Near Death (18 page)

Read Near Death Online

Authors: Glenn Cooper

Loud music bounced off the walls and throbbing subwoofers sent impact tremors through the old floorboards. By 11 P.M., the loft was packed. Scores of urbanites pressed up against the banqueting table sampling platters of food and bowls labeled SHEEP DIP. They filled their glasses with an inexhaustible supply of Fosters and Australian whites. The room undulated with disinhibited dancing bodies.

The hostess stretched on her toes and shouted into her husband’s ear that she didn’t recognize a lot of the people. He shouted something back but she made a sign she couldn’t hear him. He cupped his hands and boomed again, “I don’t care!”

A slim young woman in a minidress was dancing by
herself in front of a large industrial window flanked by two potted palms. She had commandeered her own bottle of wine and interrupted her steps every so often to take a swig directly from it. When she threw her head back her long black hair touched her waist.

A young man spent several minutes watching her. The beat of the music and the foliage surrounding her made it look like he was stalking prey in the jungle. Unnoticed, he edged himself within striking distance then made his move by extending his empty glass. She looked at him in a soft unfocused sort of way, wiped the top of the bottle with her thumb then poured until the glass overflowed. Laughing, he pulled it away and took three large gulps. He reextended his arm and she poured again. Soon they were dancing in and out of the palm trees and he was trying to plant a kiss through the fronds.

“What’s your name?” he shouted to her.

“Jennifer. What’s yours?”

“William—let’s find someplace quieter!” he yelled.

He took her by the hand and pulled her through the crowd. They explored the perimeter of the loft, trying doors until they found a bedroom. The bed was stacked with coats. He locked the door behind them and because he was muscular he was able to lift her up in the air as if she
were a small child and toss her onto the coat mountain. Over the muffled music he heard her dissolve into giggles. He dove on top of her, stripped her bare from the waist down and the two of them burrowed into the coats like gophers.

Minutes later, an arm popped out then a leg. “That was fun!” she said giddily.

“Want to have more fun?” he asked.

“Sure. How?”

“A friend of mine gave me something new to try.”

“A drug?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it called?”

“Bliss, I think.”

That set her off laughing again. “Who doesn’t like a little bliss? What’s it do?”

“It’s supposed to give you some kind of spiritual high. Like a very mellow acid. He told me it was the best trip he ever had. I’ve been waiting for the right occasion. How ’bout it?”

A saucy head whip sent her hair flying. “Yeah, sure. Anything once.”

He still had his suit jacket on and pulled out two thin red straws of red paper. After finding his half-full
wineglass on the floor by the bed, he spilled the contents of both straws into the glass and swirled it around. “Let’s share,” he said.

They each drank half and settled back into the coats.

“How long does it take?” she asked.

“I forgot to ask.”

“Are you friends with the Gibbons?” she asked.

“Who’re they?”

“The people throwing the party!”

“No. I came with a guy who knows them. What about you?”

“I did a summer internship with their company last year, in between my first and second year at RISD.”

“What’s RISD?”

“Rhode Island School of Design.”

“You’re an artist?”

“I want to be one.”

“Cool,” he said. “That’s really cool.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“William. William Treblehorn.”

“Not Bill or Billy or Will or Willy?” she asked playfully, poking his chest.

“Nope. William.”

“Then you’re not allowed to call me Jenny. It’s
Jennifer to you.”

They talked and played with each other awhile longer until both of them nodded off.

Outside the bedroom door a knot of people congregated in animated discussion. A man kept jiggling the doorknob and banging on the door with the heel of his hand.

Finally, he said, “Someone’s probably passed out drunk in there.”

“Well, I need my coat.”

“It’s after one-thirty. I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll see if Bernie has the key.”

The host was dragged to the door and tried it himself. “I don’t know where the bloody key is. We never lock it,” he said, swooning with drink. “I’ll see if Nan knows where the heck we keep it.”

A minute later he returned with Nan, who was swaying herself and proudly displaying a key.

“She’s the best damn wife a bloke could have,” her husband declared. He fumbled with the lock and flung open the door.

A blast of cold air hit him full on. The industrial-sized window beside the bed had been pulled open. The wind was howling through. The icy blast momentarily forced him
to shut his eyes.

He blinked a few times then cried out, “Bloody hell!”

