Fayesha spits, âis she should watch her ass. I seen his kind. He donât want no poontang, he donât want no dope, thereâs something wrong. Thatâs all Iâm saying.â
âThat Mexican out on the kitchen floor might be dead,â I say.
âWe got us a real genius here,â TT Charlie says. âA real community-college whiz. That watermelon pickerâs been dead since morning. We ainât got around to it yet.â
âItâll cost you,â Roxie says. âMe and Tazâll dump him for an eight-ball.â
âDitch his petrified ass away from here,â TT Charlie says, âand you got a deal.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I drag the Mexican out of the backseat and roll him into an alley that backs up to a shopping mall. Roxie fires her lighter, and the Mexicanâs eyes shine like white buttons. I cover his face with a soggy newspaper and look away. The southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, less than a hundred miles to the north, feels like it is so far off it might as well be in another galaxy. I want to blame Roxie, the hold she has on me, but know I am at fault too. This lifeâfilled with dead addicts, prostitute girlfriends, the intense desire for a fixâis a weakness Iâve never overcome.
âHe might have some dope,â I say. âFeel down around his balls, unzip and feel down there, and see if he has some dope.â
âIâm not feeling up no dead man.â
âFeel down there and see if he has some dope. He mustâve died from something. Poor bastard probably overdosed.â
âTT Charlie checked him over pretty good. He didnât have no dope and he didnât have no money, no ID, nothing but one of those Spanish phone calling cards. Fayesha says his name wasJulio and he was a wetback that worked down at Pizzaria. She said he hadnât eaten in two weeks, probably starved himself to death or his heart stopped or something.â
To the south, lightning, like a radioactive vein, branches across black sky.
âI got something in the trunk, a surprise,â I say.
âIf Iâd known he hadnât eaten in two weeks I would have brought him a sandwich, or something. Maybe an egg roll. Huh, Julio? You think you might have liked an egg roll?â
âI have this plan, to get out of here, go somewhere we canât get any dope. Itâs impossible to get dope where I want to go.â
Roxie unzips Julioâs pants, feels under his testicles, and comes up empty. âThe things I do for you.â
I open the trunk.
âSee, I went to an outfitter and bought a backpack and a sleeping bag and a stove and hiking clothes, and look here, a book about a crippled guy who hiked the Appalachian Trail. I must have read this fifty times when I was in prison. If a guy with a bad leg could do it, itâd be a piece of cake for you and me.â
She holds the book to the trunk light. âYou nuts? I told you I ainât walking no Appalachian Trail.â
âIâm talking about walking out of here up to Maine and Iâll get a job as a cook and maybe weâll wind up near the beach and Iâll fish for lobsters. You canât get dope on the trail, thatâs what Iâm saying. Thereâs no dealer setting up in the mountains. You canât get dope out there. Itâs a dope-free zone.â
âYou ainât no cook.â
âI can learn,â I say. âIt canât be that hard.â
âYou canât even cook eggs.â
I can cook eggs, but I donât want to argue the point.
Roxie gets in the passenger seat, and I wait outside while she shoots up. Then I head to 7-Eleven and buy donuts, broiled sausages, and a jumbo package of potato chips. Roxieâs quiet when sheâs highâlike she has too many thoughts to sort throughâbut I donât mind. It wouldnât kill her to offer me some of that eight-ball, sheâd still
Learning to Kill: Stories