I’m cheating a bit this week. This isn’t really a short story, but a disturbing little excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Find Frank. I’ve had a busy week, but the good news is that I’ve managed to spend a couple hours editing F.F.
This except takes place in the fictitious setting of Tempest City–a place that might exist if Gotham, Chicago, and L.A. had a three-way. The gist of the story is that an investigative reporter (female, brooding, loner–a fairly typical noir protagonist) is trying to find the root of a mysterious street drug called the White Wizard that recently cropped up in Tempest City. She doesn’t appear at all in the following scene, but you should know she exists.
This except takes place in the fictitious setting of Tempest City–a place that might exist if Gotham, Chicago, and L.A. had a three-way. The gist of the story is that an investigative reporter (female, brooding, loner–a fairly typical noir protagonist) is trying to find the root of a mysterious street drug called the White Wizard that recently cropped up in Tempest City. She doesn’t appear at all in the following scene, but you should know she exists.
MONDAY EVENING, NORTHERN TEMPEST CITY
He blinked watery eyes and tried for the third time to stand. His eyes tried to focus on the spot where he was certain his right foot was resting on the asphalt, but he could only see brown and white shapes blending with tar-black. “Come on,” he groaned. “Steady does it, foot. Steady.” He leaned his weight to the right and felt his torso tip forward; one stork leg, then the other, bent, then straightened. The right foot remained planted. The man stood.
“All right, then,” he said, giving his thigh a pat. “All right.”
He leaned against the brick alley wall, afraid to walk for fear of toppling over again. His body was rigid, pulsing like a thumb slammed in a car door.
“Imma burst,” he whispered, feeling the blood flum-flum-flum under his skin. “Where the feckin’ hell is Beez? Where is he?”
The man blinked toward the end of the alley and tried to interpret the shapes swimming past it. He assumed they were people, but couldn’t be sure. His eyesight was getting worse every day. Just yesterday, he could see well enough to pick out a rich lady from a crowd. She was one of those high-fashion types—he could tell from the tan leather wings on her back and the matching spike heels on her feet. An airy, expensive-looking scarf was wound so high around her neck that only her eyes were visible. An easy target. She couldn’t chase him with five-inch heels and cumbersome leather wings.
He had worked his way through the crowd, tripping a little, but able to steady his bucking legs long enough to dash up to the woman, grab her purse, and hightail it toward North Tempest City.
Now, here he was, a day later, and his vision was shot to hell.
The man squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Squeezed and opened. Willing the blurry shapes to cohere and form something recognizable.
“That you, Ernesto?” a voice ambled through the alleyway.
“Beez? You here, Beez?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Jesus, Ernie, you look like shit.”
Ernie bit his lip; tears began forming in the corners of his eyes. “I’m burning from the inside, Beez,” he choked. “I need some Dubs or my blood’s gonna burst straight through my skin.”
“Now, now, stop being so dramatic,” Beez rested a pale hand on Ernie’s shoulder. “You ain’t burnin’. It’s cold as a penguin’s asshole out here. Come on, Ern, why don’t you sit down for a minute and I’ll get you a fire goin’ in that barrel over there?”
“I can’t sit!” Ernie howled. “I might never get back up!”
“Okay, okay,” Beez held up his hands. “Just hang out against the wall, then. I’ll make that fire.”
“I don’t need it!” Ernie cried. “There’s lava under my skin. I don’t need a fire, Beez. I need a hit. Please, man. Just one hit.”
Beez ignored Ernie’s protests and removed his long mink coat, folding it and laying it across a set of fire escape steps. He stooped and began collecting trash along the alley—old newspapers, takeout cartons, a couple pizza boxes, an old sweater—and threw it all in a rust-rimmed barrel. He retrieved a plastic lighter from his pocket, cracked it open, and poured the fluid over the rubbish.
“Hey, Ern!” Beez called. “You got a lighter? I just sacrificed mine for your skinny ass.”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You wanna hand it over, then?”
Ernie sobbed. “I’m tellin’ you Beez, I can’ leave this spot. My legs ain’t working right anymore. I bet a hit would set me right, man. You brought the Dubs, right?”
“Yeah, I brought it. Shit, I’ll come to you if you can’t move. Ungrateful rat. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you out?”
“I know you are, Beez. I know you are. You a friend, ain’t you?”
