The Death of Wendell Mackey (12 page)

The city had changed since his childhood. He remembered more people being out on the streets back then; or at least it would have seemed that way to a little boy, easily swallowed in crowds both small and large. But during the afternoon hours there used to be pedestrians. It was sparser now, perhaps due to the high temperature, or perhaps an indicator of the city’s decline. Wendell saw plumbers across the street carrying bundles of copper pipes into a basement. There was a businessman, clearly lost and proving it by staring dumbly up at the buildings, his pinstripe suit and leather briefcase as conspicuous and awkward in this neighborhood as a penguin in a sewer. And there was a bag lady, pushing her cart of empty soda cans down the sidewalk. This was what Wendell remembered about his old neighborhood: bag ladies, shifty-eyed youths concealing things in their jackets, angry shopkeepers complaining about pickpockets, the man in the sandwich board with the bright red lettering railing about brimstone and the Four Horsemen. They were all odd in their own way, but somehow appropriate in context. And there were more of them back then, giving the neighborhood a bustle, a hum. Now it was different, as if the city had given up, the obvious signs of decline dead and forgotten, but leaving a legacy like moss on a tree stump. There had been no improvement on the old. New storefronts and parking meters, yes, but the new neighborhood just felt smaller, and tired.

Wendell looked to the sky, the sun keeping watch overhead. An oblong v-shape of geese honked and headed west, out from the buildings, and Wendell imagined that place outside of the city, that stretch of low hills, the unchoked air, and hoped the geese were going there. On the sidewalk next to the apartment’s steps sat two obese men in folding chairs, the checker board between them covered in a pile of pistachio shells. An unopened bag sat next to one of the men’s chairs. Wendell cinched the trench coat tighter with its belt and hopped down the building’s front steps.

At the nearest intersection a car hit its brakes and its horn as it almost hit a woman jaywalking. The two fat men stood up from their chairs and turned towards the intersection, and Wendell crouched down, grabbed the unopened bag of pistachios, and walked in the other direction. He crossed the street, found an alley between a pawn shop and a bail bondsman’s office, and sat behind a dumpster, shoveling pistachios into his mouth. Some he hastily shucked first; others went in shell and all. The bag was empty in minutes, so he tore it open and licked the salt from the plastic. He sat on the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, satisfied to get something to stay in his stomach. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start.

The afternoon sun peeked at him from behind a building, and Wendell got up, unsure of where to go next to find more food. Stealing was dangerous, and could only work a few times. There were soup kitchens, an appealing option, but he feared they would insist he make himself “comfortable,” which meant removing his coat and gloves. He could beg for money, scratch with a pencil the words “Hungry Need Food” on a piece of cardboard and sit on the street corner, but that would expose him to everyone. To
them
, if they were in the city, which, he had to assume, they were. He saw a dog, farther down the alley, licking the outside of a garbage bag. It turned to sniff around the brick alley wall and the piles of papers littering the ground, then went back to its bag. Like the dog, Wendell would have to scavenge, steal when necessary, and search the garbage bags outside of restaurants and delis. He would become an animal.

Already halfway there
, he thought, scratching his back up and down the alley wall. He got to his feet and the dog looked up at him, then turned down the alley and trotted away. Wendell left the shadows of the alley and went back to the sidewalk, seeing—

No.

—him, across the street. It was Drake, handing out his flyers to anyone passing by.

The new sandwich board guy
, Wendell thought.

Two men passed, without even glancing at Drake, and Wendell saw him yell at them, catching something about the two men “being watched,” and about how their overlords wouldn’t catch him. He fumed, and Wendell sucked himself to the brick of the bail bondsman’s office. A car alarm sounded down the street, and as if a cue to Drake, his head shot up and he looked across the street, where he saw Wendell. His frown changed, but into a grimace or a smile Wendell didn’t know. Drake pointed across the street at him, talking to himself, and then raising his voice so Wendell could hear.

“I know who you are, Mr. Wendell,” he yelled. A few people in storefronts turned to look. Drake started walking across the street. “I’ll let ‘em know. I’ll let
everyone
know!” A car screeched to a halt in front of Drake, its horn screaming.

“Get the hell outta my way!” Drake yelled, pounding on the car’s hood.

Wendell slipped back into the alley and headed down it.

“You and me are gonna settle,” he heard Drake yell behind him, but by now Wendell was running, exiting the other end of the alley onto Browning Street, between an empty sandwich shop and a mattress store. He turned right, slowing to a brisk walk, holding the coat’s belt tightly. Browning Street was busier, and there were cops out, two of them standing outside of their cruiser, talking to a shopkeeper across the street. Wendell looked behind him, saw no Drake, and kept walking towards the next intersection. Crossing it, he continued on, still looking over his shoulder.

The gun felt heavy in his pocket.

Big mistake
, Wendell thought.
Shouldn’t have brought it out with me. I wasn’t gonna use it anyway
. Still, it felt good, knowing it was there, as a last resort.

His finger reached into his pocket and touched the butt of the gun.

“Just in case,” he whispered.

Off in the distance he heard his name. Still Drake. Still on his tail. Wendell quickened his step, walked another block, and stopped next to a display of flowers outside of a florist. He hid behind the carnations, peering back down the street. There he was, outside of the alleyway where Wendell had entered Browning Street. Instead of the flyers, there was something else in his hand, large and red. Wendell saw it perfectly, even from that distance.

A brick.

Drake was still talking to himself, or yelling, Wendell assumed, as people around Drake were turning and staring at him nervously and hurrying away.

