Read The Spider Inside Online

Authors: Elias Anderson

The Spider Inside (6 page)

The last time he’d been home was for his sister’s wedding,
when she flew him up. This was back before he was Soup and was just Mike or
sometimes Mikey, which he didn’t mind so much. This was back when he still had
all his teeth, it was before anyone in his family knew how bad his drug problem
was getting, and had not even the faintest clue of how bad it would eventually
become.

His gramma and grampa had been at the wedding, all his
favorite aunts and uncles, and even the ones he didn’t like too much or only
had vague recollections of from the various family functions of childhood. His
parents had both been there, of course, obviously his sister, his other two
brothers, all his cousins, close friends of the family. Not to mention everyone
he was now related to on his sister’s husband’s side. People he’d never met
that he was sure, if they ever thought of him, thought of him with anger and
maybe just a little hate.

There had been two hundred guests, split between the bride
and groom almost equally. Soup had fucked over every single one of them.

He was sure his mother had cried, and his gramma too. He
could picture his father’s huge face turning redder and redder until it was the
color of old bricks and the vein in his forehead was pulsing full of blood, his
eyes bugged out with rage, an expression Soup had grown accustomed to over the
years. And all the questions there would have been, mostly from his new
brother-in-law’s side, he imagined, and all of them eventually filtering up to
his parents.

To his mother.

It had been the perfect set up. He couldn’t help himself.
Earlier in the day he’d met up with his old friend Doug, who’d introduced him
to drugs in the first place, prompting his original move down to California in
a half-hearted and almost immediately failed attempt on Soup’s part to get out
of the life.

It was during the rehearsal dinner that Soup had formulated
the plan. He saw there was an entrance hall with a long table laid out along
the wall, and already it was heavy and burdened with gifts. And envelopes.
There had been a thick stack of envelopes and he was relatively sure each of
them held cash. There was another heavy door that led into the main room where
the reception would take place.

When the reception was in full swing the next night after
the wedding, he walked out of the main room without even being noticed. Just
about everyone had been drinking and dancing, having one hell of a time. He
pocketed the stack of envelopes, and then he and Doug simply loaded Doug’s
truck with the wedding gifts. All of them. Doug didn’t really know a fence and
Soup had a great one in California so they drove from Portland to LA and sold
everything and went on a six day speed bender. Soup hadn’t seen or spoken to a
single member of his family since sneaking out of the reception. It had been
three and a half years ago.

Part of him always laughed inside when he thought of this,
and another part ached, long and deep, to see his mother again. Over the years
and through all the other horrible things he’d done and all the drugs, the
laughter in his head had all but drowned out the ache.

Soup finished his joint, took his pills, and went to bed.

DRUGS AND GUNS

Tattoo Nik needed a gun. He didn’t
need
one now, not
in the sense that he had someone all lined up to shoot, and hoped to never have
to use it, but in the line of work he was trying so hard to step into it was
always best to have one, just the same.

The sun was still just barely rising, only now completely
visible over the line of the horizon. Most gun shops or sporting goods stores
wouldn’t be open for another two or three hours, but luckily for Nik the kind
of place he was selling was open pretty much all the time.

He jumped on his motorcycle and gunned it to life, knowing
he would have to go a little faster than was strictly legal to make his
appointment. His Ninja always reminded him of the sound a giant electric shaver
would make. His father had been a Harley man before anything else, and Nik knew
part of the old man died a little the first time he saw his only son pull up to
the house on what he called a crotch-rocket, or a rice burner, or if he’d tied
one on, simply a jap-bike.

He liked the bike because it fit him so well, so perfectly,
like it was an extension of not just his body but his mind and soul. He’d never
come close to stacking the thing, not even the time he drove down Topanga
Canyon doing sixty...not that sixty was fast on a highway, but Topanga was
steep, twisting hill road with switchbacks and loads of blind curves.

The bike was perfect though, especially now, after he’d
spiked. At times it almost seemed to Nik as if he had some kind of mental link
with the bike, he had but to think about hitting the sweet spot going around a
curve and he was on the other side of it, picking up speed.

The trip was a short one, mostly because of the speed at
which Nik drove, weaving through the morning traffic like one of those birds
that can thread through a chain-link fence dive-bombing it at forty miles an
hour.

He parked his bike in front of the warehouse and hit the
buzzer.

“We’re closed,” said a voice from the speaker.

“Delivery,” Nik said, looking up into the camera above the
door as he had been instructed to do. “I got your office supplies.” Nik
wondered if this code meant paper, meaning money, or if it was just something
random. It didn’t matter, he supposed. It was just what Gomez had told him to
say.

There was a click and he waited. Nik closed his eyes and
breathed in deep breaths of the sweet and cool morning air; even out here in
the middle of one of the most polluted American cities the air was sweet. Nik
wrested control of his body from the drug, using it to stay razor sharp and
alert but not allowing himself to shake, or bop, or do the fucking Two Step. In
about a minute the door opened and he was looked over by a Latino man wearing a
wife-beater, old jeans, and a Lakers cap.

