Chapter Eight: Eat Me Drink Me
Mickey had told himself he stayed until morning only because he didn't want to sleep in that fucking cold ass hotel room that he pretty much owned by now. And honestly that was the truth. When morning came, Mickey began leaving before Ian stirred. Actually, Shatera was the first to wake up. Mickey hadn't been sleeping to begin with, but was struggling to keep his eyes open at this point, even after several cups of coffee. When the whore woke up, it was as Mickey trudged out of the kitchen, slab of meat crammed into his mouth and cup of joe in hand, ready to bounce out. He froze, kitchen door swinging closed behind him. Their eyes connected and Mickey swallowed his partially chewed ham. Didn't move as he watched Shatera shift about while glancing from Mickey to Ian. The woman stood up, zipping Ian's coat up against her to just below her chest. She straightened out her dress. And as she walked toward Mickey, Mickey sat his mug quietly down on the counter and knitted his brow, face hardening within seconds. So much for a clean getaway.
She stepped over, scratched her head, and reached down the front of her shirt, pulling out a lighter. Mickey scrunched his nose at the unabashed action. "Spare a cigarette?" Shatera asked him in a whisper, readying her lighter.
Mickey looked her over. She smelled strongly of cheap perfume and mens' deodorant. Also of cigarettes and something rather unpleasant that Mickey couldn't place. And she looked disheveled. Her hair was only half braided, the freed side sticking up in a nappy disarray. The blood, Mickey now saw it was from her nose, had caked on dry. She was also bleeding above her left eye, but that had scabbed over. An eyebrow ring looked to have been ripped out. Her makeup ran all over her face. Like her face had been held in water. Probably had. Mickey recognized the look because he'd seen his father try that on Mandy once, before Mickey had reacted, back when he'd been barely sixteen, just before this life of his started off. The night of the car crash. Shatera's dress was ripped above the shoulder. He saw it because the coat hung loose, sloppy around that arm. She held her ribs with one hand, wincing. Probably had a cracked one. She complained about the rib last night, after Ian had been sleeping for nearly an hour.
Mickey stopped staring and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out the nearly full pack of Camels. He gnabbed two, then stuffed the pack back into place. Holding his hand out, Mickey waited for the whore to grab one. She did so, then lit up and handed Mickey the lighter. He joined her. Looked up at the clock. As if reading his mind, Shatera told Mickey the place wouldn't be open for another three hours because the owners had mass or something akin this morning. She wasn't religious, she said, saying she didn't know one cult gathering from another. Mickey, leaning on the counter now and looking over at Ian worryingly, took a long drag and blew smoke in Shatera's face when he finally turned to face her fully. He rubbed his bottom lip. He said simply, quick, because for some reason he felt comfortable with this woman he barely knew: "I don't do that shit either. Faith makes people weak." And after he said it, Mickey found himself pondering if that hadn't been the most natural, deep thought of his that he'd ever said to another human being. Besides Rex on the rare occasions of the two smoking a blunt together.
Shatera nodded, staring at the cigarette in her bruised hand. "Thanks again," she said. "And thanks for keeping me company last night. I know you coulda left. Didn't seem too much like you was wanting to stick around."
Frowning, Mickey stood straight and grabbed the cold coffee he'd made himself. Chugged it, then stood there, quietly finishing off his cigarette, watching Shatera finish hers. He left when Ian began waking.
Almost week later and Mickey was finally seeing Shatera hanging around the block. At first, the day after his staying at the cafe overnight with Ian and the whore, Shatera had gone missing. Mickey thought maybe Rodney had killed her. Until today. Ian clearly thought so as well, given that he had ducked out of work for five days. Or maybe that had more to do with Ian's mother apparently running off with another woman. Mickey didn't know or care to get too deep into the situation, if he was being honest. Today, he saw Shatera standing on the street corner, getting into a car with some businesslike looking motherfucker in a tie. She looked out of it kind of, but alive. And Ian was going into work, so Mickey felt a bit of relief and wasn't sure why.
