Notes From Last Breath
Farm # 2:
The Bone Collector
Fiction by Rob Azevedo
Photos by Dusty Austin
It was
after
midnight and rain was falling in sheets on the town
of
dumpster in back of
an old thrift shop, crying into my dirty
mitts. I was wearing a pair of old
boots and jeans, no shirt.
My damp ass was freezing as I crouched
down in
the fetal
position staring into the night at something no one else could
see.
Earlier in
the day I was at my
flat on the outskirts of Last
Breath having breakfast while listening
to
Steve Earle sing
about cutting a boy in half with a hunting knife.
The phone
rang.
“Atkins?” a
strong voice
barked.
It was
Tank,
president of De
Facto Inc., a modified collections
agency operating out of Tank’s
basement.
“You
got
him,” I said weakly,
dipping a corner of toast into
broken yolk.
“It’s
Tank,
you working?”
“Nah,
not so
much,” I said swallowing the soggy bread, hoping
it would suck up some
whiskey from the night
before.
“Well
clean
up, shit bag. I got work for you.”
The
phone
went silent. I knew it
was only a matter of hours
before Tank would come looking for me.
I
hadn't worked for
the agency since my last job ten months earlier. Things
went
bad down in New
Man before
burying him in a salt marsh
outside
What had
started out as a few thousand
worth of “payment due” had turned into a bloody brawl between a bean
picker
and a
half tough guy in some stranger’s backyard.
My brain went
dead as soon as I
hung up the phone. Like every job Tank gave me I knew this would
be more
than a
simple 100-day overdue invoice. Tank would sweat his way into my
apartment
holding a hockey bag packed with an
automatic, muzzle, plane ticket and
spending cash.
I know, so
fucking
dramatic. The fat lout had a way for being so. He liked the
old
time, midday, cop shows like
Tank duked out the goods and I never had the patience for Court TV, now
or
then. I didn't need reality. What I
needed was more whiskey.
Anyway, Tank
would come in like
he owned the joint, hand me “the bag” and then there would be a fifteen
minute
dissertation on getting the right man this time, keeping my fists clean
and staying out
of the drunk tank. He would
give me the name, address and some
prepared tough guy dialogue. Nothing Mamet-like, just something
that
suggested taking a murderous pose when you are “breaking someone down”
as Tank
liked to say.
The brief
phone conversation with
Tank left me fatigued. I decided to hit the couch for an hour.
For twenty
minutes I
spun on my ratty two-man boat, my mouth drier
than cotton from
off my hangover. Then, I'd shower, shave, consider busting a
nut and
wait for
Tank to come knocking.
In my jumbled
sleep I saw dead
men coming through the walls. I saw myself tripping over lawn
furniture and reaching
for an ax before gripping the ankles of the Brown Man as he tried to
escape my
grasp. I then saw the blade of the
ax make contact with his thick wrists. I saw blood, bone and
finally death.
My life was
dog shit.
I was shaken
awake, not by the
brutal imagery of my sleeping minds eye, but by the violent knock at
the front
door.
“Okay! Hold on!” I blurted out, knocking my cock into
submission.
I hustled to
the door, bringing a
Z Magazine to the floor.
Commie shit.
“Been
out
licking the curbs
again?” Tank asked sarcastically
as he walked right past me into the
apartment. Tank was a
bruiser, a 280-pound, balding meat head with massive
forearms,
huge shoulders and a chest like a Delmonico steak.
“Hello,
Tank,” I said
closing the door behind him.
“I was
hoping
to find you in
fighting shape,” Tank offered before
sitting at the kitchen table,
fingering
the plate of crusty egg.
"Well,
I've
been working on that,” I
said, popping in a Kodiak
chew, the most delicious piece of dirt known
to man.
“I
came to
see if you got
see if you still had chops.”
I went
over
to a window near a
small bookcase and opened it.
Down below on the streets of Last
Breath
there was only regret
and half-truths. That’s what my mind allowed me to
see. I
wanted more, yearned for the vision of others but only saw what
I
saw and felt what I felt, which wasn't much. Everyone:
her,
him, she-males, grease-heads,
mockers shuffling along, owing
someone
something, everybody in
debt. Everybody fucked. Fix
me, please!