When he comes…

Wendell stepped out from the carnations.

…you won’t need the gun.

Drake turned, and from two blocks away caught Wendell with his eyes. He pointed with the brick, his features frenzied, his shoulders rising and making his neck disappear. Wendell began to back up. A truck drove in front of his view, and as it passed Drake looked to be a block closer and closing. A woman on a cell phone and oblivious to the situation stood in Drake’s way. Without breaking his stride, Drake shoved her to the ground.

Wendell kept backing up, almost tripping on a loose piece of pavement.

And then the cops were on Drake, one grabbing at his shoulders as the other pulled the brick from his hands. The woman, dazed, was being helped up by a few pedestrians. But Drake kept looking at Wendell as they dragged him to the ground, wrenching his arms behind him and fitting a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. This was Wendell’s chance. He turned, walking at first, and hit the closest alley where he broke into a run. He navigated between dumpsters choking off the alley and dodged a man taking a bag of garbage out a back door. He broke out the other side, saw the apartment building to his right, saw a stop in the traffic, and ran across the street, stopping at a newspaper kiosk. No one was behind him.

Shadows ran longer. A red-orange sun reflected off the backs of street signs. The afternoon was disappearing.

Down the street near the apartment building, Wendell saw two city workers picking up orange traffic cones, putting them back into their van, and then entering an alley. Curious, agitated, afraid, he watched them and began to approach because he
knew
it was there—

But it wasn’t me.

—knew that they were cleaning up the scene, that bloody scene that Drake had described. But Wendell couldn’t remember it. He wasn’t there.

“Just some poor guy, just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Wendell whispered, walking towards the alley. “That’s where he bought it…”

He
was
there. The picture was fuzzy, but it would clear.

“But I don’t remember,” he said.

Wendell got closer; the workers didn’t notice. A third man rolled up yellow police tape, stuffing it into a garbage bag. The ground was wet, and little streams of water ran out of the alley and into a storm drain. Wendell reached the workers, and saw that the water came from a hose winding out of an open door in the alley. One of the workers was spraying at a series of red stains like a giant Rorschach blot on the ground. Another worker smoked a cigarette and leaned against an alley wall.

I don’t recognize this.

The worker wrapping up the police tape turned to Wendell and smiled. “They had to bring two body bags,” he said. “Buncha pieces. Cop barfed over in the corner. I’d hate to be the CSI guys on this one.”

“Who did it?” Wendell asked.

“Drug runners, probably. For a Mexican cartel, like the Zetas or something. They’ve been working their way north for years. Those guys use chainsaws, feed people to dogs, lop heads off, nasty stuff. If not them, then…”

“Wolf man?” said the man smoking. He chuckled, as did his associates.

No, it didn’t look familiar. After Wendell escaped, there had been that shape, darker than the darkness, standing in his way, and there were walls, damp walls, but it felt different. It had to be different.

Still, it could have been him. Probably was. It made sense. The blood stains, his hands, his urges. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, and saw his mother in the rocking chair, facing the wall. And then he saw Scotia and Thane, entering his room at the institution, Thane pushing that cart…

“Cops talk to you yesterday?” asked the worker with the police tape.

“What?” said Wendell.

“When everybody was here. Cops talk to you? If you know something, you should talk to them.”

“No. I mean, I wasn’t here.”

“Well, stick around, and you can talk to them.” The man nodded towards an unmarked car parking across the street. Two men in dark suits got out.

Maybe Drake was right.

“Plainclothes cops or detectives or some crime taskforce thing,” said the man.

Both men began talking on cell phones as they crossed the street.

“But I wasn’t here.” Wendell began to walk away.

Don’t look back
, he thought,
do not look. Then they’ll look and see you look and get curious and they’ll follow. Back to the apartment, up the stairs. They’ll note your apartment number and it’ll all be over
. Wendell crossed the street over to the next block, quickened his pace as he neared the apartment’s front steps, and turned for a quick glance back. The two men in suits were still talking on their phones, their backs turned to Wendell.

Drake was in his head. They weren’t cops, he thought. Or if they were, they were hired by his pursuers.

No, it’s okay. It’s fine. They don’t know me.

The two obese men were still out front on their folding chairs. The pistachio shells still made a pile on their checker board. They stared up at Wendell as he passed, then turned back to the street. Wendell hurried up the stairs and through the front doors.

Failure. Nothing but a few pistachios.

And they weren’t sitting well in his gut. But nothing would.

There was still some semblance of cleanliness in the foyer, an attempt at a healthy face for a rotting building. The landlord had laid new tile, a bargain basement selection, but one that brought some light hues into a dark space. Plastic plants sat in faux ceramic plastic pots near the doors, and two of the paint-by-number seascape paintings sold in the back aisles of any big box store flanked the elevator. But it all ended at the stairs, where the cheap red carpeting began, dark enough to hide years of stains, but cheap enough not to withstand the years of people treading up and down. The first step had at its edge an uneven line of worn away carpet, where the gray concrete beneath was showing through like some teratoid grimace. Four steps up and set back fifteen feet was a steel door, leading to the concrete nakedness of the stairwell. Wendell, hesitant to encounter someone in the elevator, opted for the stairs. Behind him was the street noise, decreasing; in front only his muffled footfalls.

Climbing the stairs, Wendell thought of his father, those years ago, snaking their couch up each level with the help of the landlord at the time, a sweaty and mustachioed man with an incomprehensible Eastern European last name. Two smiles, one on each end of the couch, one faked for the sake of his son.

He really tried.