Jamie's mood didn't leave him with much of an appetite anyway. Instead, he rolled himself a small joint from Hugh's gift bag that he hoped would help his attitude and give him enough of the munchies to choke down his mother's cold shepherd's pie.
For a few weeks, he suffered mild paranoia whenever his phone rang. His gut clenched between answering and getting the address. He dreaded having to go back to Trezza's. After some time passed, so did his worries.
Four months later, Jamie was at the Model, like always, waiting on the next delivery. The phone chimed on the bar. "Where to, Hugh?"
"22 Cabot Street. Roxbury."
Jamie closed his eyes, took a shallow breath as the old fear crept back into his belly. "Aw, hell no, Hugh…" Jamie didn't want to whine, but he heard his voice squeak anyway.
"22 Cabot Street. Roxbury."
"C'mon, can't you…? Jamie cut the complaint short. Somewhere irrational, he hoped that it was another apartment. There was more than one in that shithole,
"Apartment 2-E." The phone disconnected.
The fear that washed over him when he walked out the door suddenly took a 180-degree turn into anger. Anger at his own cowardice, his weakness. Jamie threw his phone down onto the concrete. The plastic shattered and Jamie felt a small release. At least Hugh would have to buy him a new phone. That'll teach the prick to send him to Trezza's again.
Jamie rode as fast as he could to the address and ran up the stairs. The whole ride across town, Jamie convinced himself that it was better this way. Facing his fears, and all that Dr. Phil shit.
Hell, who was he kidding. He was scared shitless.
Jamie could smell it from the other end of the hallway. At first, he thought it must have been coming from somewhere else. The stench of diapers and pizza (that was all he could relate it to) was definitely coming from apartment 2-E. A quick edit of slasher films projected through Jamie's imagination.
The door opened wide this time. Jamie couldn't see anyone inside. Then he looked down.
A kid, no older than five, stood there, smiling up at him.
His Spongebob pajamas looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. Jamie remembered Jen and her eye. The kid looked just like her, but the nose was Trezza's. Trezza had the type of nose that had obviously taken a few punches over the years.
So had the kid's.
Looking at the child flooded Jamie with unwanted memories of his old man and his own eager willingness to lash out. Staring at the boy's disfigured nose made the old scars on the back of Jamie's legs burn as though the leather had just whipped across them. He smoldered with an anger he'd thought long dead when the kid took Jamie's fingers and led him inside.
"Is your Daddy home?" Jamie felt like an asshole for even asking. For Christ's sake, he was there to sell Daddy drugs. In the months since Jamie had been there, the apartment had gone to the dogs. The kid pulled Jamie to the coffee table and opened a Cohiba box. For a second, Jamie thought the kid was offering him a cigar.
He wasn't.
A handful of unopened disposable hypodermics, matches, a spoon and packets of heroin sat in the box.
Jesus Fuck, the kid was offering him a hit.
He'd probably seen Daddy do it so many times that he'd adopted the gesture.
"Uh, no thanks," Jamie said through numb lips. From watching you Dad. I learned it from watching you. Jamie remembered the old anti-drug campaign and would have laughed if he wasn't so fucking horrified.
A toilet flushed and out walked Trezza. He'd dropped at least thirty pounds (which only meant that he still outweighed Jamie by about fifty), and looked…
Unwashed was the only word that came into Jamie's mind.
Trezza stopped buckling his belt when he saw what was happening at his stash. His eyes went wide and he charged Jamie like an enraged pitbull, driving him into the wall and knocking his wind out.
"The fuck you doing in my house? The fuck you doing with my box?" he screamed. Trezza's eyes were wild, darting all over Jamie, pupils burned down to fiery pinpricks.
"Nothing," Jamie wheezed, his lungs spasming.
"Who the fuck are you?" Trezza reached into his back pocket and pulled a box cutter. He flicked his thumb, opening the blade with a click. He pressed the tip to Jamie's throat. "Answer me!" Again, Trezza failed to recognize Jamie. This time however, Jamie wished he did.
"De-delivery," Jamie said hoarsely.
Don't let me pee. Please don't let me pee.
A small light of memory-either of Jamie or of the fact that he'd called for some weed-shone on Trezza's furious expression. "Asshole," was all Trezza said before he bashed Jamie on the nose with the bottom of his fist.
Blood gushed from Jamie's nostrils, filled his sinuses as he crumpled to the floor. "Don't ever let me see you in my house again." He turned to the kid. "And what the fuck are you doing?"
The kid was crying, pleading to Trezza in panicked Spanish. Jamie didn't understand anything the kid was saying except for "Papi"
Trezza brutally slapped his child, knocking him to the floor. The kid wailed, terrified and hurt, the blood from his busted lip seeping into the sleeve of his Spongebob pee-jays.
"Quit it!" Trezza raised his hand again and the boy scrambled under the coffee table, away from his father's fists. The kid balled up, his cries drawn into whimpers.
Trezza rifled Jamie's bag, looking at the packets. Taking what he wanted, he threw the backpack at Jamie, lifted him by the shirt and tossed him into the hallway. Trezza threw a wad of crumpled bills at Jamie's feet and slammed the door. Jamie then heard more yelling in Spanish. Trezza's voice, harsh and abusive. Jen's pleading. Jamie heard flesh smacking and more sobbing.
Then an infant's weak cries joined the din.
Jamie half-crawled, half-fell down the stairs as he fought to escape as fast as he could.
"Jamie, please… What's wrong?" Jamie's mother hovered at the top of the stairs. She'd heard Jamie when he came in. Probably because when he did, he'd lost control and thrown his bike across the room. It landed on with a crash that could probably be heard downtown, much less upstairs. His mother started crying when she heard the tears in Jamie's voice.
"Leave me alone, Ma!" Jamie couldn't stop crying. His nose wouldn't stop bleeding. It wouldn't stop. None of it would stop.
"Please, Jamie," she sobbed. "I can't help you. I can't come down there."
"Just go away, please." Jamie curled up on the musty carpet. Everything hurt.
Then his mother said, "I miss your Dad, too."
Jamie let her think that.
"You get the license number?" Hugh gave him the once-over as Jamie held ice against his swollen nose. Hugh, with his usual style, expressed slightly more sympathy than a brick.
Jamie shook his head. He would have said "no", but he was trying to avoid any words using the letter N. The sound sent bolts of pain into Jamie's nasal cavities. "Guy bumped me and jetted." The explanation worked for two reasons, since Jamie didn't have to come up with a second excuse to explain the busted phone.
"Doesn't look like you need stitches." Hugh was looking at the cut on the back of Jamie's head. Jamie guessed that he'd suffered it while tumbling down the stairs. He heard Hugh sigh with relief. Probably less in concern over Jamie than at the decreasing possibility that he'd have to foot another hospital bill. "You sure you don't want to get checked out? You might have internal injuries."
Jamie shook his head carefully, otherwise his nose might start leaking again. "I fell odd my head." Jeez, talking was difficult.
Hugh sighed, "Good. I mean…"
Jamie waved off Hugh's apology. "Weh he calls, I wah Drebba's delibbery."
"Huh?"
Jamie repeated himself, as best he could.
Hugh shrugged. "I'm not understanding you."