The young man nodded his head and stepped aside, holding the
door open wide for Nik, who stepped in. Two other Latinos, both large and
obviously packing heat were waiting.

“Necesitas registrarte?” Nik asked.

“Si, si,” the man who answered the door said.

Nik took off his leather Jacket and laid it on the floor,
stood with his legs apart and his arms raised like you do at the airport if you
get pulled for additional security screening. The young man in the Lakers hat
patted him down casually. Nik doubted if many people came out here strapped;
from everything he’d heard from Gomez it would be a mistake.

As he was searched he made conversation.

“Como se llama?” Nik asked.

“They call me Mouse. You got a good accent, by the way.
Where’d you learn?”

“My step-mom is from Mexico,” Nik said. “Raised me since I
was four.”

“What happened to your arm?” Mouse asked, indicating the
gauze wrapping that went from his wrist almost to his shoulder. Nik looked down
at it, and saw faint lines of blood that had seeped through.

“New tattoo.”

Mouse nodded, then turned to the other two men. “He’s clean.
Take him back.”

Nik picked his leather up off the floor and put it back on
and followed the armed guards. There was no conversation with them, not in any
language. He felt like he was going to burst out of his skin. Maybe he should
have just smoked before coming out here, maybe shooting had been a little
overzealous. As he walked Nik decided that no, his first instinct had been the
right one, because there was still so much to be done after he was finished
here, and he had he smoked or snorted there was no way he would have made it,
he would have had to go home and re-up, which would totally fuck his time
table, or bring shit with him, which was an absolute no-no. Too many people got
busted over stupid shit like that. Soup, for instance. He knew that sometimes
there was no choice, that you absolutely had to carry your shit with you, that
or you could never leave the house. But Soup had been walking from his
apartment to the gas station up the street for a fucking pack of smokes. He had
to take an eight ball of crystal with him? Why? What was the point? It was a
ten minute walk, for Chrissakes.

The men in front of him stopped and opened a door. One went
in, the other stood there staring at Nik until he went through, then brought up
the rear. Nik smelled beer on his breath as he passed him.

Beer on his breath, Nik thought with a little disgust. It’s
not even eight in the fucking morning!

Inside the large room was a long table, the kind you would
see set up in a gymnasium or a church, the shitty kind with the legs that fold
up and pinch the fuck out of your hand if you don’t watch what you’re doing.
Sitting on a chair on the far side of the table was another Latino, this one
wearing a Western-style shirt and a bolo tie. Laid out on the table were more
guns than Nik had ever seen in one place.

“So, Mr. Nicholson, is it?” the Mexican with the string tie
on asked.

“It is,” Nik said, approaching the table with his hand held
out. He leaned across the expanse of killing machines and shook hands. “And you
are?”

“Call me Chester,” Chester said, letting go of Nik’s hand.

“Short for Winchester?” Nik asked.

“No, why?”

“Well, because, well, of the--”

Chester laughed. “Relax man, I’m fucking with you. Yes, it
is short for Winchester, just like the gun. Now I understand you know my
cousin, yes?”

“I do. He was kind enough to set this little meeting up for
me. Hope it’s not too early?”

Chester laughed again. “Business does not sleep, Mr.
Nicholson, especially the business of guns.”

“Call me Nik,” Nik said.

“Short for Nicholson?” Chester asked.

“No, my mom just had a shitty sense of humor. Nik
Nicholson.”

Chester laughed, and Nik wondered if he was high on fucking
whippits or something. Everything was hilarious to this fucking bean.

“I understand from what Gomez has told me that you are in
need of a certain kind of weapon.”

“Yes.”

“Anything specific you are looking for?”

“Well, something reliable and compact, but for starters
something without any bodies on it.”

“You insult me! I do not sell used merchandise.” Chester
looked at the two armed guards. “It is stolen, but not used.” This got him laughing
again, and the two armed men laughed as well, though from them it sounded
forced. Nik also laughed, but only because he believed it good policy to laugh
whenever someone with a gun thought something was funny.

“Now then,” Chester continued. “It is a pistol you are
looking for?”

“Yes.”

“Would you prefer an automatic or a revolver?”

“Well, I’m partial to automatics myself but in this case I
think a revolver would be the way to go. I’m looking for something along the
lines of a .38 maybe? Or a .357?”

“Ah! I have the perfect weapon. Come.” Chester walked toward
one end of the table and Nik followed him. Chester picked up a pistol, opened
the cylinder and spun it to show Nik it was empty, then handed the gun to him.

“Eight shots?” Nik asked, counting the holes in the cylinder
again to be sure.

“Si. This is a Colt .357 with a six inch barrel, rubberized
grip, eight shot capacity.”

Nik hefted the gun, thumbed the hammer back, pointed it at
the wall at the far end of the room.

“Nice, but do you have anything a little smaller?”

Chester nodded and scanned the table briefly, then handed
Nik another gun.

“It’s light,” Nik said.

“Taurus .357, four inch barrel. Made of titanium, so it
weighs about half as much as that Colt. Now, this means there will be more kick
to it, but they’ve compensated a little by venting the end of the barrel, you
see those slots there? Faster second-shot acquisition. You’ll still feel the
difference in the recoil, but overall it’s a great little gun. I have two of
them at home myself.”