“Sure, a friend. Can I have that lighter now?”
Ernie handed over a lighter; Beez grabbed it and walked back to the barrel. He grabbed some extra newspaper from the ground, crumpled it, lit it, and tossed it into the barrel. The trash ignited.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! All right, Ern, lemme help you over here.”
Beez donned his mink coat, then grabbed Ernie’s arm and guided him toward the barrel. “Doesn’t that feel nice, buddy? Nice and warm.”
Ernie didn’t say anything, just leaned against Beez and gazed at the meld of oranges and reds emanating from the barrel. His shoulders and legs jerked occasionally, but Beez kept one arm wrapped around Ernie’s torso to prevent him from toppling over.
They stood silently for a while, letting the heat dance across their faces—Ernie’s dark and scabbed, Beez’ pale and smooth.
“Better, Ernie? Is the lava goin’ away?”
“Nah, man,” Ernie whispered, “it bubbles and pops with every breath. Every damn breath. A dose of Wizard’d solve it, I’m sure.”
“Fine,” Beez shrugged. “Last time I try to do you a favor. Let’s talk business, then.” He pulled a clear pill bottle out of his pocket and held it up. “You ordered twelve, right? Where’d you get that kind of money, Ern?”
“Found it,” Ernie shrugged.
“My ass.”
“I did! Found it in a purse in the alley.”
“Okay, whatever you say, man. I don’t give two shits about your income source, so long as the money spends.”
“The purse is o’er there.” Ernie, still in Beez’ grip, leaned toward the alley wall. “Walk me there, will ya?”
The pair walked to the edge of the alley; Ernie stuck his hands out and, when they struck the brick wall, he leaned heavily against it.
“Ernie? You all right, man? Where’s the purse?”
Ernie grasped the sides of his head, forehead pressed against the brick. “I’m tryin’ to ‘member. It’s here, somewhere. I swear, it’s gettin’ harder to think. Whatchyou all puttin’ in the Wizard these days? Cuttin’ it with bleach? Rat poison?”
“What do you take me for?” Beez snarled. “Some two-bit dealer? I only peddle the good stuff, you know that.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, Beez. It’s just that, it doesn’t take me like it used to. It feels real dirty now. No more pretty colors and all that.”
“We ain’t cuttin’ it with bleach, Ern. Now, do you want to make a deal or no?”
“I do!” Ernie squealed. “I wanna make a deal.”
“Then shut up and try to remember where you put the damn purse.”
Ernie sniffled.
“Okay, you know what? I’ll look for it myself.”
Beez shuffled around some cardboard boxes and crates, combing the edge of the alley. He tossed aside a well-worn tarp and a couple sweaters and found it lying there—a snakeskin purse, the clasp broken from clumsy hands.
“Found this, you say?”
Ernie didn’t answer. He held his head and sobbed.
Beez rooted around the purse and retrieved a handful of cash. “Jesus, these hipsters carry a lot of green, yeah? They distrust credit as much as dealers and pimps.”
Beez shoved the cash into his pocket. “You’re a little short, Ern, but I’ll give you the twelve. Okay, man?”
Ernie nodded, scraping his head against the brick.
“Okay, then.” Beez slid the clear pill bottle into Ernie’s pocket. “Here, buddy. Lemme help you sit down.” He grabbed Ernie around the waist, turned him 180 degrees, and lowered him to the ground.
“Thanesman,” Ernie slurred. “Ay oweya.”
“Don’t mention it.” Beez backed away and scrutinized Ernie slumped against the brick wall, head lolling as he dug in his pocket for the pill bottle. “Ern,” Beez said. “Let me give you a tip. Straight from a friend to a friend, yeah?”
“Whazthat?”
“Take the whole damn thing. Tip ‘em all back. It’ll be easier that way.”
“What’ll b’easier?”
“I think you know, man.” Beez stooped and patted Ernie’s shoulder. “Safe journey, pal.”
Beez turned and walked out of the alley, mink coat ruffling around him. He had to keep moving. He had work to do.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
Author: KateBitters
Kate Bitters is a Minneapolis-based author and freelance writer. She is the author of Elmer Left, Ten Thousand Lines, and He Found Me. One of her proudest/nerdiest moments was when Neil Gaiman read one of her short stories on stage at the Fitzgerald Theater.