Staten Island Noir (26 page)

Sunny looked up from the paper. Her mind gradually settled. She knew where she was going to send her toxic waste.

LIGHTHOUSE

BY
S.J. R
OZAN

St. George

It sucked to be him.

Paul huffed and wheezed up Lighthouse Avenue, pumping his bony legs and wiping sweat from his face. His thighs burned and his breath rasped but he knew better than to ask if he could stop. One more uphill block, he figured, then he'd turn and head back down. That would be okay. That would take him past the mark one more time, even though there wasn't much to see from the street. A wall with a couple of doors, a chain-link fence, raggedy bright flags curling in the autumn breeze. The building itself, the little museum, nestled into the hillside just below. Paul didn't really have to see it. He didn't have to do this run at all, truth be told. He'd been there a bunch of times, inside, in that square stone room. He used to go just to stand in the odd cool stillness, just to look at those peculiar statues with all their arms and their fierce eyes. Long time ago, of course, before The Guys came, but the place hadn't changed and he already knew all he had to know about it. Alarm, yes; dog, no. Most important, people in residence: no.

He kept climbing, closing in on the end of the block. Paul liked it here. Lighthouse Hill was easy pickings.

It always had been, back from when he was a kid. The first B&E he pulled, he boosted a laptop from the pink house on Edinboro. Years ago, but he remembered. The planning, the job, his slamming heart. The swag. Everything.

It was good he did, because The Guys liked to hear about it. While he was planning a job they liked to help, and then when it was done they liked to hear the story over and over. Even though they'd been there. They wanted him to compare each job to other jobs so they could point out dumb things he did, and stuff that went right. That used to piss Paul off, how they made him go over everything a million times. Turned out, though, it was pretty worthwhile to listen to them, even though in the beginning he'd wondered what a bunch of stupid aliens knew about running a B&E. He was right about Roman too. Roman really was stupid. He never knew anything about anything. Paul had to be careful when and where he said that, even just thought it, because if Roman was listening he could do that kick thing and give Paul one of those sonuvabitch headaches. There was a way he'd found where he could sometimes think about stuff, sort of sideways and not using words, and The Guys didn't notice. But the thing was, even if Roman did catch Paul thinking about how stupid he was, it didn't matter; it was still true.

Larry and Stoom, though, they were pretty sharp. “You mean, for aliens?” Stoom asked once, with that sneer he always had. Paul thought for sure he was curling his lip, like in a cartoon. That was how he knew they must have lips, because of Stoom's sneer. Stoom was the only one who still used his alien name, and he was the nastiest (but not as pig-eyed mean as Roman). He was always ragging on Paul, telling him what a loser he was.

“Then why'd you pick me?” Paul yelled back once, a long time ago. “I didn't invite you. Why don't you just go the fuck back where you came from?”

Stoom said it was none of his business and then
whammo
, the headache.

But as far as the sharp-for-aliens thing, Stoom and Larry were actually pretty sharp for anybody. It was Larry who suggested Paul do his preliminary reconnaissance (“Casing the joint!” Roman bawled. “Call it casing the joint!”) in sweats, jogging past a place a couple of times, at different hours. That was good for a whole bunch of reasons. For one thing, Larry was right: no one noticed a jogger, except other joggers, who were only interested in sizing you up, figuring if they were better or you were better. If they could take you. Of course, if it came to it, any of them could take Paul and he knew it. Real runners were all muscle and sinew. Paul looked like them, lanky, with short hair and sunken cheeks, but his skinniness was blasted out of what he used to be, drained by junk. As though the needles in his arm had been day by day drawing something out instead of pumping it in.

But he still laced up his running shoes and made himself circle whatever neighborhood it was, every time he was ready to plan a job. Which was pretty much every time the rent was due or the skag ran out. Even if he had the whole job ready to go in his head and didn't need to, like now, he still ran the streets around it. For one thing, The Guys liked that he did it this way, and as awful as the wheezing and the fire in his legs were, the headaches when they got mad were always worse.