Tank broke my
trance with a
backhand to the head. I almost tumbled out the window but he
grabbed me
by my vein-y
neck, and without letting up on his grip, hauled me back into the
kitchen. I hardly fought back. I was weak and still
seeing dead men
farting.
Tank shoved
me into a chair and
dragged it to the kitchen sink where he grabbed the pull out spray
faucet and
wrapped
the hose around my neck. He then
began beating me with the stainless nozzle, splattering blood across my
cranium.
“I said you
got chops?” Tank was
shouting.
I shouted
back “You crazy
fuck!”
“Yeah, and
this crazy fuck is
shaking you back into shape,”Tank assured me.
For a few
minutes we sat silent. My eyes were blood
red and Tank was winded.
“Call it a
recovery gig,”said
Tank, sliding an envelope across the table with
What, no heavy bag? I opened the
envelope and found a
single key inside.
“No plane
ticket?” I said.
“You ain’t
worth the airfare, not
yet,” Tank said.
For the next
ten minutes Tank
explained the situation:
“This is a
nothing job, Muddy, a
fuckin’ gimmie. You see, I was thinking about unloading you,
cutting you
off. I’m
tired of your sloppy work. First it was the broad in
fuckin’
finally, you make stumps out of the arms of some farm worker.
You’re just
lucky I know judges with
mistresses.”
Tank
continued, “The key is to
a small used clothing store on the other side of town, a place called
Rags. There’s a
woman there, she’s got big tits and a
mean eye. She keeps a piece behind the counter, so watch her
hands when
she’s
back there. Get her to understand she still needs to pay down
her loans. Stay focused and come back with nothing
less than 5K.”
“Will she
have that kind of money
in the store? You said it was a
thrift shop, right?” I finally asked.
Tank leaned
across the table and buried
my nose into my skull. I went back but
not over my chair. My nose started
bleeding. I had to shit.
“I wasn’t
done,” Tank said firmly
before he continued.
“You see
Muddy, you got the
proactive part of the job down cold. You need to work for the
money to
buy your booze
and pay for this rat’s nest.
So you take any fucking job I throw you. A fuckin bone
collector
you are. But you have no
sense of
recovery. You can’t handle the heat. You should be able to
intimidate,
push without pushing. I personally
think
it has to do with your build. You’re too thin and got a baby
face. But I
always thought that would work on the
ladies. But after that fuck up in
Tank now
stood up and grabbed a
towel from the kitchen counter. He tossed it at me and I wiped my
face.
“Just get it
done,” Tank finally
said walking out the door.
With Tank
gone I decided to enjoy
the rest of the day, forget about recovery and past sins. I went
to the
cupboard and
peeled into a bottle of brown, in honor, maybe, of the Brown
Man who sickens my dreams. The last thing I remember
hearing before passing
out was Texan Joe Ely singing on the radio “I only use my gun
whenever
kindness fails”
*****
“Got a
quarter?
Got a quarter?” The
words
were nearly driving me insane. It was the
Quarter Lady from
Last Breath, the
town crazy who perpetually begged for change.
She was
dressed in a butterfly patterned summer dress and white
shoes with
no
socks. Her breath was hot, rank and
stale. There was a spot of tobacco
on
her tongue.
All I
wanted
was to get across town to Rag’s
and grab the loot for Tank.
Just be firm. I
kept
reminding myself. Keep a lean eye and
stay focused.
Push, without pushing.
“Got a
quarter?”
“Woman,” I
said “I don’t have a quarter, but in
an hour I’ll have five
grand and I’ll give you a buck.”
The
Quarter
Lady smiled, then spit at me “Cheap
prick!” she snarled
then walked off.
99
Main St.
was easy enough to find. I knew
the place, across from
A&M Liquors
and Richard’s Dry Cleaners. When I looked
up and saw
336 on a brick facade I realized I had walked six
blocks in the
wrong
direction.
