if they were a cop, they had to tell you, or they couldn't not tell you. Something about entrapment. She'd never put much stock in that theory; it was probably just some hooker myth. Not a hard and fast rule like "Always get the money first."

  ***

  "I'l1 buy the next round," she said. One drink and some of these guys thought they owned you.

  He blinked slowly and his mouth dropped open. It reminded her of one of those lizards they show close up on National Geographic specials. Lashless lids closing over dry eyeballs. It pleased her that she had surprised him.

  "Whatever you say, Sherry."

  Maybe he thought that she'd get so drunk that she'd do him for free. That wasn't going to happen, not today. Just one more for the road and she was out of there. She'd already gone ten hours with no dope, eight of which were on purpose. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and certainly longer than she'd ever gone when she had a choice.

  Benny set down two fresh cocktail napkins. She smiled when she recognized the red, white, and blue coasters. He had bought them last year to celebrate the bicentennial. In his patriotic zeal, he had purchased an entire gross. Cases of them were still staked to the ceiling in the storeroom. Someone suggested that he stock the bathrooms with them. He was a vet, he said, and he didn't think that would be right. But Lincoln's birthday? The irony wasn't lost on her. The Venture Inn catered to a color-conscious crowd. You wouldn't think Abraham Lincoln would rank as one of their heroes.

  "Honoring dead presidents, are we?" she asked him.

  "Always, doll," Benny said as he slammed down their drinks. She scooped up her glass before the liquor had a chance to settle.

  The life had been fun once, when she was young and fresh. Sex had never been sacred, just an easy means to an easy end. just let them catch you, she was advised early on, that's all a woman has to do and the money flows in. It flowed out just as easily going to buy the only thing that ever made her feel loved. The dope had been her salvation.

  She massaged an abscess on her forearm and winced at the tenderness of the damaged flesh. She didnt need to look at the knot beneath her fingertips to know that the abscess was red and angry she could feel the heat of the infection through the fabric of her blouse. The abscess was her own fault, a result of shooting barbiturates when she was already too loaded to see straight, much less do a proper job of giving herself a fix. Stupid, she thought, stupid and a waste. Her whole life was a waste. It was time for a change. She'd go to the country and dry out, start over.

  She never minded the sting of the needle; in fact, she welcomed it. The jab followed by that rush of relief as the thick red blood spurted back into the syringe to mix with the dope, turning it all a muddy color. Then a slow squeeze of the plunger, sending the precious elixir through her bloodstream. Eyes closed, she pictured the dope's path, flowing through every vein, artery, and capillary till it reached her scalp, the tips of her toes, and that dark screaming place in her gut that needed to be quieted.

  "Been here long?" the sad-eyed man asked.

  His voice cut into her thoughts, startled her. She'd forgotten he was there with his tired face and too many questions.

  "Too long." She shook her head, angry at the way her thoughts had turned. Focused, she needed to stay focused. Less than one full day clean and she was already mooning over the dope like some jilted lover. She knew from previous experience what to expect. The first three days would be the worst. Her bones would ache and the cravings would consume her, canceling out every other thought. She'd gone through it all before. Periodically, she would taper off. Unchecked addiction gets expensive, the habit snowballs, growing steadily till it might cost as much as seventy dollars a day just to get even, never mind high. But those times she hadn't quit so completely, only cut down, supplementing the smaller amounts of heroin with pills and booze till her tolerance decreased. This time would be different.

  The funny thing about dope was that she hadn't thought the high was anything special at first. Kind of a dreamy, sleepy numbness. It hadn't really gotten good till she was strung out. The monster was a sneaky bastard.

  She scratched at the scabs on her forearms. Soon she'd be able to wear short sleeves again. She wouldn't have to cover the tattoos of needle marks running from wrist to armpit. She might even buy some new clothes, something that fit. The pants from the Salvation Army donation box were three sizes too big. She hadn't spent money on anything but dope unless she absolutely had to.

  She was ready to admit it, the life wasn't fun anymore. Like everything and everyone else, it had tumed on her. They didn't stop for her anymore on Venice Boulevard, not even on Main Street. The men cruised past slowly in their Cadillacs and Continentals; even the Mexicans in the pickup trucks passed her by. They avoided her bold stares in search of fresher game. The dope had stopped working, too. It wasn't that the drugs were too weak or that she had been burned. All the physical signs were still there. Her eyes would take on an eerie dull shine like a pair of those Duncan yo-yos that glowed in the dark—a flag to the narcs who circled the neighborhood. Her nose still itched and her pupils still pinned, shrinking to tiny dots. But it

  seemed that no matter how much dope she did, the old magic was gone. The antsy unnamed need, the hole in h
er gut, remained.