Another thing: suiting up and going by a couple times over a couple days stretched out the planning part. That was Paul's favorite. He liked to learn stuff about his marks: who they were, how they lived, what they liked to do.

“Oh, please,” said Stoom, about that. He sounded like he was rolling his eyes, though Paul didn't know if they had eyes, either. He'd asked once, what they looked like, but that turned out to be another thing that was none of his business. “You're a crook,” Stoom went on. “You're a junkie. You're a loser with aliens in your head. All you need to know about people is what they have and when they won't be home.”

“Maybe he wants to write a book about them,” Larry suggested, in a bored and mocking voice. “Maybe he's going to be a big best-selling author.”

That had burned Paul up, because that was exactly what he'd wanted before The Guys showed up. He always had an imagination; he was going to grow up and be a writer.

He never talked about The Guys anymore. He had, at first. It took him awhile to figure out no one else could hear them and everyone thought he was nuts. “There are no aliens, Paul. It's all in your head. You need to get help.” Stuff like that.

Well, that first point, that was completely wrong. Paul used to argue, say obvious things like, “You can't see time either, but no one says it isn't there.” All people did was stare and back away, so he stopped saying anything.

The second point, though, was completely right. That's where The Guys lived: in Paul's head. Where they'd beamed when they came to earth on some kind of scouting mission, Paul didn't know what for. Or from where. They never did tell him why, but Stoom had told him from where. It's just, it was some planet he'd never heard of circling some star he'd never heard of in some galaxy really,
really
far away.
Magribke
was the closest Paul could come to pronouncing it. The Guys laughed at him when he said it that way, but they didn't tell him how to really say it. They didn't talk about their home planet much. Mostly, they just told Paul the Loser what to do.

They first showed up when he was fourteen. He supposed he'd been a peculiar kid—God knows his mom always thought so—but he wasn't a loser then. (“Oh, of course you were,” Stoom said, but Paul knew he was wrong.) It was them, making him do weird shit, distracting him so he started flunking out, giving him those kick headaches—they were the ones who screwed him all up.

And the third point, get help? He'd tried. What did people think, he liked it like this, these bastards giving him orders, making him hurt really bad when he didn't do what they said? When he was sixteen and he knew for sure The Guys weren't leaving, he went looking for someone who could tell him what to do. Somebody at NASA or something. But NASA didn't answer his e-mails and his mom dragged him to a shrink. The shrink said she believed Paul about The Guys, but she didn't. She gave him drugs to take but the drugs made the world all suffocating and gray, and they didn't make The Guys go away, it just made it so Paul couldn't hear them. They were still there, though, and he knew they were getting madder and madder, and when the drugs stopped working he'd be in bad trouble. So he stopped taking the drugs, and The Guys were so pleased he'd done it on his own that they only gave him a little kick headache, not even a whole day long.

What The Guys liked best was Paul breaking into places and boosting stuff, so that's what he started to do.

He didn't live at home anymore, not since he stopped seeing the shrink and taking her drugs. He knew his mom was relieved when he moved out, even though she pretended like she wanted him to stay. He still went home to see her sometimes. She acted all nervous when he was there, which she tried to hide, but he knew. She especially got nervous when he talked to The Guys. He'd asked them to just please shut up while he was with his mom, but of course they didn't. So he still went, but not so often.

He had a basement apartment in St. George. It had bugs and it smelled moldy but it was cheap and no one bothered him and it was easy to get to whatever neighborhood The Guys wanted him to hit next. It was also easy to get to his dealer, and it was a quiet, dark place to shoot up.

The first year after he moved out was the worst of his life. The Guys wouldn't shut up, and they were really into the headaches that whole year. It was part of some experiment they were doing for their planet. Even sometimes when Paul did exactly what they told him, they'd just start kicking. Sometimes he thought they wanted to kick his brains out from the inside.

Sometimes he wished they would.

That year it especially sucked to be him—until he discovered heroin.

