Chapter 64
Donnie Seaky Story
The man's name was Donnie Seaky, fucking a woman who wasn’t his wife, thrashing her on the hotel mattress, pounding downtown thunderous like a worker on the clock. The woman- a whore known as Gloria- naked, angry slop, head smash against the headboard, taking the cranial abuse with a mixture of indifference and nonchalance. Tom watched from the window, shoes in the dirt, his camera click in time between thrusts, wanting for a ginger ale, wondering if his favorite soda girl would be working to pull on the pump and pout like she do. He loved the way-
Donnie Seaky threw the hotel chair out the hotel window, shattering glass above Tom’s head, cutting his face jagged nasty while asymmetrical shards collected on his hat brim. Seaky naked- his member at attention and still dripping with affection- flying to the open window- and in the split of the instant Tom understand old.
He didn’t always feel this way: at one time, years gone by, he had been invisible: cat lapping at a sloe-gin fizz. He could take pictures in broad daylight and not draw an eye, he could slip into a building without waking the doorman. But time had worked him over with the back of its hand, his body sore, his mind a library with all the books on the high shelf. And today this dumb muscled kid, this adulterous Donnie Seaky- no more than thirty years- had spotted him through the window, figured him out and tried to kill him in the time it takes to think of ginger ale.
Atari was slowing, maybe, time to buy that bakery, but right now it’s time to stay alive: cheating husbands fight hard.
Glenda Seaky, country girl in a summer dress, freckles on her droop cheeks, begging with her eyes for Tom to take her right there on his desk, begging with her mouth for him to follow her husband Donald Junior on the way to work, to confirm her worst fears and tell her whether the man she loved had his fingers in anybody else’s pie. Tom, desperate for cash, nodding, “yes, I will do this... I will find out... I will let you know,” wearing his funeral face, playing Johnny Honesty for money.
Maybe whore is a two-way street.
Tom dropped the camera in the mulch and Seaky saw it fall, ran past the proof in pursuit of Atari, which meant trouble: Donnie angry/mad enough to want blood. Tom was not in the mood to donate.
And so they were across the parking lot of the pastel Packard Motel, Seaky sic upon Atari like an august dog, bare feet bunching up the green spring grass, onto the scratch and blister heat of the cracked pavement, where his hardened heels begin to bleed.
He was a construction guy, this Donald, according to his wife, and ‘a good man but I think he takes his chances.’ It was her polite way of calling him a pussy bear. Atari, running, felt his lungs try to escape through his mouth. His brain- charred- his synapses misfiring, seeing in his mind’s eye a beautiful nurse named Diane, from long ago, from his days in med school, handing him a chart and a secret smile, her eyes full of moon, telling his heart to beat. “This way, Dr. Atari...”
Tom turning at the corner, making the sign of the cross, praying to God for victory, praying not to go to the gun and end another life. Without looking back he knew Don was more than serious: he could hear him pounding out every step, knew he wasn’t gonna stop to think when he finally got Atari in between his angry knuckles.
On the boulevard Tom ducked into a candy store where they don’t let naked men. Take a breath now, think of sugar...
Donnie at the door, yank wide, six foot of fury in his finest first birthday suit. Tom dashed and Donnie followed, his flaccid cock flopping wild, slapping the bag of candy from a little girl’s hands, spilling her cherry delights to the floor. Her jaw hung open, broken. No comment on the penis.
Tom, overturning glass jars of red hots- shatter- lemon sours- glinx- wild blueberry juju abba zabba slo-poke caramel molasses jelly slice- the floor of the sweet shop a minefield- but the bad boy kept coming.
Atari busted out the back way, into the train yard, spitting distance from the church, Donnie after fast, his feet full of sweets and shatters, lightly salted with blood.
“You catch me fucking!”
Words don’t mean a thing.
Tom, tumble on the tressle, falling to his knees, just a few hundred yards from the holy glow of St. Jude’s, ready to accommodate, prepared to atone.
“Your wife hired me... I won’t say a word!”
In the old days Atari would have put a bullet in the boy’s skull, give him something good to think about. But today, for reasons he could not yet understand, he was ready to die before taking a life. Maybe it was time.
Donnie, eager to destroy, stepped onto the tracks as the train came immediate, both men deaf to all but the howl of their overworked hearts. The locomotive struck the construction worker and it was no contest: Seaky was obliterated on schedule, his atoms scattering even among the overgrown grass.
Tom waited in the dirt after the train plowed out of town, feeling the throbbing in his hip, holding out hope for a happy ending, the minor of a punchline.
All he got was a train whistle in the distance. And he knew that it was true.
He stood up, dusty- limping- older than eight minutes ago, decided to go to church, to pray for forgiveness, to humbly beg for guidance.
He wound up getting a ginger ale, watching the girl pour.
.
Chapter 14
Good Friday
Joan, as police woman, head down, fingers on the keyboard, working her magic, singing her song, booking Tom casual in the station house on a Friday morning hotter than ketchup. Atari sits furious in the chair beside, left hand cuffed to the desk drawer, watching her work- female concentrate in blue uniform- while she graced his ears with the music of her voice, making each word just what he needed to hear, like a pipeline to God, but better. You wouldn’t understand.