Staying cool
I looped around, crossed the
street and saw the Quarter Lady,
badgering a mother and son at an ATM.
The mother tried to cover the
young boy from the evil looking
old
woman. Mom should have just given
her
the fucking quarter.
A small blue and
silver sign on the storefront read “Rag’s.”
It was your
typical hobo joint with candles in the windows and a silly
bell that rang upon
my entrance. Immediately I was
surrounded by beat up boots, sweaters
from the
'50s and some not-so-rare antiques.
A woman of middle
age came from around back. She was a bruiser and I quickly became
aroused. It was now 7 o’clock
and I hadn’t eaten since
the fried eggs. I get horny when I’m
hungry. You should see me after a night
drinking and no
food; fucking animal.
She was large in the
hips and legs, but her breasts were remarkable. She had long dark hair
and her
nails were done
sweet, like painted shovels aiming me in. Her
lips were thin, too thin, so I focused on
her crotch, which was hidden by
cotton or satin.
“Can I help you?”
she asked, her voice strong but pleasant.
“Sure,” I said
coolly. “I’m looking for Linda.”
She smiled nice and
I felt hot in my chest.
“I’m Linda. And
who are you?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure where
to go with this. Tank was
right. I was sloppy and unprepared. I didn’t expect to be asked
questions. I could
have said
anything at all. I could have ignored the
question and maybe shown her my cock.
Instead I told her my name.
"I'm Muddy Atkins."
“Well Muddy Atkins.
What can I do for you?”
“Well, “I said.
“We have to talk.”
“About what?” Linda
asked kindly, without much pitch.
“Well you see,” I
said. “I’m here from De Facto, Inc. We’re a corporation and I guess you have some
stuff
or something they need. So, ah,
I’m here to pick it up.”
“Pick what up?” she
said.
She was delicious to
look at. Full bodied, or as
the personal ads say, a BBW with
shaved
calves
and
a human smell. I wanted to date her,
not
collect on her. Or was I just
hungry? Either way,
in heat I watched
the woman move behind the
counter.
Sweating now, I remembered that she
could be hiding a piece back
there.
“Tell me something
Muddy Atkins,” Linda said.
“What kind of job do you have going around
picking
things up for corporations? It’s very
original.”
“I wouldn’t call it
that,” I assured her, cooling in
my chest but running a deep fever in
my
pants.
“What would you call
it then?” she asked.
“A job,” I said.
“Ah. I
see,”
“You see what?” I
said
“Nothing, you are a
private man. I can respect that,”
she said.
“Private?” I said
laughing. “If private means getting
kicked out of every bar in Last Breath, well then I guess
I live a pretty
private life.”
She laughed then
looked away. We stared at each other for a few seconds. I turned away first. Then
Linda
leaned over the counter and
reached toward me. Her breasts pushed
together,
creating a long line of madness
that nearly had me in tears.
“You have egg on
your shirt,” she said, pressing her nails into my chest, scratching at
the
egg. “You need a new
shirt.”
Linda went over and
picked a denim shirt off the rack. It was faded and blue with little
silver
buttons.
“Try it on,” said
Linda, pushing the shirt at me.
I took the shirt
from Linda and put it on over my thermal top.
It fit well.
“Keep it,” she
said. “It’s a gift.”
Linda walked back
behind the counter and smiled. She
then
reached under the register and my ears started to itch.
Crazy bitch did have something
back there, I
thought.
I readied myself for
attack and watched Linda come up with a bottle of whiskey and a shot
glass.
“I was going to have
a quick drink,” Linda said, spinning the cap off. “Care
to join me?”
Taking a deep
breath, I said “Why not.”
Linda took a shot
quickly and handed the glass and bottle over to me.
I lifted the bottle to my mouth and downed
three
fingers worth. I set the
glass and bottle down and walked around the counter.
Linda was waiting, nearly licking her
lips. We clinched at the register, our
mouths motoring all over each other. I
buried myself in
her breasts. Her large
nipples were
bending into my cheeks. She smelled like
soap. Linda was so full and tender, a
melting pot of girth.
