The Pardon

Chapter 6

Grateful for smart lawyers and legal loopholes, Eddy Goss was back on the streets of Miami, following the familiar cracked sidewalk to his favorite hangout. It was in a desolate part of town, where women stood alone on street corners to pay for their hundred-dollar-a-day crack habit and married men drove slowly by to satisfy their twenty-dollar urges. Goss, however, always avoided the women, ignoring their blunt offers of a quick “up and down.” He would pass right by them on his way to the bright yellow building with no windows and huge black triple X’s covering the length of the door. Inside, the windowless walls were lined with cellophane-wrapped magazines sitting in floor-to-ceiling racks. Goss liked the magazines because the girls were always so much prettier than the women on the street.

He moved around the adult bookstore like he owned the place, familiar with every rack. He liked the way the materials were organized. Oral sex on the east wall. Group sex on the west. If he wanted messy sex, the south wall was the place. His favorite was the back wall, the place for those who liked really young girls.

“You buying anything?” asked the very fat man seated by the cash register behind the counter.

“Huh?” Goss responded, realizing that the man was talking to him.

The man rolled his eyes as his dirty, stubby fingers shoved an overstuffed sandwich into his mouth. “I said,” he repeated with his mouth full, bits of lettuce and mayonnaise stuck in his straggly salt-and-pepper beard, “are you gonna buy anything, asshole?”

Goss shoved a magazine entitled Pixie Vixens back into the rack. “I’m just lookin’ around.”

“Well, an hour and a fucking half is long enough to look. Out, pal.”

Goss stood rigidly, his furor-filled eyes locked in an intense stare-down. At first the clerk’s expression was tough, but after a few seconds he seemed to lose heart. Just three weeks on the job and already he’d seen hundreds of weirdos in the shop. No one, however, had ever looked at him with such bone-chilling contempt.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Goss seethed.

The clerk swallowed hard. “I don’t care who-”

“I’m Eddy Goss.”

The clerk froze. He’d seen the news coverage on television, and suddenly the face was familiar.

Goss took a couple of steps forward, toward the bin in the center of the room that was full of plastic dildos and other adult paraphernalia. He stopped short and stared at the clerk. “I’m Eddy Goss,” he said, as if there were no need to say more. Then, with a quick jerk of his hand he sent an armful of merchandise sailing across the store.

The barrage of paraphernalia galvanized the clerk. Instinctively, he reached under the counter and came up with a pistol aimed at Goss. “Get outta here.” his voice trembled. “Or I’m gonna blow your fucking head off!”

Goss scoffed and shook his head.

“You got ten seconds!” the clerk warned.

Goss just glared at him.

The clerk shifted his weight nervously. His arms strained to hold the pistol out in front of him. Beads of sweat began building on his brow, and the gun started shaking. “I’m not foolin’, asshole!”

Goss was unshaken, convinced that this clerk didn’t have the nerve to shoot him. But he’d had enough of this place for one day. “I’m outta here,” he said as he headed for the door and stepped outside.

The sun had been shining brightly when he’d arrived at the bookstore, but it was overcast now, and dusk was near. He was hungry and thirsty, so he cut through the parking lot to the 7-Eleven next door. The store was empty, except for the Haitian clerk behind the counter. Goss opened a pack of Twinkies on his way down the aisle and stuffed them into his mouth as he reached the coolers in the back. He opened the glass doors, tossed the Twinkie wrapper behind the cold six-packs, and grabbed himself a tall can of malt liquor. He paid the clerk for the drink and left. He checked over his shoulder to see if the man was looking. He wasn’t, so he grabbed a newspaper from the stand. He tucked it under his arm and headed down the dimly lit alley that led to the back of the store. He chugged down his malt liquor and threw the empty can onto the pavement. He found a secluded spot behind the store, by the Dumpster, and sat on some plastic bread crates beside a tall wooden fence that offered plenty of privacy. It was time.

Goss tore into the paper and pitched the sports, classifieds, and other useless sections onto the ground until he found something suitable-a Victoria’s Secret special advertising pullout. He flipped the pages until he found the right girl, one with a particularly demure expression, then he spread the pullout on the ground at his feet. He hurriedly unzipped his pants, spit into the palm of his hand, and reached down between his legs. His eye narrowed to slits as he imagined himself on top of the girl. His breathing became deeper and more rushed as his hand moved rhythmically back and forth.

“Fucking bitches,” he gasped as his body jerked violently. He closed his eyes completely, then a second late opened them and inspected his handiwork. Son of a bitch.

Slowly he stood up and zipped his fly, towering over the smeared pictures on the ground. He reached inside his pocket and tossed down something tiny that landed with a tick on the wet surface. It was a seed. A chrysanthemum seed.

“My card,” said Goss with a quick, sinister laugh.