She talked while she typed: liquid, lyrical over the staccato tick of the typewriter, smiling to herself: “Aggravated assault with a motor vehicle, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of an illegal firearm, unlawful concealment, criminal mischief, destruction of private property, destruction of government property, harassment, resisting arrest, gross indecency and reckless driving.”
Cigarette dangle from her sculpted lips: “Slow night, Atari?"
He wrote the perfect wise-ass comeback but her eyes locked onto his, bulldozed their way into his soul and suddenly Tom Atari was speechless.
Sgt. Joan de Bondi, of the anonymous midnight phone call, brown eyes boiling over like a fist holding flowers, impossibly beautiful, husband and three kids at home wondering why Mommy couldn’t be there baking cookies. The kids couldn’t understand why she had to wear that badge or fight these fires, couldn’t comprehend that the job was more than a career: it was a calling. Tom understood... he could see it in her eyes, one of the reasons why he liked her.
Detective Bobby Jones limped over to her desk, his leg still recovering from the break. He held a steep stack of papers in his hand, like a prize, his groin at her face: “You want to get on top of these?”
Joan, eyes locked on Tom's, smiled sly: “Do your own fucking typing,” and Bobby hobbled back to his desk to eat paper.
Even at ten AM the station house was teeming with all-stars- cops and criminals- processing, making plea-bargain with green bills, testing the new bureaucracy while officers with pimples babysat gnarly armed robbers, all of them learning the system. The heat of the spring wasn't helping. Joan took a sip of green tea.
“How stupid can you get?”
“You talking about me or Jones?"
She blew the hair out of her eyes: “When it comes to stupid I always mean you.”
“I was there for a reason.”
“I figured. Must have been a good reason, right.”
Tom smiled, black eye getting blacker, fat lip going fatter: “The best. I was there to bring in the Lipstick Killer.”
Joan paused. “At the Governor’s mansion. During a private party.”
Atari watched her, held by her spell, and suddenly lost the will to argue.
“Yeah...”
“If the professionals can’t catch this guy you don’t have a shot. Wake up, Tom- you’re washed out. You’re old. And you’re ugly.”
A rookie cop led a prostitute to his desk for booking, her perfume stinking the station house pretty.
Tom smiled. “I’ll never give up.”
She sighed, smarter than he would ever be. “You’re really going to take on the whole world? By yourself? The Mayor and the Governor- big Hollywood? Big Oil? The cults and the corporations? You’ll die behind bars if they don’t kill you first.”
“I could use you on my team.” Atari, taking chances.
“Sorry,” while she typed, “I got my hands full.”
He sat back in the green vinyl chair, taking her in, her leg bobbing musical while she formed chords of words against the pulp of the paper, her uniform hugging her chest and calves warm.
“I’ll have you anytime.”
She looked up, off-guard, open, heart visible and soul sublime. He remembered the look, blessing his instincts- she was real life, someone he could trust. The instant split quick- he watched her become a cop again as she rolled her eyes slow. “Good to know.”
Tom sat up in his chair. “Now be a doll and point me to the buffet.”
Joan smiled, laughing in a major key, Tom loving her sound, when somebody shouted: “Atari!”
Across the room Brendan Nichols stood up, bearded and grimed, Irish-angry, a junk dealer, just arrested, his right hand cuffed to the radiator. It had been about a year since he and Tom had tangled, a year since Nichols vowed obliteration for Tom flushing his dope down the ladies room toilet at the bus depot.
Brendan seemed to remember.
He took the gun from the young officer’s holster, slid it out smooth while the kid was reading a Superman comic.
Nichols, howling as he fired the bullet at Tom’s skull.
Atari ducked, missing the shot by a fingernail while the crowd found linoleum.
He tried to run but his arm was cuffed.
He reached for his gun but it had been confiscated.
Officer Boy dropped his comic, leaping to his feet to get the gun but Nichols bashed his face with the butt, breaking the kid's nose and squashing one of his eyeballs, which puddled out his face like yesterday's custard. Live and learn most likely.
Tom was ready for Nichols' next shot, the death blow, mentally preparing himself for the sting and the darkness of what was to come, what it means to be somewhere else, somewhere no one wants to go. He searched himself frantic for meaning or worth. He found nothing.
That’s when Joan stood up from her desk, turned around and slid the chair back, fired her weapon easy, one shot, blowing a hole in Brendan’s chest so wide that his heart literally tumbled out and fell to the precinct floor. A full second passed before his body began to pump blood out the wound, and when it came, the spray was so hilarious that even he had to laugh, a sickening smile spreading across his bulldog cheeks before he took his forward dive into infinity.
His heart sat on the black and white tile beside his outstretched hand, just inches out of reach.
Two officers rushed over to grab the gun and fit the rookie for his eye patch. Tom, on his knees beside Joan’s desk, chained hand dangling from the open drawer, looking up at her radiant beauty, her stunning figure- gun still smoking- and he had to smile when he realized he was still alive and how easy she made it all look.
Atari, grinning: “You saved my life.”
She holstered her weapon, pulling her hair back behind her face, exhaling and lowering her head solemn.
“I’m sorry.”
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