I let Mr..357 peep in ahead of me. Finger on trigger, I followed his lead.
I hit the light switch closer to the front door.
2
Two. I knew what that meant. The number of days I had left.
That message was spray painted on every wall I could see. Bright red and deep blacks. Large numbers, small letters, all the same message. Two styles. Only two styles. They worked as a team, each tripping out with their own can of paint, acting like kids on a playground.
That graffiti job wasn’t all they’d done while I was at work. They had taken their time, had a little fuck-up-my-place party, left cans of beer and cigarette butts everywhere I could see.
That was the mild damage. The room had been destroyed.
My Green Goblin statue was in a hundred pieces, had been stomped into the floor.
Sofa slashed, gutted, and its insides thrown all around the room like confetti in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Television had been kicked over, busted, dead where it lay. Socks, drawers, most of my clothes were all over the joint, everything I saw had been cut to pieces.
Kitchen.
2
Everything from chicken to syrup to oatmeal to flour was all over the cabinets and floor.
Windows were closed. Bleach was strong.
I didn’t see anybody hiding, but I didn’t put the gun away. Coughed, followed that thickening stench and turned on every light I could find.
Bathroom.
2
That’s where that stench was the strongest. It was mixing with another foul smell, one twice as rank. This second stink was heavier, not moving, waiting patiently like death.
Stopped moving. Listened.
Heard water running. Like a peaceful river.
Every slow step wetter than the one before.
Looked down.
Carpet damp, soggy, every step like sloshing through a Berber marsh.
Pushed the bathroom door wide open, the business end of my friend leading the way.
Humidity painted my face.
Heat from the hot water rushed out into the cool air.
I hit the light switch, brought that terror to life with a sixty-watt bulb.
Damn.
2
I put the gun down, took my coat off, rolled up my pant legs, cursed like I had Tourette’s.
Bathtub was overflowing. Had to rush and turn the steaming water off.
My Italian suits, ties, and shirts, all my gear down to the rest of my socks and drawers were swimming in the bathtub, drowning in the clear water as it turned black and red and gray.
Three empty bleach bottles rested on top of my clothes. Three gallons total.
One gallon for each suit I owned.
My first mind was to pull the suits out, try to save them, but the way the bleach had stolen all the color told me that they were a done deal. Bleach had been poured on first, used to marinate my clothes, then the water had been turned on. I turned the water off, coughed while I opened a window, slipped on the wet linoleum, got my balance, leaned against the door, then slapped the wall over and over with the palm of my hand. If I owned the place I would’ve knocked holes in every wall, would’ve torn this building down brick by brick.
The other rank smell came from the toilet. They had shitted in my toilet.
I rushed out the bathroom. Couldn’t breathe. Had to find enough air so I could scream.
I cursed all kinds of curses, kicked everything that was already broken.
Wanted to put Lisa facedown, stomp her head until her teeth were gone.
If I hadn’t screamed I would’ve heard my car alarm going off sooner.
People didn’t respond to car alarms. Took me a minute to recognize it was mine.
I hurried back downstairs, pants still rolled up, guns in backpack, and took to the alley.
My car was screaming like it had been stabbed in the heart.
I eased up on my ride, made sure nobody had done that to draw me out into danger. Walked the alley, peeped in nooks and crannies, then came back and hit the remote.
The back window had been broken out. A red brick rested on the backseat.
I looked down at the asphalt, saw where tires had burned rubber leaving my world.
Tire prints were as unique as footprints. Those came from big tires. An Expedition.
My cellular rang. I answered without saying a word, just listened.
She did the same.
She whispered, “What did you say to my husband?”
It was Lisa, her voice so bitter.
I growled, “What your boys did ... that’s pretty fucked up.”
“What the fuck did you say to my husband?”
I matched her tone, said, “Call your bullyboys off before somebody gets hurt real bad.”