  She turned to the man sitting next to her and said fiercely: "I'm putting down." She didn't expect him to understand. If he knew her, he wouldn't believe her. No one ever believed a hype could be anything but a hype. Fuck 'em.

  "Cheers." She finished her drink and banged the bar top with an open palm. "Two more, Benny."

  When she saw the bartenders hesitation, she added, "For the road."

  She knew Benny kept close track of his patrons' limits. He ran a tight operation, avoiding trouble when he could. He never let the jukebox play a maudlin love song near closing time; it put people in a fighting mood. When a biker got rowdy, Benny was right there. He'd clamp a warning hand on the guy's shoulder and grin him out of it. Behind that grin was a sawed-off baseball bat. Benny stayed friendly as long as he could.

  "You never want to insult a drunk in front of his friends," Benny told her once. "It makes them do stupid things. Things that can get your scalp laid open."

  He preferred to keep the mood upbeat. He was Irish when he wanted to be and now sang in a gravelly brogue as he poured two more whiskeys. "For the road, little darlin'."

  She reached in the pocket of her baggy corduroy coat and pulled out a wad of bills. Finding a ten among the fives and ones, she paid for the drinks.

  "Straight up, Benny."

  Benny threw the ice he had already filled her glass with behind his back like spilled salt.

  "Free ice for everybody," he yelled. The bikers playing pool swore at him affectionately. Benny laughed and sprayed seltzer in the air over his head. He shook his long beard and shaggy head of curls as the mist fell into them. He looked like one of those characters in a Disney movie—the goofy professor who accidentally crosses himself with a dog. Benny was a standard poodle in a black motorcycle jacket.

  She pulled a Lucky Strike from the other pocket of her coat. Benny leaned towards her with his lighter. "John" beat him to it. She grabbed his hand to steady the match.

  "Thanks."

  He shook the match out and let it drop to the floor. It sputtered amid the beer and sawdust.

  "I just came in to square up my account. I'm getting out of here," she said, almost to herself.

  "Why?" the man at her elbow asked.

  She studied him for a while before answering, choosing her words. "I don't want to be dead anymore." She pointed to their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. "Look at us. Do you see any sign of life?" Rubbing a finger across the black circles under her eyes, she said, "I look like a zombie." She leaned towards him as if to share a confidence.

  "Dope is poison."

  He didn't seem surprised; maybe he didn't get it.

  "I shouldn't be telling you this." She downed the bourbon in one wincing gulp and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm a junkie." Raising her glass in a toast, she corrected herself, "Was." Empty glass still raised, she tried to get Benny's attention, but his back was turned to her.

  "What happened?" the man asked quietly swinging her attention back to his direction.

  "What happened?" Her face twisted in on itself as she struggled to find the words to explain. She let the pain show through her eyes, letting her guard down for a stranger she'd never see again. "I'll tell you what happened. I didn't notice till this morning. I was in a bathroom." She spent a lot of time in bathrooms, usually with the door locked, crouched on the floor with a tie on her arm. She didn't tell him that part. "There were these real bright lights and a big mirror over the sink. I looked at myself, really looked, and it was like a veil lifted for a second. I'm dying here." She confronted her newfound confidant in the mirror.

  "Look at you. You got it, too. Look at your face. You're all wrinkled and sad. Are you happy? Is it worth it, what you do?"

  "Sometimes, not always." He went back to his drink, but she saw he still watched her. A steady dead eye locked on her over the rim of his bucket glass. Maybe there was hope for him, too. She grabbed his arm. "Let's get out of here."

  "Where would we go?"

  "To the country I'm sick of the city The city's poison, too."

  "You'll need money"

  "I've got enough for what I need to do." She slapped the bar again. "Benny my man, another one. Then I gotta go."

  The bartender walked over to where she sat. He planted his hands firmly on the bar, palms down, and waited till she had to look at him.

  She sucked it in and put on a show of sobriety. "Last one, I promise"

  Benny considered, then relented with a hoarse Wolfman Jack laugh. "The road is calling," he sang out.

  John put a hand over his glass and shook his head. Benny turned to other customers.

  A thin youth snuck into the bar, casting furtive glances towards the bartenders direction, and sidled up to her. The boy's wary eyes darted to the bikers playing pool and then back to her. Oily blond hair fell to his collar. The stingy growth of a first mustache glistened with beads of sweat on his upper lip. "Where's Flower George?" he asked her and drew the sleeve of his t·shirt across his mouth.

  "I don't know." She pushed the boy away "Why d'ya ask me? Screw him."

