I bury my head farther under the covers. What day is this? How long have we been here? I try to get oriented. John keeps mumbling curses at the pipe as I tap into the memories of his brutal interrogation of my night at Eddie’s. This time he was careful not to touch my ribs. God, why not? I think. Why doesn’t he just end it for me?
John didn’t get paid what he thought he was going to get, and Eddie is letting him know he isn’t stupid… at my expense. Getting busted that night at the Holiday Inn opened up a can of worms that John hoped would never be opened—me! Now John is vulnerable. I know everything personal about him—his family, Sharon, where they live. Everything. I know exactly what he has been keeping secret, and that scares him. John sees firsthand that Eddie is powerful—enough to get what he wants if he thinks something is being hidden from him. In this game, John holds only bluff hands and he has already played them all with Eddie. All except for me. I am the ace up his sleeve: the last one who will stay loyal, he hopes, and by force if necessary.
But all I want to do is die.
“Get up,” he orders, snapping his briefcase shut. “Eddie wants to see you again.”
“Oh God. I am going to die, aren’t I?” My heart skips a beat, and I lie motionless.
“Get up,” he commands again, whipping the covers off of me. “And this time do exactly like I told you. It’ll be fucking New Year’s in a few days, and I don’t want to have to search for a body in the desert!”
The desert? He means me, dead in the desert. New Year’s… in a few days, I think numbly, and I quietly obey. Then it has to be around December 29, my birthday. How old am I? Oh yeah, twenty. Going to Eddie’s again. I think it’s my birthday. The ideas don’t connect to anything familiar in my mind. As alien as my name anymore. My name?
Suddenly, black envelops me. The chugging noise of John’s engine keeps the darkness constant, and the smell of exhaust fills the tiny space. Air! I’ve got to have air! I press my nose close to the left wheel well, where the only light in this suffocating place comes up through a small hole. I can see the speckled gray of the pavement and the tire spinning below, yet all I can think of is breathing—staying alive in the trunk of this car.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Queen of Spades
New Year’s Day has come… and gone. After the second time at Eddie’s, John questions me again. As before, I mechanically give him step-by-step replays of everything that happened and, devoid of any emotion, suffer through his abuse. I feel sick to my stomach mostly and stay comfortable in the shroud of sadness I have befriended.
“Eddie likes to smoke speedballs,” John tells me. Heroin and cocaine combined. I know I am feeling the effects of something different: heroin. My mind, remembering Frosty, screams a warning. This is next! I know it! This is where we are headed! My senses recoil.
We hole up in another motel until a particular morning about a week past New Year’s when John checks us out and loads our things into the car again. The January air is crisp, and daylight glares bright against the metal from the cars on the street. So this is 1981, I think, looking to the sky for signs that this New Year might bring a change for the better. I can barely walk, my body hurts so badly, and I am thin as a rail. Food. I know I need food, but it is almost as if I have forgotten what it tastes like or how to forage for any. Approaching the now-run-down Chevy, I stop in my tracks.
“John? Wait. I don’t want to go.” I stand frozen in the parking lot. “I want to go away. I want to leave. Please!”
“Where do you think you can go? I told you Sharon doesn’t want you around anymore. Oh! I get it. You think you can go to your mother’s. What makes you think she wants anything to do with you either?”
John has said all these things before. Many times, repeatedly. I don’t care anymore. I just want it all to end, one way or another. One more step toward the car will only prolong my agony. Something has to give.
“I want to try and call her. I just want to see if she’ll send me a bus ticket. Maybe she will. Let me go. Please. I can’t go with you! I can’t, John. I can’t go with you anymore!” I sob pitifully, hoping to be released.
John looks offended and then scans the parking lot for anyone who might overhear us. “You what?” He forces a half smile as if to say he knows I purposely began this fight while outside so I’d have witnesses. “Shhhh! Come here, baby. It’s okay.” He keeps his voice intentionally calm and, still wearing a plastered smile, walks to the back of the car to throw a bag in the trunk.
His smile and sympathetic tone soften his hard edges and, with the light of day, give me a false sense of security… just as John knows they will. Somehow, I feel he is going to listen and I let my guard down. Trusting, I follow him.
WHOOOSH! In a terrifying second, John’s hand is over my mouth. As if he’s handling a rag doll, he lifts my body up and shoves me into the trunk.
“Waaaiiitt… John! No!” I let out a terrified, muffled scream.
“Shut up! Shut up! Just be quiet. It’ll be okay. Be quiet!” he insists in a low, husky tone, trying to talk my panicking voice down.
I nod feverishly, wanting only for him to let go of my mouth, and when he does, the lid of the trunk slams shut. The engine turns over, a loud rumbling growl; then it shifts into gear as I brace myself for the bumps and turns of the drive. My head finally rests near a small hole of light and air. “Jooooohnnn!” I yell, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t answer. The sound of the engine in my ears and the smell of fumes stop me from yelling anymore and wasting my breath. Bumps and turns level out into a smooth high speed, and I know we are on the freeway. I focus on staying calm… and air.
When we finally come to a stop, I hear John open his door and get out. Footsteps round the Malibu toward me. “John!” I call out. The sound of my voice reverberates in the enclosed space. “John!”
WHAM! A crushing fist smashes down hard on the lid of the trunk. “Quiet!” he hisses into the keyhole. “I’ll let you out if you swear you’ll stay quiet!”
“Yes! Please,” I quickly reply. “I promise. Just let me out!”
Moments go by, and I wonder if he is still there. Then the key turns sharply and quickly in the lock, and a blessed rush of cool air gushes over me. John’s hand reaches in to grab me and pull me to my feet. “Now relax. Take it easy and be quiet. This is a security building.”
My arms fling wildly to move my hair out of my face. “John… I…”
He bends down to give me a hug, then stands back. “I’m sorry, baby. Are you okay? You can’t leave me… please. I need you.”
“Where are we?” I demand, looking at the massive apartment complex in front of me. Terraced up against a hill, the white, faux stucco building winds toward the street, each unit with features the same as the next.
Swiftly he takes my hand and, passing ivy and dwarf palms, he motions for me to stay quiet, leading me to a hallway, then a door. He knocks.
“Hey,” the woman answers in a sexy voice. “Come on in.”
John steps forward and gives the woman a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, uh, Michelle. This is Dawn.” He enters as if he knows the place and walks straight into the bathroom.
Michelle—a tall, cigarette-thin woman who looks to be about thirty-something, stands in the doorway draped against the metal frame. Her features are long; her cheeks and bloodshot brown eyes sunken. Stringy, dark brown hair hangs limp over the shoulder straps of her full-length magenta negligee. She looks me up and down. Pursing her thin lips, she says not a word to me and turns to follow John.