Hell's Half Acre

sixteen.

AND THE GUARDS TAKE HIS BODY AWAY AT NOON. I never get breakfast or lunch. I expect them to move me into another cell, an isolation unit, but they never do. I expect them to come beat me half to death, but they never do. I expect the detectives to send for me, so they can tell me just how badly I have fucked myself, but they never do.

I dragged Sugar Finch into the corner, where the water was up to my ankles, and killed him with my hands before dawn. Impaled his eye sockets with my thumbs, just as I’d imagined. I skull-fucked him with my fingers and the blood spilled up my arms, all the way to my elbows. I don’t want to talk about it, not yet. I may never want to speak of it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. This little cell is now the perfect crime scene. I expect dire consequences, but none seem to be in the offing. No one says boo to me.

Come six or seven next evening and my head is a pocket of rage. Tunnel vision. The angry flap of blackbird wings, just out of reach. I am crawling with imaginary bugs. My skin is slick with sweat and I’m cold. This is one of my usual headaches, with a touch of the delirium tremens thrown in. I reckon my body has designated this as happy hour and now it wants a fucking cocktail. And here comes the guard, just like that. Wonders never, so they say.

Phineas Poe, he says. Time to see the judge.

I don’t understand. They wouldn’t take me directly to be arraigned, not after I’d killed my bunkmate, would they. I would expect another round of questioning, maybe even a beating.

The guard leads me down a long corridor with flickering lights. My hands remain shackled together but I consider myself lucky. I am told to wait in line with about twenty prisoners to be transported to court and several of the poor bastards are wearing those leg and crotch shackles that make them walk like angry ducks.

The courtroom is fairly disappointing. The walls are a pale pea green and the floor is carpeted. The lights are fluorescent and everyone’s skin looks faintly orange. There are no shadows. I am taken in by the bailiff and led over to the defendant’s table where John Ransom Miller is waiting for me. He wears a black suit with black shirt and black tie. He has recently shaved and smells vaguely of licorice.

You. You’re my fucking lawyer.

He hisses at me to be quiet and sit down.

This is just great.

Quiet.

Maybe I have something to say.

Later, he says. You can talk later.

I curse inwardly at him and sit down in a wobbly wooden chair. It seems to me that the state could step up and provide chairs that didn’t wobble but then maybe they have other fish to fry. Miller sits beside me and shuffles papers. I find my nostrils twitching every time I catch a whiff of licorice.

The whole thing plays out with very little drama. The bailiff coughs and tells everyone to rise and there is great, unceremonious shuffling of bodies as a middle-aged white man with a shiny bald skull comes in wearing the standard dark robe. My name is called and the charges are read. The judge barely glances up through the whole thing, which takes about ninety seconds. He asks how we plead and I flinch as it occurs to me that Miller and I didn’t exactly discuss that. But he says not guilty and no one is surprised. The assistant prosecutor makes a fairly convincing statement about the horrific nature of the crime and claims that I am a vagrant and therefore a flight risk and should be held without bail. Miller says nothing, which pisses me off. He stares at his fingernails, bored, as if he knows the outcome already. Then the judge whacks the gavel and says that the prisoner will appear before the grand jury in one week and bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars and that’s that. The prosecutor mutters a few sweet nothings to herself and the bailiff comes to take me away. Miller informs me that because the police are holding my clothes as evidence, he brought me a suit to wear and he hopes it fits.

He says he will be waiting for me outside.

The process of being released from lock-up involves a lot of waiting on benches with three or four other gloomy fuckers who smell bad and look sorry as hell. I am given a small, grimy envelope that holds a mashed pack of cigarettes and ninety dollars. I had no wallet, of course. I had no identification and no jewelry. There is blood in my hair and I stink to heaven, so I ask to be allowed to shower but the guards ignore me and it seems like a good idea not to push it as I wouldn’t want anyone to get the bright idea to delouse me or something. Then I am given a new Hugo Boss suit in a sort of chocolate brown color and stylishly cut with narrow legs and wide lapels. The material is a wool and silk blend and light as a feather. There is a pale pink shirt to go with it and no tie, and I must say I look fucking sharp. I particularly like the way the bloodstains on my motorcycle boots complete the outfit and I start to snort and giggle like a mental patient.

