“No, John…”
“Fuck you, bitch. All you want are the drugs!”
“John, stop.” I try to calm him, but he is on a roll, frenzied, throwing everything from his briefcase on the floor and up against the walls. He picks me up, throws me across the room. I slam into the motel room door and land on the broken glass.
“Owwww!” Blood gushes from the bottom of my foot. A large piece of the pipe is sticking out of the tender part of my arch.
Bang, bang, bang! “Security! Open the door!” Voices barrel through the walls.
I hobble over to the bed to tend to my foot.
Bang, bang, bang!
John’s eyes bug out, and he jumps up nearly out of his skin, pulls on his pants, and throws me a towel from the bathroom. “Here. Wrap that up,” he whispers, picking up the scattered glass.
“Yeah. Just a minute. Hey, who is it?” He slides the chain off the door and opens it just a crack. It is the two men in tan jackets we saw in the parking lot.
They push the door open farther, flashing badges and barring it from closing. “We’d like to ask you to come with us, sir. Neighbors are complaining that there’s a loud argument in here.” They scan the room, looking at the broken, silvery shards covering the floor, and make note of the bloody towel pressed against my foot. John turns his back to them and throws me a threatening look.
“I, I cut myself on some glass. It was an accident,” I lie, afraid that if I don’t John will really hurt me, as his look suggests.
“Shut up!” John snarls at me under his breath, then turns back to smile cunningly at the two men. “We, uh, had an accident, officers,” he says with a smile. “She’ll be fine—”
“Can you come with us, sir?” they interrupt.
John looks scared for a minute and then nods. Searching for his shirt, he holds a hand out to me. “Can she come with us?” he asks, acting loving and concerned toward me.
“As a matter of fact, we would like her to come with us too, sir.”
John bends to wrap one of his socks around my foot, and we follow the two security guards to their office at the end of the hall.
Oh my God! We’re going to be busted!
John squeezes my hand hard as we are led inside.
The guards shut the door securely behind us. I can tell they want to keep the noise level down. “We have reason to believe there’s drug activity going on here. You were witnessed downstairs in the parking garage acting very suspicious… looking into patrons’ cars.”
“Drugs? Uh, what? There are no drugs… we got no drugs,” John rambles.
“Then you don’t mind if we search you, do you, sir?”
“N, n, no. G, go ahead.” He steps back nervously, spreading his arms wide. “You don’t really gotta do this. I can assure you, I don’t have an, an, anything illegal on me,” he tries to convince them.
Both men approach John on either side. “Then we can search you and we won’t find anything, sir. Right?”
“Y, y, yeah!” John agrees.
“Spread your legs, sir, and place your hands in the air.”
John does as he is told, and I begin to cry. They’re gonna find something. I can feel it… and then what am I gonna do? I can’t even drive. My mind races illogically.
“And what do you call this, sir?”
Keeping his hands up, John looks down at his pockets. “That? Well, uh, that is a pipe… for, uh, you know…” His voice trails off as he peers down at the small piece of paraphernalia in security’s possession. He knows he is caught.
“We’re gonna have to call LAPD, sir,” the taller man informs him. “Is there anything else we’re gonna find on you?”
“N, n, no. Nothing.” His face is pale as they pull out his corncob pot pipe from his other pocket.
I cry louder. Knowing John is definitely under arrest, I hobble over to hug him and interrupt the search. I’m afraid they might find more. But they have enough evidence and aren’t fazed by my intrusion. John lowers his arms carefully and pretends to give me a big, despairing hug. “Baby, baby. I’m sorry, baby.” He kisses my forehead and lowers his mouth to my ear. “Get my phone book when you get back to the room and call Eddie from a pay phone. Tell him his brother is in jail. He’ll know what to do.” His breath is hot and hoarse.
“O, o, okay.” I nod in his embrace and continue to cry.
“Make sure you talk to him only. No one else! Got that?” He grips my arm to the bone.
I nod again, sniffing back my tears.
“Uh, excuse me.” John is laying on the charm. “Do you gentlemen mind if she goes back to the room till checkout time tomorrow? She needs to take care of her foot and, uh, well, I don’t really want her to see me like this.”
The two men give me the once-over and discuss it for a moment. “All right, Miss…? Do you have any ID?”
“Dawn Schiller. No. No, I don’t have anything.”
“You know your boyfriend here wasn’t exactly honest. Say your good-byes, Miss Schiller. He can call you from the station.”
The taller of the two officers picks up a phone to call for backup and warns me to keep the noise down or they’ll return to the room and ask me to leave.
John pulls me in closer for what is supposed to look like a final hug and kiss, and presses his lips into my ear again. “Wait a couple hours after their shift changes. Then use the pay phone outside. Remember: tell Eddie it’s his brother!”
John’s briefcase is open on the bed as I scramble to find the address book in the top folds. “Here it is,” I say out loud to the beat of my racing heart. Lying in the bottom of the case are a joint and his pewter flask. Immediately I drain the flask, downing the bitter shot of liquid to calm my nerves. Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I pick up the leftover pieces of glass from the carpet and crawl under the covers, checking the time on the clock.
I hear a slight whimper and remember little Thor. He is scratching at the side of the bed and his eyes are watering, telling me he wants up to snuggle. He feels safe with John gone. I reach my arm down and let his quivering warmth hop into my hand.
I am still shaking; the gash on my foot is throbbing; I need something more. Lighting the joint, I take two very large drags and snub it out. John will get mad, I panic. He will know I took some. The mellowing effects of the pot take hold. The staticlike sting of my nerve endings numbs, fear subsides, and I am safe in the moment, a capsule in time. I pull the covers up under my chin and fix my eyes again on the clock. The large digital numbers of the alarm clock flip past, and I spend the next two hours in the dark, waiting…
“He, he, hello,” I stammer in response to the deep male voice on the other end of the line.
“Who is this?” The hard tone sounds like stone, demanding.
“I need to speak to Eddie.” There is silence. I swallow a lump in my throat that threatens to take my voice. “I have a message from his brother.”
Still, silence and some shuffling in the background. In a short while, there’s another voice. “Hello,” an accented male voice answers.
“Eddie?”
I can hear his breath pull in… hesitate. “Yes.”
“I have a message from your brother.” I wait a moment, then continue. “He’s in jail. Your brother is in jail, and he told me to call you,” I gush, wanting to get this call over with. I am scared out of my mind. I feel violated, like I’m being mentally stripped, my private parts examined without my permission.
Thick silence permeates the line. “Yeah… who is this?” The thick accent turns slightly kind, coaxing.