“Seven shots,” Nik said, checking the cylinder and snapping
it shut with a flick of his wrist.

“Yes.”

“Seven is good though,” Nik said.

“Unless you need eight,” Chester said, and this time Nik
laughed with him for real.

“How much?” Nik asked.

“Normally they retail between four and a half and five,
street value of a clean weapon like this? Untraceable? I could get anything
between eight hundred and a thousand for it. But my cousin says you’re good
people, so I can give it to you for six.”

“Six it is,” Nik said and took out his wallet. He handed the
money to Chester who held each of the fifty dollar bills up to the light.

“What about ammo?” Nik asked, as they walked back toward the
middle of the table.

“I can throw in a box, each additional box will run you five
bucks. Keep in mind these are the heavy loads, too. Go for damn near half a
buck a bullet, retail.”

Nik calculated how much he could stow in the rear
compartment on his bike and gave Chester another twenty.

“You got a holster for this thing?” Nik asked.

Chester smiled. “You want it on your back or on your side?
Personally, let me ask you...do you wear that coat a lot?”

“If I wear a coat, it’s this one, yes.”

“I got the perfect thing for you,” Chester said. “Take that
jacket off, man.”

Nik did as he was told and watched Chester rummage through
some boxes. A minute or so later he held the black contraption up in triumph,
getting another laugh from his goons. Nik smiled, but he was about fake-laughed
out for the morning.

“Here, put this on,” Chester said, helping Nik adjust the
straps. “You wear that coat over this man, no one gonna know you packing unless
you go through a metal detector or you draw down on em.”

Nik put his coat back on over the holster, put the gun in,
and looked down at himself. The gun was hanging beneath his left arm, right
against the ribs.

“Perfect,” Chester said. “Fifteen if you want it.”

“And I think you have something else for me, too?” Nik
asked, handing over the money.

“Yes, Gomez said you could take care of this for me. You can
drop this envelope off?” Chester turned and lifted his coat off the back of the
chair he’d been sitting in, and from the inside pocket took a sealed
business-sized envelope. “The address is on the front.”

Nik studied it for a moment. “And it isn’t too early? If I
were to go over there now?”

Chester shook his head. “Mouse will give you directions.”

Nik nodded, tucked the envelope into his own coat pocket.

“You need a bag for that?” Chester asked with another laugh.
He stuffed the ammo into a small duffel bag that Nik judged would fit just
right into the compartment on his bike.

“Appreciate your help,” Nik said, and they shook hands once
more. He wanted badly to ask what was in the envelope but resisted. Too many
questions were a terrible thing.

Nik took the highway even though he knew there would be more
traffic, another forty minutes and it would be gridlock for cars. Not him
though. Even when everyone else was at a standstill he could zip down a center
line or along the shoulder, blowing by people so fast they wouldn’t even be
able to tell what color his bike was. He was pushing his bike up to about
ninety when a huge curve came up and he made it around but almost laid it down.
Just as he felt his rear wheel go he gunned it and the bike finished the rest
of the curve like it was on rails. He took the next exit and had to keep
checking his speedometer, he wanted to go faster faster faster, but he also
didn’t need to get pulled over with a freshly purchased illegal firearm and
whatever was in the envelope Chester had given him.

He got off his bike and checked the faded numbers against
those on the envelope and they matched up. There was a young woman in the front
yard, pregnant, another kid on her hip sucking a pacifier. The kid on her hip
was a dead ringer for Chester. Frog approached her slowly, holding the envelope
out.

“From Chester,” he said. He tried to find his Spanish and
couldn’t. He could barely speak. The woman’s eyes opened like the mouths of
tunnels through a mountain and seemed to swallow him. Her face was stone,
blank, bored. It gave away nothing. Her eyes though, they held all the contempt
in the world, and for the world, and for Nik, who imagined himself looking to
her like some crazy gringo, walking through her yard, stammering, trying to
hand her a dirty envelope. She snatched the envelope from him and seemed to
recognize the writing on the front. She just stared at him, putting all the
hate and disgust from her heart into her eyes.

Nik turned and started back toward the gate and then heard
her speak.

“You’re coming to a bad end,” she said. Her soft voice rang
in his ears like a gypsy curse thousands of generations in the making. Nik
turned back and her eyes were no longer dark brown but black, her body
shimmered in the light like a mirage and her true form rippled beneath the
skin. She was Death, she was Legion. The ground began to shake and shadows
dripped off everything like dirty motor oil. On her hip was not a child but a
demon, Nik could see where the horns would burst through the fleshy disguise any
moment. The diaper bulged and was full but not from needing changed, Nik had no
doubt a long pointed tail was curled up inside it, waiting to be freed so like
the tail of a scorpion it could render and poison and tear. Nik wiped at his
eyes as they began to water and the world blurred and bloody iron wings grew
out her back and his head swam and she was just a woman again, a young one,
standing in a dusty yard with a cute, fat little baby on her hip. Nik left, but
not for home. There was still so much to do.

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