A young man was standing by the window completely naked. He was staring out with a wild look in his eyes, his blond hair blowing straight back. He turned at Bernie’s voice and faced the people who were poking their heads into the room.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Bernard demanded. William sank to his knees sobbing. “I saw my grandfather! I saw him!”

“Course you did, me old fruit. Let’s find your clothes then get you the hell out of my house. Will someone help me find this bloke’s clothes?”

“She saw someone too!” he cried.

“Who did?”

“Her name was Jennifer. She said God was there!”

“Okay, steady on. Where’s Jennifer?”

“She said she wanted to be there forever.”

“Fine, fine.” The fellow looking for his clothes signaled he couldn’t find them. “If you can’t find his things then just chuck over a coat, will you, mate?” Bernie said. “I can’t have a naked man about. Now where did you say Jennifer is?”

“Down there.”

“What do ya mean, down there?”

The young man pointed.

The host began sobering up as he crept to the window. He reluctantly stuck his head out and beneath him, clearly illuminated by a streetlight was the naked body of a woman with long black hair surrounded by a spreading pool of blood.

Twenty-five

Frank Sacco was a regular at the Seagull Lounge on Revere Beach Boulevard. In the summer it was a cheerful kind of place where locals mixed with sandy day trippers, a joint where you could score a decent bowl of chowder with your beer. In the winter, though, it was a dark, depressing dive for hard-drinking townies who weren’t much interested in soup.

Frank’s cousin, Stevie, worked there and when he was behind the bar Frank got plugged into a buy-one-get-one-free mode. As the evening progressed, Frank got happier and expansive, flashing a fat roll of cash, buying rounds for the entire place.

“What’s with you?” his cousin asked, pushing another shot of Canadian Frank’s way.

“Just feeling good, Stevie,” Frank replied, slurring his words. “It’s all good.”

Stevie pointed at the roll in Frank’s fist. “Yeah? You come into money?”

“I got a little business on the side.”

The bartender looked over at one of the occupied
booths. “That’s cool, but stash the cash. Don’t be looking for trouble.”

Frank peeled off a few twenties, dropped them on the bar and said, “This is for you, man. You’re a fucking good guy.”

His cousin tried to give the money back but the bills slid back and forth on the beer-splashed wood until Frank won and Stevie reluctantly took them and said, “I’ll put this in my pocket if you put yours away too.”

Frank agreed and called for another round.

The scene was playing out in front of two regulars. John Abruzzi and Mario Fortunelli had spotted Frank’s kielbasa-sized bill roll. Abruzzi, a brawny guy in a cashmere pullover, had been to the barber and in between sips of beer moodily plucked bits of hair from the inside of his collar. With mounting curiosity he approached Frank and clapped him on back. “Hey, Frankie, what’s going on?”

Frank grinned back. “Not much, man.”

“Last time someone bought a round in this bar, there was a wake.”

“No one’s dead this time,” Frank replied.

Over Stevie’s suspicious glances Abruzzi invited Frank back to his booth and told the pimply Fortunelli to slide over. Even though they were young guys, not much more than
a few steps removed from their days as street punks, there was a pecking order between them that Fortunelli understood. Abruzzi’s uncle was a ranking member of the local Colombo crew. Fortunelli had no such connections.

“How’re you doing, Frankie?” Fortunelli asked. He’d gone to high school with Frank but they hadn’t exactly been friends. In fact, Frank had been scared of the kid’s reputation as a crazy-ass.

“I’m good, man. How’re you?”

“Can’t complain,” Fortunelli answered.

“Hell you can’t!” Abruzzi laughed. “Alls he does is bitch and moan like a whiny little bitch.”

Fortunelli came back with a weak “Yeah, right!” then clammed up.

Abruzzi leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “So Frankie, you look like you’ve been doing all right. You still working in a lab or something?”

“Yeah, still a tech over at Harvard Med.”

“Don’t you love the sound of that, Mario?” Abruzzi said, picking another hair off his neck. “Frankie’s at Harvard. So how come a guy busting ass as a nine to fiver’s got enough cash to sink a fuckin’ battleship?”

Frank was too drunk to notice the iciness that had crept into Abruzzi’s voice. Abruzzi was only a few years
older than Frank but thanks to cockiness and size it seemed as though they were separated by a generation. “I’ve got a side business,” Frank whispered.

“Oh yeah? What kind of business?” Abruzzi asked.