Then outside, flinching away from the sun like a rat. Miller waits for me on the steps. He asks me how I’m doing and his tone is casual, as if we are meeting for lunch.

I’m a peach. Where is Jude?

Detained, he says.

How did you know I was arrested?

He shrugs. Heard it on the scanner, actually.

Cool, I say.

Yes. He sniffs me.

I know. I stink.

You’re deadly, he says.

I assume you paid my bail.

He smiles. It was the least I could do.

Thanks. I take it you’re a good lawyer.

The best, he says. And very expensive.

Of course.

I nod and he nods and the two of us stand there, nodding. I extract a bent cigarette from my pack and Miller hands me a gold lighter. I fire the thing up and it’s probably the best cigarette I ever had. The smoke drifts hazy in the sunlight and if I close my eyes, the traffic sounds like the ocean.

You killed that girl, I say. Or arranged for someone else to kill her.

Miller raises an eyebrow. I glanced at the evidence, he says. And it looks like you killed her.

Oh, yeah. The evidence.

Pretty damning, he says with a sigh.

I agree. I am living in agreement. But doesn’t it strike you as a fat freakish fucking coincidence that just when you get tangled up with Jude and you want to cast me in a sensitive snuff film that you can screen at Sundance, I get charged with murdering a junkie on the street and then you happen to be a lawyer with the necessary juice to bribe a judge.

I didn’t bribe him. But I could easily see to it that this goes badly for you.

What about Sugar Finch? How did you arrange for him to be placed in my cell?

My gift to you, he says. Did you like that?

I loved it.

Tell me about it, he says, Don’t leave anything out.

Fuck you, Miller.

My pleasure, he says.

The DA was right, you know. I am a flight risk.

You won’t run, he says.

How do you know?

Because you’re a nice guy. Molly thinks so, anyway.

Please. Why not just let me rot in jail?

Jude, he says. Jude won’t do the film unless you’re involved.

I don’t deserve such faith.

Miller whispers. Maybe…she wants you to protect her from me?

I flick my cigarette away and sparks tumble down the steps. And as if this were a signal, a reporter appears out of nowhere with a cameraman.

For god’s sake.

Miller grins at me. I think you might want to take this seriously.

He steps between me and the reporter and I feel almost grateful. Don’t get me wrong because part of me wants to turn and run like hell from him. But part of me wants to do this. The idea of shooting a snuff film with a crazy stranger and his beautiful girlfriend is weirdly appealing. It makes sense to me. And maybe I want to find out what happens. I want to know who the victim will be. Miller is right about one thing, sort of. Phineas is an arrogant fool, sometimes. Because I believe that somehow I can control what’s going to happen, that I can protect Jude and Molly and whoever else drifts into his path.

Miller dispenses with the reporter and turns to me. Are you ready to go, he says.

Yeah. I’m ready.

Excellent. I have a car waiting.

When he says he has a car waiting I foolishly imagine a limousine with somber driver and a fully stocked wet bar with shimmering mirrors. But it’s just a simple yellow cab with a fat bald driver who smells of Old Spice. The radio is tuned to the Giants game and the driver sighs mightily whenever the Giants do something stupid. He sighs frequently. Miller takes a silver flask from his breast pocket and mentions that I have the look of a man who wants a drink.

No shit.

I badly want a drink. I need one. I might trade my left foot for a long greedy swallow of whatever is in that flask. But I really want to straighten up, to see clearly for one night at least. I shake my head and he puts the flask away without comment.

Where are we going?

To meet Molly and Jude for dinner.

Bullshit.

Hardly.

Where?

Miller shrugs. A hideous little place in the Mission. Very trendy.

Good god.

You will love it, he says.

An endless red light and pocket of silence. I catch an unexpected whiff of myself and it’s a complex bouquet. Blood and general funk. Essence of urine and something in the vicious chemical family. I remember being dizzy and I wonder if the cops gave me a splash of pepper spray.