Damn, damn, damn, what a find! The only bad thing: he hadn't thought of it years ago. Shooting up wasn't like taking the shrink's drugs. The Guys liked it. A needle of black tar, and everyone just relaxed, got all laid back. Made him laugh the first time, the idea of a bunch of wasted aliens nodding out inside his head. He was a little afraid right after he laughed, but while they were high The Guys didn't care, didn't get mad, were so quiet they might as well not have been there at all.

It was the only time anymore that things were that way, the only time Paul could even pretend it was like it used to be before The Guys came, when he could do what he wanted and not what he was being told to do.

He reached the top of the hill and turned around. His long, loping strides down were such a relief after the pain of fighting his way up that he almost cried. He guessed that was another thing Larry was right about, though. If The Guys didn't make him do it this way, he'd be just another junkie passed out on a stinking mattress with a needle in his arm. He wouldn't be pulling B&E's, he'd be mugging old ladies when he got desperate for a few bucks to buy the next fix. The running kept him in some kind of shape, kept his muscles working, and cleared his head for planning his jobs.

“Well, sure. Glad to help. Because I don't think you really want to go to prison, do you?” Larry asked as Paul passed the bright line of flags again. Paul didn't answer. Larry's questions were never supposed to get answers. “There's no heroin in jail, you know.”

Paul knew, and that was enough to make the idea terrifying. No skag, and for sure The Guys would come with him. How shitty would that be? If he thought they wouldn't, he'd let his ass get picked up in a New York minute, but no such luck and he knew it.

Though on his bad days—and what day wasn't bad, really?—he wondered how long he'd be able to stay out anyway. He had an arrest record, had been fingered twice for B&E's, but he was good (“
We're
good,” Stoom said. “Whose idea was the surgical gloves?”) and the cops were way overworked and no one had gotten hurt either time, so they cut him loose. But lately there was a new problem.

Lately, The Guys had started liking for people to get hurt.

The first time he'd hurt someone it was by accident. Well, all three times it was. But that first time, it was a year ago and fucked if Paul wasn't as scared as she was. He'd just slipped into the garage window of a square brick house in Huguenot, and like he knew it would be, the car was gone; and like he expected, the door to the kitchen had this cheesy old lock. (“Even you can pick that,” Stoom said. Roman whined, “Oh, come on, kick it in,” but Paul hadn't. He didn't have to do what Roman said if one of the others said something different.) The lady who lived there never came home before noon on Tuesdays. Paul wondered where she went, to the gym, to a class or something, and if it was a class, what did she like to learn about? The Guys jeered at that but no one kicked him, and he jiggled the credit card down the doorjamb and got in.

The girl at the kitchen counter dropped the coffee pot and screamed.

Paul almost pissed himself. He'd never seen her before. She didn't live there. Curly brown hair, brown eyes, she looked like the lady, maybe a sister or something, maybe visiting, shit, what did it matter? Good thing he was wearing the ski mask. He backed toward the door, was trying to run but she threw a plate, brained him, and he went down, slipping in all that spilled coffee. He thrashed around trying to get up and she whacked at him with the broom, so he had to grab it and pull at it and she wouldn't let go. He yanked really hard and she slipped too, went down with a thud, and then gave a loud moan and a lot of, “Ow-ow-ow!” Rolling around on the floor clutching her arm. Paul sped back through the window and ran down the street, ripping the mask and gloves off as he went, shoving them into a dumpster behind the bagel place, where he stopped and threw up.

As he was wiping his mouth he realized with a chill that The Guys were laughing.

Not at him; they did that all the time and he was used to it. But with each other, like he and his buddies used to (when he was a kid and had buddies) when they'd ring old lady Miller's doorbell and run away, or when they'd boost a couple of chocolate bars from Rifkin's. It wasn't the thing, the event itself: it was the rush. That's why they'd done it, and laughed like hell afterward, from the relief of not getting caught, and the rush. That's the kind of laughing The Guys were doing now.

“Glad you thought that was funny,” he said, straightening up. “You like it that she clobbered me, huh?”