Prologue
She watched from the door of the bathroom as Roger poured three fingers into the glass and drank. He set the glass down on the bar and looked at the places where the skin over his knuckles had split, his expression was not at all bothered by what he'd just done. In fact, he seemed to be admiring the little cuts and bruises with glee. Then he saw her and lowered his hand, eyeing her as she staggered out of the bathroom door to sit quietly on the couch.
His face hardened as he watched her. She realized she was fidgeting, her one hand moving up to twirl with a strand of hair. She'd done it idly a thousand times while watching TV or reading a book, but now she was doing it differently. It was a manic movement, the kind performed to establish a sense of normalcy in an abnormal situation. She was in shock and next would come panic if she didn't grab ahold of herself.
She put the hand down in her lap, focusing her gaze on him. Waiting.
He looked at her thoughtfully and poured three more fingers into his glass and then took the one off the bar that had been hers and poured adding fresh ice. He took his and moved.
"It's on the bar," he said, walking back into the hallway bathroom, leaving her to collect herself on her own.
She looked at the glass from across the room, the lighting of the bar made the crystal shine white and blue, the whiskey was a brilliant gold. She imagined she could see the condensation forming on the sides. She didn't get up, she didn't cross the room. Instead she listened to the sounds of him running cold water over his hands, opening and closing the medicine cabinet, then the pop-pop-pop-popping as the shower curtain was torn from the metal rings on the rod and then laid out on the tile floor.
There was grunting and sighing for a few seconds and then he came back out. She met his gaze and looked away, frightened. She felt a hand on her shoulder and she cringed. The grip tightened and she felt herself turned to face him as he knelt down, making his face level with hers.
"It's done, nothing can change it. Now help."
"No." It came out as a sob and she felt him holding her in a way she knew he meant to be comforting. She wanted to scream.
"I know, baby. I know. You've got to be strong for me, okay?" He let go and walked back into the bathroom. She heard him dragging it across the tile and closed her eyes, listening to him bringing it out into the hall. "Get her feet."
She shook her head, keeping her eyes shut tight.
"Becca!"
She jumped up and went to the bar, looking at the glass on the bar as if it were the only thing in the room. She couldn't look at it, she couldn't see it again. Seeing it made it real. If it was real than it had all been real. She drank the bitter amber liquid, sobbing as she listened to him curse and then grunt and groan.
The door opened and shut. She felt her gaze drift up to the mirror at the back of the bar. She'd hung it there when he'd first moved her in, it gave the bar a bit of class, just like the lights. She could see the open bathroom door, the light drifting out onto a patch of carpet. She could see the tile, white, brilliant and then she thought she saw the pool of red growing. It grew as if it were a living thing, pulsating, spreading as if it sought to cover the whole world.
She closed her eyes and looked away. She wanted to shut the door. She just stood though, waiting, watching the red pool growing. Listening for the sound of movement in the hall that would signify his coming back.
She lifted herself up onto the barstool, tearing her gaze away from the mirror. She looked at the phone in its cradle on the bar. She wanted to reach out, but she couldn't.
Her hands were glued to the glass-- its white and blue crystalline beauty, the chill of it in her hands-- she couldn't let go, it was too important.
PART ONE: ROCK BOTTOM
Chapter One
He was sweating as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The apartment was large and spacious-- empty. He ditched the tool belt and the five-gallon bucket of white eggshell finish paint by the door and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat come off on his fingers. He grimaced and wiped the hand on his jeans.
The first thing he needed to fix was the elevator.
He'd taken the twelve flights unprepared, lugging the five gallon tub of Behr paint, the tool belt over one shoulder and the trash bag with his newly purchased wardrobe. He went to the kitchen and spit in the sink. He tried the faucet. A sputter, a shutter, some spray as the pipes clanked. He ran some cold water into his hands, having a drink. He took off his jacket and draped it over the counter putting his hands in his pockets.
The wallpaper would have to go. He went and tried the switch by the door. The light came on. Wiring seemed okay.
He went to the bathroom. The light worked fine in there too, but the bathtub was slick with back up. He blew air out through his mouth, the stink was awful.
Five-hundred bucks. It ain't worth it, Ingram. You'll go crazy in three days.
He shut off the light and went into the bedroom. A mattress, a lamp, a bottle with a card.
"Freedom and respect take hard work."
He smiled. Nothing like working for ex-cons. The old man had been a phone number on a card until the day before. A connection, someone who had work he could give to a bum just out and going for the big CL.
CL: Clean living.
He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Eight-dollar bottle of Scotch. He laughed because it wasn't funny at all. He capped it and tossed it in the little can by the door.
Just think, Ingram, four apartments, one month-- you finish on time you keep the job.
He went back down the hall into the main living room slash kitchen. The place was spacious, he saw the potential. He looked up at the oxidized tin tiles in the ceiling and then down at the scuffed wooden floors. Off in one corned was a single small writing with it's back pressed against the wall. There was no chair. He went over and tried the drawers. They were locked. He stood back and contemplated the squat little desk a moment before waving it off for later investigation.
The phone was on the counter.
He dialed the old man's number, the one on the back of the card. Checking in, giving his preliminary opinions of the place. Yes, he'd found the old super's truck in the basement garage. Yes, he'd found the present by the bed. He went to the fridge. There was a loaf of bread and some bologna.
"Yeah," he said, shutting the fridge and turning back to the big blank empty room, speaking into the phone. "Thanks, that'll come in handy when I get hungry later."
"Okay," the old man said. "You need anything else use the list of numbers in the truck, Morey used to keep them on a pad in the glove box."
