Purgatory

26

“It’s over for you, motherfucker.”

— the voice Brian Wilson heard in his head, over and over, for twenty years

I went down into the abyss,

Spiral

Screaming

Burning

Hot

To

Freakish

Cold

Fucked.

Snatches of Stewart’s friendship flashing through my mind like a dire recrimination of what would never be again. Five days before I surfaced, kind of, sick through sickness like I’d rare to rarer experienced.

I came to in my own apartment, a large man sitting opposite, lounging in a chair, drinking from one of my coffee mugs, a slight smile playing on his lips. I didn’t know if he was real or part of the previous day’s horrors and hallucinations. I croaked,

“Hey.”

Deep, yeah.

I sat up, real bad idea. The room did a jig, a reel. The man stood, got a glass of water, said,

“Get some of this down, slow ’n’ easy.”

I did, slowly, and managed to keep some if it down. I asked,

“Who are you?”

He was even bigger when my vision settled, over six two and climbing. And must have been close to 200 pounds, not much of it fat. A face that had been squatted in then grilled. Cold blue eyes but with a shot of amusement. Wearing chinos and black, battered Dr. Martens, the originals. A T-shirt with the logo

Monterey rocks.

So faded it might have been an original, which could mean he saw Jimi Hendrix. I shook my head as he said,

“Name is Moore, least that’s we’re giving out today.”

And he smiled, kind of.

He said,

“I’ve got some healing here for you, buddy, some pills your benefactor Mr. Reardon provided.”

Reardon.

Moore had been asked by Reardon to keep an eye on me, mainly for Kelly’s sake, and found me crumpled in a mess outside my apartment, reeking to high heaven of booze. Got me inside and halfway cleaned up.

I snapped,

“So, have I to beg? Let’s make with the fucking things or not.”

He laughed, took out a battered tin, began to roll a cig. I said,

“No-smoking zone, pal.”

He laughed, said,

“I like it, and gotta say, dude who’s taken the punishment you have, to crack funny, that’s. . hard-core.”

He, I kid thee not, flicked a long match off his boot, lit up. I said,

“You’re kidding. What, you studied Clint movies and then figured you’d trot out that party trick?”

He blew a perfect ring, said,

“Just a match, partner, nothing more.”

Jesus, I’d woken up in a scene from a clichéd western by the freaking numbers. He reached in his pocket, tossed a phial, and, no, I didn’t catch it. Fuck.

Got the lid off, got two capsules out, dry-swallowed them. He said,

“Trusting type, ain’t yah?”

I said,

“If you’re poisoning me, the hangover I have coming down the pike, you’d be doing me a favor.”

He shrugged, said,

“You’ve got some grit, fellah.”

I asked,

“So, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing in my home, besides cowboy cameos?”

He stood up, did the neck exercise beloved of jocks, said,

“I’m your guardian angel.”

His accent was gruff, no prisoners New York, Lower East Side if I knew my Jimmy Breslin. His eyes testified to war years with not so many bullets avoided.

I gave him my best skeptical look, honed by years of dealing with priests who told me the Kingdom of Heaven was within.

Within whom they neglected to mention.

Christ, I began to feel good, not just, um. . hungover, but fucking real fine. I had a shower, shouted,

“Brew up some coffee there,”

Pause

“Pilgrim.” Angel dust indeed. I dressed fast, raring to go. Faded Levi’s, cleanish white cotton shirt, my fave boots, the ones that clicked, made you sound like you were going places or, at least, had been to some joint of significance. A light jacket, khaki in color, that gave the vibe of a player.

Being able to stand straight, I was nearly as tall as Moore. He handed me a steaming mug of caff, said,

“Roasted Colombian.”

Roast heaven.

All I needed was spurs, a gray palomino, and wagons fucking ho to be the full cowboy.

Moore was surveying me, then pulled out a small jotter and with a stub of a pencil made some notes. No Mont Blanc posing here. I asked,

“You taking notes?”

Growled,

“Sure as shooting.”

Time to showtime, asked,

“Why?”

“For Mr. Reardon. He sicced me on you, to keep your dumb ass safe.”

He saw my expression, said,

“Smell the beans, compadre. You’re. . a guinea pig. Those pills, you’re. .”

He chuckled.

“. . straight out”

Fucking chuckled.

“. . the trial subject.”

Added,

“Used to be there was gold in them thar hills.”

Breath.

