The Death Sculptor

Sixty-Four

It was late and Tito had consumed another two bottles of champagne back at The Airliner with Eddie. By the time he got back to his apartment in Bell Gardens, he was well on his way to hangover hell in the morning.

Tito stumbled through his front door. Champagne had a strange way of getting him drunk very fast, but the truth was he enjoyed being drunk. And getting drunk on expensive champagne paid for by someone else felt even sweeter. His tongue was feeling a little furry, though.

He opened the door to his fridge in the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of orange juice and downed it in one. He returned to the living room and dumped his heavy body onto the old maroon sofa that smelled like an ashtray. He sat there for a minute or two before deciding that he needed a little pick-me-up, something to get the blood flowing again. Tito got up and approached the sideboard by one of the walls. He opened the bottom drawer, took out a small silver box together with a square, frameless mirror, and brought it all over to the dining table. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out a generous amount of white powder onto the mirror and made a long, thick line of it using a razor blade. That was special stuff, finely cut. Premium Colombian powder that he never shared with any of the skanky, second-rate whores he brought back to his place. No, this was for his pleasure, and his pleasure alone.

Tito checked his pockets for a crispy bill he could use. He only had one five-dollar note, not that crispy, but it would have to do. He was too drunk to go looking for something else instead. He rolled up the bill into a tube as best he could, and snorted half of the line up one nostril and the other half up the other one.

He slumped back on his chair; eyes closed, pinching his nose tight.

‘Yep, that’s what I’m talking about,’ he murmured between clenched teeth. That was just what he needed. He threw his neck back and sat there for a moment, his eyes still closed, enjoying the crazy effect as the drug and the alcohol in his blood collided against each other.

Tito was so absorbed in his trip that he never heard the sound of his front door being opened. He’d been too drunk to remember to turn the key in the lock.

Still with his head tilted back, Tito finally opened his eyes, but instead of the ceiling, he saw a face looking down at him. And he had seen those eyes before.