You wake to a horrible stench, opening your eyes to the remains of a sock rubbing your chin. By dim but harsh lighting, you see it was originally white, now showing black skin through a large hole in the ankle.
“Cough!” Ah, that felt good, bringing on a half-dozen more followed by a pint of old alcohol mixed with stomach acid.
Shoving the offending appendage away, you swing your head away from the pool of vomit, trying to string thoughts together into a cohesive image. “Damn!” and a, “Mother.”
You see a ceiling. No. Not a ceiling. A grillwork of heavy bars above your head. Gotta get up, you think. You place both hands against a cool concrete floor, one in a pool of puke you hope at least is your own, and jerk upright.
Yep. The drunk tank in the Pleasentville Jail. You recognize patterns of graffiti on a wall. You’ve been here several times before. As your head fights for equilibrium, you feel a rumbling in your stomach, remembering they serve a decent breakfast before releasing you.
At least you hope you’re to be released. Sure you will, you think. If you were in for anything serious, such as assault, you’d be in a two-man cell.
Of course you don’t remember last night, at least not after ... no. That was last week. What the hell did you do last night? Dunno.
You were at the “Drop In a Bit” last night. Yep. That redhead? Yep.
Getting to shaky legs, you stagger more than walk across comatose bodies to plop down onto a metal toilet with no lid. It’s the only place to sit except the filthy floor.
In the distance, between echoing clangs as metal doors are slammed, you hear a radio.
“A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain
Softly blows o'er lullaby bay.
It fills the sails of boats that are waiting--
Waiting to sail your worries away.
It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain
And your boat waits down by the key. “
You can’t help a smile. Sure, and I missed my f*****g boat.
Pepper? Yep. Pepper. That’s her name. Pepper, like in “salt and.” You remember. Pepper.
Strange. You weren’t all that drunk last night. She must’a slipped you a mickey.
“The winds of night so softly are sighing--
Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.
So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain.
Wave good-bye to cares of the day. “
And not your f*****g mouse, Disney. In my drink, mouse.
“And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain
Sail far away from lullaby bay.”
B***h. Wait’ll I get out. I’ll sink your f*****g boat. Must’a slipped the mickey in that third drink, a one what tasted funny, like.
You shake your head. Not chloral hydrate. No taste with that, and no headache this morning. Somethin’.
The staccato sound of wood rattling across iron bars breaks your introspection. “All right, you drunken b******s ... on your feet.”
It’s a small skinny cop. As you watch, he unlocks the door with a large metal key. The little guy has a hard time swinging it open. “When I call your name, step out here. You’re going home to the wife ... if she’ll have your sorry a*s.”
It takes a while, but all but two prisoners manage to stand. You step over them on your way out. Nobody thinks of helping the drunken b******s. Let the fuckers sleep. Three others aren’t called. They’re prolly’ in for more serious offenses. At night, no matter what the charge, short of major felonies, if you’re drunk you go in the “tank” to sober up. It’s easier than hosing piss and vomit out of two cells. You should know. You were once a cop.
Breakfast is alright. You eat at a long table, one of three in a large room. It reminds you of an army mess hall. Just as cheap, too. Powdered eggs, two -- not three -- strips of burnt bacon, toast and coffee in a tin cup.
There are three choices when drinking from a tin cup. You can wait for it to cool, add cold water, or drink it like a man, ignoring a burnt lip. You add water from a jug on the line.
After that, you’re taken to the desk and given a bag of possessions. Your’s contains a wallet but -- surprise -- no money. Pepper, Pepper, Pepper. Bad girl, Pepper. I’ll find you, Pepper.
“And your boat waits down by the key.
The winds of night so softly are sighing--
Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.”
When I do, Pepper, your troubles will be beginning.
