Pernicious (32 page)

         
Tasha pulled him to her and hugged him. “Derrick,” releasing him, “do you think I’m mean?”

         
Derrick studied the floor before looking up at her. “Honestly?”

         
Tasha braced herself. “Honestly.”

         
“Sometimes. When you tell Daddy to get out you hurt his feelings. Mine, too.”

         
A long moment, she simply stared at her son, not sure how to respond. “I guess I could work on that a bit.”

         
“Momma, did you know Daddy can talk like Daffy Duck?”

         
“Hey, why don’t we go to the pet store and buy you an aquarium and fish to put in it?”

         
“A pet!”

         
“Yes,” Tasha said. “Every boy needs a pet. A pet goldfish.”

                                     
Chapter 16

         
Perry taped a fifty-dollar bill onto the mirror, along with a note that said she had to leave to take care of business. Neal was on the floor, beside the bed, in a deep sleep, in the same spot where a few hours before Perry had straddled him until he’d screamed, “I can’t take it anymore!”
      

         
The man was exhausted. She, however, could not afford to lie around all day; she had things to do. She showered, put on an orange jogging suit and orange tennis shoes, and hit the road. In her Cadillac; she didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention.

         
Two hours later, she was in Dawson, Arkansas, her hometown. She drove directly to the home of Johnny Drew, her first cousin, whom everyone in Dawson called JD. Though Perry knew where Johnny lived, she had never once visited him.

         
Now she was knocking hard against the door of his double-wide trailer. A severely malnourished beagle with a large tick imbedded above its left eye crawled out from under the trailer and barked at her.

         
“What you want?” A man’s voice from within.

         
“Johnny Drew,” Perry said.

         
“You got the wrong house. Ain’t no Johnny Drew here!”

         
Perry knocked again. “JD, open the door! It’s me, your cousin Perry.”

         
The door opened. Johnny, sporting a dirty pair of Hanes, squinted at her suspiciously.

         
Perry studied his face. Oily, wrinkled, one eye more bloodshot than the other, bags underneath both. Early African American Wino, Perry thought.

         
Johnny, searching his memory, scratched his head, sending dandruff aloft.

         
“Perry?” he said. “You…uh…you…” He slapped his head, disturbing more dandruff. “You…”

         
“Doreen’s daughter.”

         
“Yeah, that’s it.” He reached out his arms. “Kinfolk. Give me a hug.”

         
“Johnny, I don’t do hugs.”

         
Johnny frowned and scratched his stubbly chin. “You the stuck-up one. The one with all the money. Come in, if you don’t mind.”

         
Inside was filthy and disorderly, just as she’d expected. A caustic odor, reeking of wet feet and regurgitated wine, cleared her sinuses.

         
Dirty clothes, pizza boxes, and empty Wild Irish Rose bottles were strewn throughout the living room. A big-screen television, cluttered with trash on top, was showing the Jerry Springer Show. A skinny white woman lay facedown on the floor, wearing only pink panties, also filthy.

         
Johnny slapped the woman on the buttocks. “Get outta here! I got company.”

         
The woman struggled to her feet, walked into a wall, said “Ooops!” and staggered down the hallway. Perry heard a loud crash and wondered had the woman fallen out of a window.

         
“Have a seat,” Johnny said.

         
Reluctantly, Perry sat on the vinyl couch.

         
Johnny sat next to her. “You ain’t here for nothing--what you want from me?”

         
“I need to buy a few things.”

         
“What?”

         
Perry reached inside her jogging suit, pulled out a paper bag and handed it to him.

         
Johnny looked into it. “You need bullets?”

         
“No, I need a gun just like that one. Exactly like that one.” Johnny reached into the bag. “No!” Perry snapped. “Don’t touch it! Can you get me one?”

         
“I might know someone. It’s gonna cost plenty.”

         
“How much?”

         
“A thousand.”

         
“Okay.”

         
“Maybe more.”

         
“Hmmph!” Perry snorted. “I heard you were kind to family.”

         
“I am to the ones who let me hug em.”

         
“If it means that damn much to you, I’ll hug you.”

         
He shook his head. “Nope. You didn’t wanna at first,
 
forget it.”

         
“Another thing. I’m having trouble sleeping. A friend told me flunitrazepam cures insomnia. Can you get that, too?”

         
“Floozy-who? What the hell is that?”

         
“A drug.”

         
“Never heard of it. I can get you ludes, uppers, downers, painkillers.”

         
“It’s also called Rohypnol.”

         
“Roofies? The date-rape drug?”

         
“Uh…yes.”

         
JD laughed, a hearty hee hee. Perry noticed the lone tooth in his mouth, upper, dead center, rotten.

         
“Why didn’t you say that at first? That’s my old lady’s drug of choice. Lift the cushion you sitting on.”

         
Perry stood up and raised the cushion. Among trash was a pre-sealed bubble pack. Four of the six bubbles were burst, only two pills left.

         
“If you haven’t tried those before, you better take half of one. Liz, my old lady, she’s hooked on that shit. You saw her, a fucking zombie.”

         
“How much?”

         
“Fifty dollars a pill. Includes shipping and delivery. They don’t even make em here, you know.”

         
Perry reached into her sock and handed him two fifty-dollar bills. “Okay. Let’s do the other. I’ve got to get back to Little Rock.”

         
“Yeah, okay. Let me throw on some clothes.”

         
Later, at the car, Johnny said, “Can I drive?”

         
“Have you been drinking?”

         
“Not yet.”

         
Perry tossed him the keys. “Don’t wreck my car!”

         
Johnny drove straight to Porter’s Liquor Store and pulled up to the drive-in window.

         
The cashier stuck his head out and Johnny said, “Give me a thirty-pack of Busch Light, a gallon of Hennessy, a half gallon of Freiz, a pint of ten-year-old Old Charter and three packs of Salem Lights. Aw yeah, and two packs of Juicy Fruit.”

         
When the cashier handed over the bags and said the price came to one hundred and ninety-two dollars and fifty cents, Johnny turned to Perry: “Pay the man.”

         
Perry slapped two bills into Johnny’s hand. Johnny paid the man and pocketed the change.

         
“That’s my change,” Perry said.

         
“Finder’s fee.”

         
“You haven’t found shit yet, Johnny, but a free drink! Don’t think you’re going to keep bullshitting me, you hear?”

         
Johnny responded by unscrewing the Hennessy bottle while steering with a knee, held it overhead and guzzled, the amber liquid running down his chin. He burped loudly. “It’s coming.”

         
Johnny steered the Cadillac down a dirt road and stopped in front of a shotgun house where mostly men and a few women loitered on the porch and in the front yard.

         
“I’ll be right back,” he said, exiting the car.

         
Perry heard someone say, “Who that with you, JD?”
 
When Johnny replied “Go see,” she locked the doors.
   
Three men strolled over, staring at her as if she were an exotic bird.

         
Perry eased her right hand into an Isotoner glove.

         
“What’s your name?” asked one of the men, pressing his inebriated face against the windshield.

         
Perry slid her hand into the paper bag.

         
One man, shirtless, tapped on the driver’s-side window. “Hey, sugar, is JD your man?”

         
He waited for Perry to respond. She didn’t.

         
“You too pretty to talk to me, huh? Look at this.” He wiggled his tongue at her and licked the glass, leaving a long saliva streak. “Can JD do that? Huh?”