Frank looked across the table blearily and slurred, “B’lieve it or not, I was thinking about talking to you guys because, t’ be honest, I’ve taken this about as far as I can. Maybe you can help me.”

Fortunelli began to snigger but a dirty look from Abruzzi shut him up. “Yeah, maybe we can. What’s this involve?”

“Drugs,” Frank whispered again.

“We’re familiar with drugs,” Abruzzi quipped. “Which ones in particular?”

“None you’ve heard of,” Frank said.

Fortunelli couldn’t contain himself. “C’mon, Frankie. John’s like the motherfucking Physician’s Desk Reference. He’s got it covered.”

“Yeah,” Abruzzi agreed. “I’ve got an advanced degree in that shit.”

“It’s called Bliss,” Frank said. “Heard of that?” At their shrugs he added smugly, “Didn’t think so.”

“So, what is it?” Abruzzi said.

“It’s a designer drug. My boss invented it. He’s
wicked smart.”

“What’s it do?”

Frank smiled. “It takes you to God, man.”

“God?” Abruzzi asked. “As in Jesus Frickin’ Christ?”

Frank nodded.

“You’re such a bullshitter,” Fortunelli jeered.

“Okay,” Frank said, getting steamed. “Whatever you say I am, I am. See you around, Mario.”

Abruzzi settled Frank down by telling Mario he’d bust his mouth if he opened it again. “Seriously,” he asked Frank. “What’s the high like?”

“It’s like nothing in this world, man,” Frank said, suddenly drifting to another place. “I’ve seen stuff … All I can say is, it’s the best thing ever happened t’ me and I’m not the only one. Everyone who takes it freaks out but in a good way, in a very good way, man.”

Abruzzi looked interested. “So what are the economics?”

Frank glanced around the bar. “Izzit okay if we don’t talk about it here?”

“Yeah sure,” Abruzzi agreed. “Where? When?”

“I gotta meet a guy,” Frank said. “How ’bout you guys come over t’ my place, like midnight.”

“Midnight it is,” Abruzzi replied, slapping a few
bills down on the table. “Save a couple of hits for your buddies. We may want to try this shit.”

A solitary man gingerly walked up Huntington Avenue in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston. A wintry mix of sleet and snow earlier in the evening had turned the inclined sidewalk into a bobsled course. One of the last Arborway trolleys of the night squealed past him, headed inbound to Park Street. It started to sleet again and the man raised the hood on his sweatshirt over his head.

He crossed the road stepping over the trolley tracks and looked behind him to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Then he made a beeline to one of the darkened doorways of one of the squat brick apartment buildings and slipped inside. He pushed a buzzer and almost immediately was buzzed in. The interior door unlocked and he sprang up two flights of stairs and knocked on one of the doors.

“Is that you, Jimmy?” a muffled voice called out.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Both men were jittery. Jimmy, a hatchet-faced young man with the small edgy movements of a greyhound looked around the dimly lit flat. It was decorated retro sixties with batik on the walls, paper lanterns, and tatami mats.

“This place reminds me of a museum. Did I ever tell
you that?”

“Every time you’re here. What do you have for me?” The other man was heavyset, with an untucked shirt and an unruly beard.

“My usual supplier let me down this week, know what I mean?”

“C’mon. You don’t have any grass?”

“Nada. I’ll be restocked next week.”

“Acid?”

“I haven’t seen the guy who gets it for me. He must’ve moved away. But don’t worry, man, I got something for you.”

“I don’t want other stuff.”

“What I’ve got is brand new.”

“What does it do?”

“It’s supposed to give you some kind of amazing trip. My guy told me it’s totally insane.”

“What’s it called?”

“Man, it’s so new it doesn’t even have a name. No, I’m wrong. This guy Frankie said it’s called Bliss.”

“Have you tried it?”

“I told you before. Drugs don’t agree with me. I just sell them.”

“How much is it?”

“Seventy-five bucks a hit.”

“No effin’ way, Jimmy! I’m not giving you seventy-five bucks for something I never heard of. Take off.”

Jimmy grinned. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s expensive shit. I’m going to give you a deal since it’s new. I’ll give you the first hit free if you buy the second for my ask. And if you think you got ripped off, I’ll take twenty off your next grass buy. How’s that?”

Other books

Hanging Curve by Troy Soos
Not After Everything by Michelle Levy
Trumpet by Jackie Kay
Wren Journeymage by Sherwood Smith
Vengeful Bounty by Jillian Kidd