***
You go back to the cheap hotel, knowing she won’t be there and that they never heard of her. She made two mistakes last night. First, you were found in an alley a block away. She’s too small to carry or drag a guy like you that far. Also, the night clerk greeted her by name. Not only that, but asked her about her kids. Of course he didn’t want you waking up at the hotel. Those short-time hotels don’t like cops around. Angry drunks attract more fuzz than a vacuum cleaner.
There’s another guy at the desk. A fat t**d watching tv.
“It fills the sails of boats that are waiting--
Waiting to sail your worries away.
It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain
And your boat waits down by the key.
The winds of night so softly are sighing--
Soon they will fly your troubles to sea. “
That same song again. It must be the big hit of ‘68 or something.
“I was rolled here last night,” you tell him. “I need a name.”
“Get lost. I wasn’t working last night.”
“No s**t. I need a name.”
“They come and go. I don’t ask for names. They pay by the half-hour.”
You reach over the counter, clicking the television off.
“What’a hell.” He tries to jump to his feet but it’s like moving a mountain of suet with a teaspoon, slow and ponderous. As his head rises above the counter, you grab his collar and slam a fat chin against the edge.
“Then, an address.”
“Lemme go, a*****e. How’m I gonna know any f****n’ address? For Christ sake, I don’t even know her name.”
You pull his chin closer, tweaking his fat nose with the index finger of your other hand. “Not hers, his. The night clerk.”
“I can’t give you that. Company poli--”
“You wanna clean blood, yours, off’a this floor? A name. Ain’t your a*s, or is it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Leggo so’s I can get it.”
When he gets and writes it down for you, you drop a double-sawbuck on the counter.
“This ain’t for the name. This, this is so you don’t get antsy and call him. You do, an I find out, I’ll be back ... and I’ll be packing.” You pull your aloha shirttail up, showing him the butt of a .38 Police Special. The pilfered police holster sports an embossed picture of a badge.
“You a cop? Why the f**k you didn’t say so?”
“Why the f**k didn’t you ask?”
Let him believe what he wants to believe. The idiot. It’s your old service revolver. You bought it with your own money and didn’t turn it in when you quit. The holster was stolen, but f**k them.
***
Getting out of a taxi a couple blocks from that f*****g clerk’s address, you walk the difference. Things go wrong, you’ve learned long ago not to leave a trail. It’s second nature, done without thought.
A cheap residential area, you cautiously pass a gang’a teens. Careful, you think, no eye contact. As when in jail, eye contact means one of two things, you want sex or you want to fight. No eye contact. You ignore them, walking quickly and firmly along the outer edge of a cracked sidewalk and ignoring pleas for cash. “Man, ya got a buck’a two ta spare, man?” And, “cheap a*****e, ain’t he?”
The building’s old, covered with a simulated brick facade, popular in the fifties. Your parents fell for the con. “See,” the salesman said, “we’ll give you a really good rate for the work. Then, whenever anyone else on this street sez how wonderful it looks, you refer them to us and get $1,000 cash, instantly.” Course, several other homeowners bought it the same f*****g time we did and we got diddly-s**t.
No lock on the front entrance, you go in to find the bottom floor has been cut into small cubes mixed with narrow walkways. The partitions stop three feet from the ceiling. You, being tall enough to see over the tops, see they’re each about seven-feet-square inside. Stairs in the rear lead upstairs. Prolly the same up there. A storehouse for lost souls.
“Hey,” you ask an old man. “Where can I find this f****r, Adam James?” He’s in one of the first small rooms, sitting at the edge of an army cot in his underwear and watching a small tv. The television, the narrow bed, a few cardboard boxes and a small table are all you can see inside. As he turns, you can’t miss a wizened pecker peeking from a hole in dirty jockey shorts.
“Him? Room 15, left rear. He’s probably asleep, though. Worked last night.”
“Prolly is.”
Thank God, you think, the rooms are mostly numbered, a few with plastic digits, some with a magic marker.
You don’t bother knocking. There’s no knob on the door, only a handle like on a cupboard. You grab it with one hand, the top of the frame with the other and yank. With a screeching and shaking of plywood, it jerks open.