He sat on a bench, appearing as though he were waiting on a bus. He wasn't. He had just come back from another hit and needed to sit down and breathe. Rex had mad up for his mistake by setting Mickey up with a generous old man who had needed his business partner out of the picture. Owned some restaurant in Northern Chicago. Had only moments ago paid Mickey double the asking price and offered Mickey free meals any time he was around the guy's establishment. Great fucking hit. Except that the man Mickey had went after turned out not to be a man at all really, but a woman. A woman in her late fifties who looked a lot like the bitch Mickey had used to catch Mandy watching on television with some sock-puppet lamb back in the nineties. Lamb Chop, he remembered now, images of his little sister, five years old maybe, and her own stuffed Lamb Chop flooding his mind. Her ghost voice ringing in his ears.
"Hey, Mickey, I learned how to see if I'm tall as you! Lamb Chop says you stand back to back and see. Will you measure us? Please!"
Mandy had always seemed so untouched by their surroundings, right up until the night of the crash.
"Assface, you seen my car keys? Mom keeps trying to go out and find dad. She's way to fucking drunk to drive. She can barely stand. I just don't want her finding my keys. They have that bulky lamb charm on them. Seen 'em?"
Mickey wished every day that he had just fucking helped his sister find those keys. Instead he had told her to go fuck herself while drowning his own thoughts in a bottle of Lithium. Because his mom was out looking for a man Mickey had buried in the backyard two days prior to the wreck.
Staring ahead, at the cars and people, Mickey felt numbed to the world. Numbered than usual. The money in his jacket pocket, sealed tight in an envelope, felt heavy.
That hit's gender had shocked Mickey because of his ignorance; Rex hadn't mentioned it, and when Mickey had phone him up, after meeting with the geezer and collecting his dough, Rex had apologized. Told Mickey he didn't see what the big deal was. Mickey had killed women before. And Mickey had told him to fucking forget it and was now sitting on a bench, his chest heavy. Maybe it was because he'd also swung by a funeral today before the hit. Had watched strangers bury Alice, her husband, and son. Whatever the case for Mickey's guilty conscience, Mickey willed it to the back of his mind and stood up, dusting himself off. Tried to erase the images of Lamb Chop. Walked across the street and went into the J&S Cafeteria. Sat in his booth, immediately looking over to Ian, who was serving up plates of fries to a group of kids around Ian's age.
The redhead looked very unhappy. And as Mickey stared harder at group Ian was serving, it became painfully obvious why Ian seemed pissy. Partly his attitude had something to do with other bullshit going on in his teenaged life, but Mickey could tell most of the current upset had more to do with the three boys taunting Ian about something. What, Mickey didn't know, as he couldn't really hear from the distance. Ian slammed the plates of fries and the glass container of ketchup. Pursed his mouth in a grim frown, and glared hard at the blonde haired, jock looking kid. The jock grabbed a fry, threw it in his rather large mouth, and chewed. All teeth. Letting Ian see the mushed up food. Ian rolled his eyes and stormed away. He made it almost past Mickey's booth before he actually saw Mickey and froze. Then walked over and sat down forcefully in on the other side of the booth. Scowling, but not at Mickey. Leaning back and crossing his arms. Glaring over at the group of twats in the corner.
"I hope they choke on those," Ian said absently. No introduction necessary. No need to ask Mickey if he needed to order anything. No need mentioning Ian's absence. No need mentioning anything really, except the here and now. Mickey liked that about Ian; that Ian understood and had a silent agreement with Mickey about living in the now as best as possible. Trying to block out past events that felt a little weird. Skipping over a lot of bullshit.
Mickey snorted and looked over at the three boys, who were howling with laughter. "Say something back," he said casually, drumming his fingers on the table top absently. Then glanced at Ian from the corner of his eye.
Ian pulled a sarcastic smirk and rolled his eyes, cheeks bunching up. "That never really works against Matt and his goons," he sighed. "Doesn't fucking matter anyway. I spit in his fries. Put some dandruff salt around the edges."
