Chapter Eleven: All Nighter
Mickey woke up, arms raised over the foot of the bed, the rest of him slumped in the floor. Woke up, sat against the bottom of the bed, legs sloppily out in front of him, and stretched his torso by popping his back. He looked over at the clock. When Mickey had gotten back to his hotel room, it was probably about five in the afternoon, give or take, and now it was midnight. So in one day, he had single handed fixed and then fucked over his sleep schedule. A-fucking-gin. At this rate Mickey figured he may as well get an honest job as a midnight radio DJ.
Rubbing his face, Mickey struggled to rid himself of his grogginess. He sat still, trying to piece together the events leading up to his passing out. Doing so didn't take much effort since Mickey hadn't been totally fucked out his mind, rather just a little too drunk. He remembered perfectly well throwing a liquor bomb at that pimp. Remembered why even. Well, mostly. Mickey remembered Rodney dragging Ian's mother around by the scruff of her neck; remembered Ian charging over; and remembered Rodney thinking everything was all in good fun. Thus he remembered getting angry. Though the reason for his anger was a little muddled now. After all, the incident hadn't really been of his business. So it wasn't so remembering the physicality as it was emotion. Mickey frowned, chewing his bottom lip, and stared at the dresser intently.
Mickey groaned. He really wished that he would have turned down doing Ian any favors, like mending a gun. And teaching the kid how to fucking fire it. Or actually, that hadn't really been the reason for the two of them shooting at the mattress. Truth was, Mickey had offered it up as shit-and-giggles because he was bored and Ian's company wasn't half bad. Now he wished he wouldn't have. Mickey was never social. Why he had picked then, he wasn't sure.
His mouth tasted stale. He stood up and went into the bathroom to slosh around mouthwash. In doing so, he leaned onto the sink, arms flat out to the sides, and stared at his reflection. His scruff was pretty much a full on beard at this point. Mickey spit then wiped his mouth his the sleeve of his coat. Then spit again because he could still taste the mouthwash. It burned his mouth, made it water. So he stood there and spit until the harshness left him. Clearing his throat, Mickey went back into the room to search out the items he had purchased that morning. And froze in the bathroom walkway, crossing his arms. Before going outside to work on Ian's revolver, Mickey had sat his stuff on the counter-top. Which was probably where it remained. Mulling this over, Mickey sighed. He had two choices, go buy another razor tomorrow and tough out his itchy face, or trudge back to Ian's house and collect his shit. If Mickey could even remember which house was Ian's. And probably the guy was asleep by now. Mickey scratched his cheek. The kid had probably taken a few punches and was sleeping soundly right now.
Except that Mickey couldn't stop picturing the redhead laying unconscious under the El, his cracked out mom sitting beside of him, rocking back and forth, apologizing for causing so much trouble. All while Ian slowly slipped into oblivion. Not that Mickey wanted to play some hero, but he felt somewhat responsible for the scene he was picturing. After all, he had pissed Rodney off worse than the pimp had seemed initially. And then Mickey had left Ian to deal with the aftermath. Honestly, even Mickey knew that was kind of shitty. So he walked out of his hotel room and made his way to Ian's street.
When he passed under the El and didn't see a body, Mickey felt relieved and stopped for a minute, almost turning around. Yet when he looked forward at the house tops, he figured since he had already made it this far, he may as well see if Ian's lights were on.
Upon seeing the house with boarded up windows and a missing front door, people practically hanging out of the front door, stoned out of their mind, Mickey immediately recognized Ian's house. Directly beside of the crack house. The two houses practically shared the same yard. In fact, if one wasn't looking close enough, one might think both homes were crack houses. Especially since a good majority of the junkies were crowding not only the obvious slum, but Ian's yard as well. Kind of reminded Mickey of his childhood street in some sick way. Except then it hadn't been crackheads, but his father's many associates and enemies. And police. Some druggies, but very few. And the somewhat normal folk who had mostly remained in doors. For a second, as he stood there looking up at the light coming from the second floor of Ian's home, Mickey wondered how it was possible for this neighborhood to appear worse than Rosa Parks Blvd. Mickey's hometown was a cesspool . Yet somehow this place looked worse. Maybe it was because of how hopeful the neighborhood looked. Like it was trying. Yet failing. But the fact that this place seemed to put in effort made it worse. Because Rosa Parks hadn't ever tried. Why bother trying when you've already been condemned to hell and told reprieve would never come?
A shiver caught Mickey and he shook it out. The temperature was dropped enough that the thin jacket Mickey wore may as well not be on his body. He pressed his hands deeper into his pockets and debated on how to go about getting his razor and creamer. Another light switched on and this time it was the one just in front of Mickey, beside of the front door. Standing at the foot of Ian's stood, Mickey ruffled his own hair, deep in thought, then shrugged and and stomped up to the door, banging.
Before he'd knocked rudely, Mickey heard footsteps and a muffled voice. As soon as he banged, everything was quite. Probably Mickey's knock had been confused with that of the cops. It was almost identical.
The door creaked open after a moment's pause. Slowly. Mickey took a step back, brows knitted into his usual permafrown. Once Ian recognized him, the worried looked he'd had vanished, and he opened the door halfway, leaning into it. He looked over Mickey, confused. "Forget something?" Ian asked, a slight harshness in his tone. He was pissed.
