Chapter 7: Nothing Big

Later that night Meeks waits outside the old factory where Falcone told him to go. Where Portnoy likes to visit. He leans against a graffiti splashed wall and pokes his head around the corner when he hears Portnoy coming. Portnoy is an older guy with a long gray ponytail and he wears a wool trench coat. A nervous young hooker of maybe 16 or 17 dangles on his arm and he’s practically dragging her along. To Meeks she is too pretty and too young for this mess.

He follows them inside where there are oily machines the size of city blocks. Thunderous thumping and pumping sounds bang in Meeks’ ears. He slips clumsily through a fenced-in doorway with darting eyes into some sort of stockroom. Pallets of boxes are stacked 30 feet high to the ceiling. He draws close to the wall and he carefully peeks around a corner.

Portnoy and the young hooker are going at it. She’s on her knees and she’s working dutifully as Portnoy moans.

“Just like I told you. Stupid little bitch.”

Meeks draws his gun but his hand wavers. His eyes move between Portnoy and the gun. The gun and Portnoy. Nothing big.

“Probably learned this from your Papa, right?” Portnoy says.

Meeks grips the gun to his chest and he breathes in deep. His palms are sweaty. Nothing big.

Slap.

It’s the sound of flesh on flesh. The young girl yelps.

Meeks darts his eyes around the corner and he finds the young hooker sprawled along the concrete floor. She’s holding her pretty face as Portnoy towers over her with a menacing look and gritted teeth.

“What the fuck? You whores never get it right!”

He kicks her in the face and her nose explodes. Blood splashes the discolored concrete. This incenses Meeks. He rushes around the corner and he points the gun at Portnoy’s face.

“Asshole.”

Portnoy’s eyes focus on the gun. His sleazy jaw drops and he licks his yellow-slicked teeth.

“Falcone wants you to know something.”

“No…Tell Falcone…”

“Shut up. I want to tell you something first.”

Meeks slams his foot up into Portnoy’s groin. Portnoy drops like a sack of flour. Meeks waves the gun at the bloody young hooker.

“Get out of here.”

She only gawks at him.

“I said get out. You say anything about this and I’ll find you.”

She hurries out in tears. When she is gone Meeks turns his full attention to Portnoy. Portnoy grabs the cuff of Meeks’ pants leg and begs.

“I can get the money. Please.”

Meeks pulls back the gun. Uncertain. He’s never killed before. But somewhere – whispers fill the air. They’re subtle but they are there.

“He doesn’t deserve to live…” the whispers say.

Meeks seems to hear them. Ethereal voices they are.

“Kill him.”

Meeks sets the gun back to the man’s head. “You make me sick.”

He yanks the book from his pocket and thrusts it at Portnoy. Portnoy looks over the cover. “Dark Night of the Soul” by St. John of the Cross. Portnoy gasps in horror.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Meeks isn’t an animal. He isn’t his father. He can’t help but feel pity for the sweaty mewling man begging for his life.

“You’re so young,” Portnoy says. “You don’t want to live with something like this on your conscience. Do you?”

“Kill him…” the whispers say.

Meeks tries to shake off the whispers but they are persistent.

“My blood would be on your hands forever. That’s a long time.”

“Pull the trigger…” the whispers say.

Meeks hesitates.

“Forever, man,” Portnoy says. “Please. She was nothing. Just a weak, stupid whore.”

Those words crash into Meeks like a sledgehammer. The whispers build to a crescendo. Meeks looks away, sick, to the floor where the Young Hooker fell. Something there gleams. He squints at it.

A broken tooth.

Meeks’ face twists with disgust. The whispers shriek.

“Kill him now!”

Meeks pulls the trigger. Portnoy’s blood splatters the wall with crimson dots. Meeks picks up the book and drops it onto Portnoy’s dead body and he leaves.

Outside through the alleyway Meeks marches through the cold night with his hands stuffed into his pockets. His face and his eyes are filled with seething rage. With hate. With fear.

Back home he enters and goes directly into the bathroom and locks the door. He vomits into the toilet. He wipes his mouth and stares at himself in the mirror and he grips the sink with both hands to steady himself so he can get a good look.

Linda bangs on the door with frantic fists. “Russell? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Meeks gaze intensifies as he scrutinizes himself. Perhaps he is finally seeing himself. This new man. Or this old one.

“What happened tonight?” Linda asks. “What did you do?”

Meeks draws back though his eyes never leave those of his reflection. He cocks his head and this perhaps is when he truly sees himself.

“Nothing big.”

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