The hotel clerk is in there, eyes open in fear as he sees you standing, hovering over him. There’s also a very young girl, maybe fifteen, half on top of the f****r. Her dark a*s reminds you of a pair of tacos waiting for that first delicious bite.
“Hit the road, senorita,” you say, grabbing a taco and pulling the entire meal onto the floor. “I gotta bone ta pick with lover-boy, here.”
“Now look here, man. What’a hell you think....”
“Beat it, honey, and I do mean now.” A slap across his face shuts him up.
“The girl. Pepper. Where the f**k she live?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Again, you show your holstered weapon. S**t, how people see that simulated badge and think, “Cop!” Nothing illegal at all. You have a carry permit and don’t actually say you’re a policeman. “An inquiring mind would like to know.”
“So? You ain’t got nothin’ on me. F**k off.”
“What about little Chiquita, there. Her momma know she’s sleeping around?”
“F****r. You can try the 3,200 block of Elm. On’a corner.”
“Be more specific, uh?”
“I dunno, really don’t. I drove her home a couple times, never been inside. Her, two kids, no man at I knows of.”
You grab the b*****d by the throat, almost rubbing noses like’a Eskimos. “Go find your little Mex breakfast, if you can. Don’t, whatever you f*****g do, even think of calling Pepper.”
Seeing fear in his staring eyes, you drop him and leave.
***
3201 Elm. Just your luck. A four-story walk up, and guess which floor is hers? Cheap b***h.
As you tromp onto the landing, you hear a radio playing through an open doorway. There’s a kid sitting outside on a bare wooden floor, playing with cardboard soldiers.
“...your boat waits down by the key.
The winds of night so softly are sighing--
Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.
So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain.
Wave good-bye to cares of the day.
And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain
Sail far away from lullaby bay.”
That damned song again. You’re getting sick of hearing it. Brushing past the kid, you go in. A six or seven-year-old girl’s in there, coloring in a book. You reach over and snap the radio off.
“Where’s your mama?”
The kid doesn’t even look up. She’s probably used to seeing strange men around. A hand raises and she points. “Bedroom. I gotta go, uh?”
“Yeah.” You peel a few ones off your roll and hand them over. “Take in a movie, kid. And take your brother.”
You watch until they’re out of sight down the stairs before going back in, then closing and locking the door with a slide-bolt.
There’s a woman sleeping in the bedroom. Her head’s half under the pillow, so you grab her by an ear and turn it. It’s Pepper. Her eyes bug out at seeing you.
“You.” Not very original. “What you want?”
“My money.”
“Jesus Christ. How the hell you find me?”
You grab her blanket and pull it off, giving yourself a cheap porno shot of her in pink panties.
“The money,” you repeat. “Only the money.”
“In the dresser. Top drawer. You ain’t gonna beat me, are you? I got kids to feed.”
“No. All I want is the cash. Now get up and get it.”
“All right. Just don’t hit me. I ain’t got any other way to pay the rent and all three of us gotta eat.”
She pulls out a drawer, reaches in and comes out with a metal box. You see it’s half-full of cash, much more than was stolen from you.”
As she starts counting it out, you reach over and grab the box. The entire contents go into your jacket pocket.
“You bast--” Screaming like a banshee, she comes at you, only to be b***h-slapped into a wall. Shaking her head, she comes back for more, getting it in the form of a fist in the gut. Folding over, she slumps to the floor, crying. “Please. Leave me something. For the kids.”
“Tough s**t,” you tell her, walking out of the room. On the second-floor landing, you hear music.
A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain
Softly blows o'er lullaby bay.
It fills the sails of boats that are waiting--
Waiting to sail your worries away.
It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain
And your boat waits down by the key.
The winds of night so softly are sighing--
“Keep on dreaming, baby.” You shake your head.
The End.
“Hushabye Mountain,” song by
Robert and Richard Sherman
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