  "I'm out of flowers. He promised me." The boy wiped his palms on his jeans. "I haven't had any flowers all day" His voice took on an extra note of urgency when he said "flowers."

  "Time to get out of the flower business, kid." She turned her back on the boy.

  "Who's this George? Your boyfriend?" her drinking companion asked. "I'm not going to have some jealous biker sticking a gun in my face, am I?"

  "Flower George is an old man. You don't have to worry about him."

  "How old are you, Sherry?"

  "Twenty-one." She raised her glass to Benny "Or I wouldn't be here, right?"

  "That's right, sugar." Benny's liquor license was on probation for serving underage girls. He had to be careful who he let in, even though it broke his black Irish heart to turn away the succulent young things who came to the Venture Inn in search of thrills.

  "Tell me about George."

  She swirled her keys in the dimes of water standing on the thick lacquer of the bar top. Drawing the water into lines, she watched as the tiny rivulets returned to the mother puddle. Eventually she broke off a drop of water that quivered alone. "Hotel California" played on the jukebox.

  "What's to tell? He sells flowers. I don't know where he gets them, probably picks them in the country somewhere." She looked down as she spoke and let her lips go slack. "He drives this big white van full of flowers. He gives them to the kids to sell. You know, the kids who stand on the comers with those five-gallon plastic buckets. You gotta keep the flowers in water. They still don't last. The city murders them."

  "What was that you said?" He leaned closer. She could see the red veins in his sad, tired eyes. "I didn't hear the last part."

  "It's a good business." She sat upright and patted the wad in her pocket. "All cash."

  "Is he mean to the kids? Did he beat you?"

  "He's old, did I tell you that? Old men are a pain in the ass. You know what I mean? He's always asking me, 'Is it hard yet?"' she mimicked, making a face with downturned mouth and peering eyes.

  "Am I in?'"

  The man pulled away from her, blinking faster. She knew she had shocked him, and that realization spurred her on.

  "He didn't even know when he was hard. I mean, why bother? Right? How do you know when it's over?" At some point, it should be over. She noticed the glass in her hand. How had it emptied so quickly? She had only meant to stop there for a moment. She had planned to pay Benny what she owed him, square her debt and then hit the road. Then he had bought her a drink to say "thank you"; she had bought another to say "you're welcome." She turned to her companion. "Hey, it sure has gotten drunk out."

  A flash of blue intersected the red lights reflected in the mirror over the bar. Sirens whined on their way to the Oakwood Projects, Ghost Town to the locals. The bar door swung open and a shaft of light made it to the back wall before being extinguished. Motes of dust swirled in the rays
of the setting sun. Soon the light would be gone, marking the midway point of another lost weekend in Venice.

  She caught a glimpse of the activity on the street in the mirror and realized that she had stayed way too long. "I gotta use the head. Save my place."

  After she got up, Benny emptied the ashtray she had used and spoke to her companion from the side of his mouth. "Stay away from her, man," Benny growled in his borderline laryngitis. "She's hot."

  "Hot?"

  "She's got the clap. She won't do nothing about it."

  The hound-faced man waited a few minutes, alternately watching the doors and the entrance to the bathrooms. His shoulders hunched forward in an attitude of indifference to his surroundings, but his eyes took in everything around him: thickly tattooed bikers played pool and postured for each other; leather-clad women hung on their men's arms, glaring at each other under heavily made up lids. There was a Confederate flag tacked to the far wall. By the door, a sign that said "NO NIGGERS" hung next to a dart board full of bullet holes.

  He nodded to a man leaning against the wall in a blue knit stocking cap and a three-day growth of beard. The man stood up and ambled towards the bathrooms.

  "Shit," Detective Mace St. John swore when he glanced down at the bar top and noticed that her keys were gone.

  ***

  Munch emptied the pockets of the big coat, taking only what she absolutely needed, and left the bulky jacket on the floor of the bathroom. The coat was too cumbersome and she needed to move fast. She crawled out the tiny window and dropped behind the dumpster in the parking lot. A bolt of fiery agony shot up her shin when she hit the ground. Her mouth went dry as a surge of adrenaline dried up the pain.

  She had to think. Dammit. She needed a clear head. Deafening noise filled the alley that ran behind the bar. Into the back parking lot, twelve members of the Satan's Pride Motorcycle Club arrived en masse. Their colors were vivid patches of red and black sewn on cutoff Levi vests. SATAN'S PRIDE MC on the top banner and VENICE CALIFORNIA down below. The center logo was a biker astride a '58 panhead with a woman's head in land. He was holding the head by her hair and the woman was screaming. ln the background were flames.