Mickey almost chuckled at the innocent act of revenge. He'd forgotten long ago what that felt like. Now when someone pissed him off, Mickey just killed them. Or injured them. Whichever was safest on his own behalf. "Passive aggression is the first sign of a sociopath," Mickey muttered snidely, licking the corner of his mouth and looking away from the group and at Ian.
"Thought full on attack was," Ian scoffed, his face softening some. Mickey noticed quickly how tired Ian looked.
"No, that's a psychopath, and" Mickey said, serious but joking, "that comes later."
Ian fooled with his visor, straightening it out and running a hand through his bright hair. "Well, I'm neither, swear," he commented, making an X across his heart.
"Makes one of us," Mickey muttered under his breath, low enough that Ian missed it. Yet the redhead didn't look fazed. Briefly confused, but didn't bring it up.
There was a stretch of silence. Mickey delved back into his own thoughts reluctantly. Felt his face drop slowly. Finally Ian cleared his throat and asked Mickey if he wanted coffee. Mickey raised his brows and shrugged as if it didn't matter one way or the other, barely registering the redhead's presence now. The kid then got up and strolled toward the kitchen, disappearing behind the swinging doors. Mickey snapped out of his daze, immediately realizing what had happened when Ian came back out with a glass of ice and the coffee container. He filled the glass half full, then sat five things of creamer on the table and scooted back into the booth as Mickey practically inhaled the drink. Much to Ian's open disappointment, the kitchen door opened then, and the man Mickey remembered as Kash walked out and tossed his apron on the floor.
Ian sat up straight fast, eyes wide and mouth dropped open as he watched Kash flee from the cafe. Soon to follow the man was a woman, dragging two children behind her. She mad a dash from the kitchen, face hard and ugly because of her rage. Ian jumped up from the booth and ran after them.
Mickey turned in his seat to observe the display. As the couple stood outside the door, screaming at one another, Ian trying to but in for reasons Mickey didn't even bother wondering on, the car from earlier pulled up and dropped Shatera off at the stop sign across the street. She crossed quickly, counting a wad of money, and only looked at the squabble for a second before entering the cafeteria. Mickey heard the bell above the door ding, and as the door opened, the yelling voices followed Shatera in. They drifted as the door closed behind Shatera. Shatera walked past, going into the bathroom. Probably to freshen up whore style. Mickey's head circled, gaze following Shatera, then slowly going back to the window. Watched the woman who was clearly Kash's wife, slap Ian hard across his face. She yanked her children along again and fled in a hurry. Mickey figured he could see steam shooting out of her ears as she quickly boarded herself and the children into a taxi. Kash stood beside of Ian, hands on his hips, shaking his head. Ian just looked shocked and ashamed of whatever the hell was going on. When Kash put a hand on Ian's shoulder and Ian jerked free, scowling and shouting, throwing up his hands, Mickey figured he didn't want to know what was going on really. Except he was kind of interested when Kash held his arms out, face sad, begging Ian's back to stop walking as Ian ran across the traffic, nearly being run over by a mini-van.
Looking down at his empty glass while Kash reentered, Mickey worried his bottom lip. Debated on leaving. Heard Shatera leave the bathroom. Looked up at her. She stopped and smiled at him, giving a small wave. He frowned. More of a scowl and looked away fast. What did she fucking think, they were friends now? They weren't. She left right after. After she had gone, Mickey found himself looking over at the group of boys who were laughing at the homeless man, who today had come out of the mens' bathroom, piss running down his leg. Mickey felt almost bad for the old man as he rambled on about terrorists and fled as fast as his crippling legs would take him.
"Loony old bastard," one of the boys howled with laughter.