Maybe I should shower. Or something.

He smiles, or bares his teeth. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.

I smell like urine. Unless that’s the cab.

The driver turns around slowly, his eyes raw and poached. What did you say, convict?

Nothing.

My cab don’t freaking smell like urine.

Of course not. I was joking.

And I don’t like comedians, says the driver.

Miller smiles. I will give you a twenty-dollar tip if you turn around and shut up.

The driver stares at him. And if I don’t.

Miller shrugs. Then I will break your jaw.

I try to indicate by my blank, universally friendly expression that Miller is not serious but the driver is already fairly pale and now the light is green and he turns to face the front without another word. I glance over at Miller. His hands are carved and white, resting easy on his knees. His eyes are nearly closed and his face is meditative but for a faint movement in his cheek that suggests he is chewing at his tongue and I have the distinct feeling that he wishes the driver had not shut up.

The remainder of the drive is somewhat uncomfortable.

But Miller is true to his word. He gives the man a twenty-dollar tip as soon as we are deposited safely in front of the restaurant.

Exterior, night. The façade of the restaurant is pale with ghostly lights. Twenty or so very beautiful people wait around in little clusters, smoking cigarettes and talking in murmurs. I’m not quite ready to go inside yet. There’s surely no smoking allowed inside. I am learning to hate California. The veneer of humanity is stretched impossibly fine and no one seems to care. I stand on the sidewalk, sucking at a cigarette. I recently went eighteen hours without one and I feel like I owe it to my body to get the nicotine count up. Miller is a few feet away from me. He doesn’t want a cigarette. He wants to taste the air, he says.

Uh-huh.

What’s the matter?

Nothing. Did you really need to threaten the driver?

Miller smiles. I know a few things about you.

Yeah?

Of course. I looked into your past, when Jude suggested I use you for this role.

And what did you find?

I found that you tend to be morally ambiguous.

Again, fuck you.

Am I wrong?

I didn’t say that.

Then what’s your problem?

No problem. It’s not about morals. But if you walk around randomly fucking with everyone who comes into your peripheral vision, you will eventually be sorry.

Miller nods. Interesting theory.

Take it or leave it.

Relax, he says. You’re right. There was no reason to threaten the driver. But I get irritated sometimes. I get irritated when confronted with stupid, brutish people. I have been trained by society to apologize, to pacify such people. To avoid trouble. And this irritates me.

I toss my cigarette in the street. And for once, I smile.

Why are you smiling?

Because I know exactly what you mean. And because I think you’re fucking dangerous.

He steps close to me. Are you afraid of me?

No.

You will be, I think.

Maybe.

I don’t usually like it when people stand so close to me. It makes me think they might want to stab me or kiss me or something. I don’t think I’m paranoid or overly sensitive but I really prefer a little cushion between me and the other mutants. But I don’t want to back away from him because I think this would please him. I breathe through my mouth.

Jude says you’re going to pay us a half million each to do this film with you.

That’s right.

What kind of lawyer are you?

He waves a hand. I represent a very large, very old and powerful corporation that is responsible for the use of asbestos in hundreds of schools, hospitals, and government buildings. My job is to fend off the class action suits and generally drag things out until the plaintiffs either give up or die.

How nice.

Yes. Very Hollywood, isn’t it?

I shrug. It pays well, yeah.

Absurdly well. But it’s very, very boring.

The ghost lights flicker around us and Miller glances at his watch.

Let’s go inside, he says. I’d hate to keep the girls waiting.

I follow him inside, a half step behind. Down a long dark tunnel, my thoughts buzzing. Miller is a bored and wealthy sociopath, which makes him the best kind of friend to have. It also makes him the worst kind. He pauses to exchange cool whispers with the hostess, who is typically thin and pale and at first glance rather beautiful but somehow ugly in a fierce ravenous way and wearing a glittering black sheath that grimly reveals every bone in her body, and it occurs to me that the one word I would not use to describe Jude lately is girl.