“Now, it’s pharmaceuticals, the Big Dipper, the treasure of the Sierra Madre, all rolled in one. Can you imagine having a real live test subject, not in a goddamn lab but out on the street, living it, if not large at least colorful? The FDA will be shitting themselves.”

I was horrified but buoyed by the dope so. . you know. . torn.

Managed,

“He’s using me as a guinea pig?”

He made a gun of his hand, let the thumb/hammer fall. I managed,

“Jesus, wait till Kelly hears this.”

He laughed, said,

“Her idea.”

It was out before I could think.

“The. . cunt.”

Wagged a finger in my face, said,

“Easy, partner, that’s my sister you’re dissing.”

God on a bloody unbelievable bike. I muttered,

“Jesus, you people all related?”

He smiled, said,

“Like to roll our own.”

And,

“Tell you what, caballero. Those pills should be kicking in and I hear give you an appetite, so how’s about I treat you to some eggs over easy, bacon, pot of joe?”

Truth to tell, I was now ravenous, said,

“Sure, long as I can have me some grits.”

He looked at me, asked,

“They do grits?”

“Get fucking real, Clint.”

I chilled for a few hours, the pills coasting me back to the land of hunger, near normality, and light. Moore sighed, said,

“I can see you’re improved, and it’s time we grabbed some chow.”

He was out the door, his boots echoing in the hall like a rumor that was only half understood. I caught up with him on the street, said,

“Tell you what, I’ll buy breakfast, see if you can open up a bit about Reardon.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

The GBC does the best fry-up.

Lots of neon cholesterol.

Runny eggs

Fat Clonakilty sausages.

Black pudding like the pope ordered (cross me heart)

Thick streaky rashers

And a pot of Barry’s tea like the childhood you never had. I ordered all of this for two and then, under the table, pushed the snub-nosed.38 to him, said,

“Think you mislaid this.”

He reached for his back, where I’d relieved him of it during my stumble. He was as close to impressed as a stone jackal got, asked,

“You learn that in the Guards?”

I waved at Frank Casserly, the chef, then said,

“I learned it on the streets.”

The tea and thick buttered toast arrived and he asked,

“So, want to know what you missed while you were. . away. . for five days?”

I had to focus, trying to measure how long it had been since Stewart. . since Stewart, said,

“The Olympics.”

He poured the strong tea, bit down on a hefty wedge of dripping toast, said,

“You guys got five medals, gold for the Taylor lass in boxing.”

Jesus.

“Really?”

“Yup, no shit, Sherlock, you guys can fight.”

The food arrived, freaking mountains of it. Moore said,

“Man, gonna flood some major arteries here.”

But he dug in, like he had a shovel rather than a fork. He said,

“Lots of folks bought the farm while you were AWOL.”

I felt the food lodge in my throat, spat,

“Besides my best friend?”

He shrugged, said,

“Yeah, well, condolences and all that good shit. Gore Vidal, Helen Gurley Brown, Ernest Borgnine.”

Like I could give a fuck.

I said,

“So you’re to babysit while I’m running on experimental meds.”

He was having a second mug of tea, seemed to be liking it, said,

“Reardon wants to ensure you don’t end up like your best bud.”

“I’m touched.”

He laughed, said,

“Hell, Taylor, you ain’t shit to shinola to him but Kelly, she seems to have some weird shine on you. Go figure, huh?”

I simply muttered,

“C33.”

He stopped,

Actually held his mug mid-frozen, asked,

“What did you say?”

I was about to tell about Westbury and he grabbed my arm, snarled,

“Not the whole fucking saga, the number, you said a number.”

“C33.”

He put the mug down, shaken, murmured,

“I’ll be fucking hog-tied.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the pills-the crap you’re swallowing.”

I think that’s what they call a showstopper.

Jesus.

My mind racing to all sorts of scenarios.

. . Reardon was C33?

Playing at vigilantism like he fucked around with everything else. And what a perfect rat fuck, to dabble in serial killing. Just the kind of sick shit he’d relish. Would explain the initial letters to me. Reardon was stuck in every aspect of my life. Did Stewart surprise him and just happen to be collateral damage?

As my mind jumped through a maze, Moore stood up, said,

“Gotta go jam my head under some real cold water.”

The bill was on the table. I said,

“You picking up the tab?”

He grimaced, said,

“Been picking up the freight on you for five days, hoss. Time you paid some dues.”

He was heading out. I said,

“Moore?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me hoss again.”