Mickey bit down on his tongue. Not because he feared lashing out on behalf of the old man. Honestly that fucker had been getting on Mickey's last nerve everyday for the last two month with his racists nonsense rants and constant stink. And it was kind of funny that the guy had pissed himself. Disgusting but humorous. But No. Mickey bit down on his tongue because Mickey was annoyed even more with obnoxious douchebags who thought of themselves as being the shit when they were really nothing more than looser punks who might one day end up on Mickey's hit list. Kids like the ones Mickey used to slam their limbs into locker back before he had dropped out of high school. Kids like the ones Mickey used to torment for sport. Kids who didn't look too hard at the ugly side of life and wallowed in their own bigoted ignorance. Mickey figured he would chew on a few pieces of ice and then leave. Fuck this place. Today was not a day to be around stuff that pissed Mickey off. He was too on edge. Might end up cutting one of the punk irrationally and going to prison.
Not five minutes later, the boys were tossing fries at one another, making a mess. One of the fries flew far enough to land on Mickey's boot. He stared down at it, raised his lip, scowling. Clicked his tongue against his teeth. The group hadn't even noticed their grave mistake. He kicked the fry off and stood up, just as someone else entered and the bell dinged. Not looking behind him, Mickey waltzed over toward the boys, face indifferent and serious. The jock noticed him first and scrunched up his typical face. Began standing up as Mickey neared the table almost completely now.
"You better take a step back, dude," the boy growled, confident, then smiled down at his friends. Like he was fucking Mufasa or some shit.
Mickey smiled at the kid as he stood toe to toe with him now. Tilted his head and scratched his cheek, nostril flaring and white teeth gleaming. "Dude," Mickey mocked, "go pick up your fucking fries."
He must have come off as playful because the boy didn't grasp Mickey's words. Instead, the jock laughter, pointed at Mickey, and looked back at his friends again. "Is this guy pulling my leg?" he asked his fatter friend.
Mickey's face dropped. "No," he said calmly, "no, I'm not. I'm not. Pick up your fries." Mickey pointed behind him, mainly to the fry that had landed on his boot. "Now," he snapped, eyes wide suddenly, rage seeping through
The jock looked at Mickey now and faltered. His brows quivered in confusion. He frowned, then told Mickey to go fuck himself.
Mickey didn't hesitate. He need to get out his frustration anyway. So he quickly grabbed the guy by his collar before the jock had time to think, and hurled the younger guy toward the floor. The kid skidded a bit, his face meeting tile, and landed amongst the pile of fries.
The mailman near the counter didn't move to help the boy, but instead looked somewhat fearful of reacting. It was as Mickey looked up from the scrambling boy that he saw Ian standing by Mickey's booth, a bag of Starbucks in hand, doe eyes staring back at him. The group of boys brushed past Mickey in a flurry, helping the jock out. Ian turned, watching them go, a grin creeping across his face as the boys looked from Ian to Mickey then fled. When he looked back at Mickey, Ian seemed smug about something. Mickey wondered if the kid thought Mickey had done that on account of Ian's earlier bullying. He hadn't. Although the idea that the group obviously related Ian to Mickey somehow, and had seemed fearful, put a peace at Mickey's mind. The boys would probably leave Ian alone. At least for a while.
Ian looked at the kitchen door, then sat down at Mickey's booth and turned his full attention to the bag. Mickey furrowed his brow, seeing Ian pull out an iced-coffee and some kind of cake. The cake Ian began eating after he had scooted the coffee across the table. Never once looking back over at Mickey. In fact, was ignoring him completely now. Mickey couldn't help the amusement that overcame him. He walked over and sat down, feeling better than he had earlier. Less grumpy. He picked up the coffee and began slurping it down. Watched in silence as Ian finished off the slice of carrot cake.
After l his fingers clean, Ian tucked his his hands on his lap, under the table, and set about finally meeting Mickey's eyes. That cat-like grin swept his face again.
"I didn't do that for you," Mickey was quick to say, straw hanging against his opened mouth.
"Right," Ian said, nodding, "I know. But thanks anyway." Ian then went to staring out of the window, his chin in his hand.
Mickey chose to ignore the statement. Went back to drinking his drink. Occasionally he glanced up through his lashes at Ian with pursed lips, thoughtful.