Well of course he was pissed. Being as Ian was probably going to act unfavorably, Mickey thought he would beat the kid to the chase. It was always best to have the upper hand. Even in small time situations.
Mickey sniffed, rolled his shoulders, and thumbed his bottom lip. "Yeah," he said, unfriendly, "left my shit in your kitchen."
Ian furrowed his brow, lips down-turning slowly. He stood up straight and shut the door. The hair on Mickey's neck stood up. His eyes bulged and his blood boiled. Fucker had slammed the door in his face. He was about to bang again, fist in motion, what Ian jerked the door back open and extended out Mickey's things, placed into a plastic bag that wasn't Mickey's. "Here," Ian said.
Mickey grabbed the bag, not saying thanks, and took a backward step downward to leave. Ian's face had softened, but still showed offense. Mickey noticed quickly Ian's freshly bruised cheek. "Hope you hit him back," Mickey commented before he could catch his tongue. His eyes darted around awkwardly.
Ian raised his brows, relaxed. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. Looking over at the crack-house, Ian shook his head. "Wouldn't have done any good. I'd have just made the situation escalate," he said, putting his hands into the pockets of his blue pajama pants. His striped sweater frumped up around his forearms.
Mickey shrugged. "Sometimes you have to light something on fire to set order in motion," Mickey said, meeting Ian's gaze. There was a long silence. Mickey finally looked down at the bag in his hand. He bounced it once, frowning thoughtfully. "Sorry about skipping out," he mumbled. "I'm a fucking mean drunk, though. Nothing good was coming from that," he admitted.
Ian's face moved quickly. And Mickey almost missed the way the redhead seemed thoughtful. Almost. "It's cool," Ian finally said, wetting his lips and shrugging. "I'm used to Rodney's shit ever since my dad ran out."
Clearing his throat, Mickey let a silence fall between them. He wasn't sure what to make of the situation. Wasn't sure how to respond. Wasn't sure why he was even still standing there. Because he should have left after Ian handed him the bag. Should have, but didn't.
Ian broke the silence eventually, thanking Mickey again for fixing the gun. And after giving Ian an awkward, "Whatever. No problem," Mickey nodded goodbye and left.
The rest of the night, Mickey spent shaving, then phoning Rex and discussing whatever it was the guy had attempted bringing up earlier in the day. Halfway through the conversation, Mickey wanted to hang up, find a time-machine, and undo the phone call all together. To live in ignorance. But it was too late now and that wasn't possible, anyway.
"What do you fucking mean she's a cop?" Mickey growled into his receiver. He had his feet propped up on the foot of his bed and was sitting in the hard chair offered up as seating in this miserable room. He hadn't used it until tonight. Usually the chair was Mickey's counter top; where he kept his coffee maker and creamer. Now those things were in his floor, beside of the dresser. He shifted his socked feet around, staring at the hole on one of the toe ends. He needed new clothes. New everything, really.
Rex rambled in his ear. "I'm telling you, Mickey," he fretted, "when I met her, I had no idea. I found out when I was doing my usual research. But she's for sure a copper."
"What are you," Mickey chuckled, "a fucking gangster now?"
There was a silence on the other end, then Rex scoffed. "But seriously, this needs to be taken care of," he said, sounding like he was taking a hit off a joint.
Mickey wanted a smoke. And not nicotine. Although he ended up settling for a cigarette, pulling one out of his pants pocket, sticking it in his mouth, digging out the lighter, and burning one down.
"You can't kill her," Mickey said simply. "If she's a cop, that means someone is already looking into you. She disappears and you're the first ones they come after," he went on, bending down and stubbing out his cigarette on the chair leg. After he was finished, he propped his feet up again.
"Yeah no shit," Rex grumbled. "So what do we do?"
"We?" Mickey asked, then said, kind of harsh, "I don't fucking know you past this phone call, until she's out of the picture."
Rex was quiet. He exhaled slowly, loud, understanding. "All right. Gotcha," he finally said before hanging up.
Mickey tossed the phone onto the bed and leaned back in the chair, the chair legs coming off the floor. He put his arms behind his head and counted the strange wallpaper on his ceiling. Of frogs and sailboats. Weird, just like the rest of Mickey's life and all things in it. He sniffed, stretched, and looked over at the alarm. It was almost eight in the morning. He had been on the phone for the entire night, not all of it spent talking about Rex's cop. Most of the things he and Rex had talked about were Rex's new baby, Mickey's inability to be anything but a snide asshole, Mickey's alcohol problem, Rex's addiction to cocain, the break Mickey needed to take, Rex not being able to afford it now that he was a parent, Mickey not giving a fuck. And for some reason, Mickey had mentioned the handful of people he had met around this neighborhood, and how somehow they were sucking him into their miserable lives. How Mickey was considering moving just because that fact alone. Rex called Mickey a loner. Mickey said it was true and that if he could have it his way, he wouldn't even have Rex around. Which was a lie and they both knew it, but said nothing. Mickey more than tolerated Rex half the time, for reasons both men didn't understand. Only after all of that did Rex and Mickey speak of the cop.