Making love we
slammed against the walls. Musty sweaters started falling all
around us. Head bands too.
Linda was
pushing me away from the register.
Somehow in my lustful intent I caught on to
her hesitations and reacted with
clarity.
I aimed her toward the back room where there were bottles of
detergent
and wire hangers everywhere. We
finished each
other off on the floor near a pile of towels and a stack of magazines. Linda started breathing hard into
my face as
if she was about to go into cardiac arrest.
“I need to
use the bathroom,” she said and straightened her dress.
I watched her walk
into a small bathroom and jumped up, wiped half a nut off my wrist and
threw on
my pants. I
couldn’t find my new denim
shirt, or the thermal, so I moved bare-chested toward the register. I quietly popped the
cash drawer and saw a
few loose bucks and some change inside.
Shit!
Just then I heard
the toilet flush. I opened a small drawer to the right of the
register and saw a
Bible sitting there.
I opened it to find a stack of hundred dollar bills
in a hollowed out square where the passages should have been. I
tucked the cash into my pocket and put the
Good Book back in the drawer. The
doorknob of the
bathroom turned
and I tiptoed into the back room, out of breath. Linda
reappeared, red faced, withdrawn
and with her hands behind
her back. She
looked mad.
“You shouldn’t have
done that,” she said to me.
“Done what? I
thought you’d like your nipples
bitten,” I said.
“You shouldn’t come
in trying to take from me,” she said.
“Especially when you know I can protect what’s mine.”
Right then a small
pistol came from behind Linda’s back. As
she raised the piece I could hear Tank yelling at me.
Linda’s face looked like the Brown
Man's, angry and confused.
“You tell De Facto
I gave all I’m giving,” Linda said, pointing me out of the back room
with
the gun’s barrel. “Those
rotten fucks
won’t get another penny from me. Never
again.”
Just as I was doing
a slow lean-back-and-slide against the store wall, I lunged for the big
bitch. She was buxom, as
good a fighter
as the Brown Man. She nailed me in the face
with the pistol, dizzying me and swelling my brow.
A
thick knee rocked my balls. I kicked my way off Linda and ran for
the
door, past bath oils and relic kitchenware.
I heard a
shot fired
as I ran out the door. Then there was a scream and a thud.
I looked back
to see the Quarter Lady lying dead outside Rags with a red spot
on her forehead
and a fixed crazy look in her eyes.
I kept running
around corners until I found myself behind Rag’s, leaning against
a
dumpster
and started counting the cash. I’ll
find Tank in a minute, I told
myself, once the chaos has
subsided. Counting, I quickly moved
past
five grand
and onto six, seven and then ten. Jack-fucking-pot.
I sat cold in a
small puddle for a moment and lapsed into a trance.
An extra five
grand would do wonders for a
poor man’s disposition. Sure, I needed booze and
pussy. But more than
anything
I needed sleep, good sleep, the kind that goes
hand-in-hand with a clear
conscience. Clearer at least than I’d
had lately.
I decided to wire the Brown
Man’s
family five grand and give Tank the other
four. (It
was nine grand, right?) The rest would go
to getting a new couch and
some peace of mind.
No longer would my nightly visions be of the Brown Man’s
bloody stumps. Instead, I would
dream about
Linda and her delicious gunboats.
A pair
of utters that managed to free me from my damnation.
Days later, leaning
back at last on my new couch, exhausted and with Tom Waits rasping in
digital
clarity on the iPod
that had replaced my Salvation Army stereo, I closed my eyes
and for the first time in months, the Brown Man was
nowhere to be seen.
Instead it was the
Quarter Lady starring back at me with crazy eyes, yellow teeth and a
hole in
her head.
“Got a
quarter?”
Mr.
Azevedo,
from Manchester, NH, has also written for The Boston Globe,
Details,
King and
Ramp magazine. His
column "Notes From Last Breath Farm" appears on SG&M monthly and
began with " classic life insurance Munich hotels diclofenac for sale Dear Willy".
