over my face and blocked these views from sight. Now I had no choice but to peel back the blinders, willingly step inside, and have a good look around.
“What are you going to do?” Charlie asked. “Just knock on the door?”
“I don’t suggest sitting here,” I said. Another thing I knew about speed: that shit made you jumpy. “Liable to get a shotgun stuck in our faces.”
“I figured we were going to be dropping in on some druggies playing video games,” Charlie said. “This place ain’t right.” He swallowed hard.
I made for my door handle. “You can wait here, if you want.”
My work boots crunched snowy stone. I kept my hands out of my pockets. A moment later, I heard Charlie’s door slam behind me.
As we drew nearer, the music churned louder, grating and dissonant.
The door was ajar. I slowly pushed it open.
There was scarcely any light, just whatever natural gray filtered through the windows. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I found the big, bald-headed man with the tattoos and wife-beater waiting. He didn’t look happy to see us.
It was as cold inside as it was out, not even a space heater, but he didn’t wear a jacket, just the tank top, the word “Bowman” stretched across his broad chest in cracked vinyl letters. He had shoulders the size of bowling balls and the Star of David etched into his neck.
Behind him, three other men with the kind of inked-up bodies you get only from long stints in prison, matching flaming-wing-and-gun tattoos, glanced up from a card table where they sat. Workers on an assembly line, screwdrivers and solder in hand, huddled over a mound of squiggling computer innards. Tendrils of smoke slithered from ashtrays and melting wires. You could taste the chemicals burning. But it was what was beyond them that really caught my attention.
On the grimy floor, a half dozen malnourished girls and boys lay, their gangly arms and legs intertwined, blissed-out heads resting in each other’s laps or drooping in a nod. The girls appeared woefully underageand whorishly dressed, the boys all weak and thin. It was easy to see my brother was not among them.
The inside of the shop was gutted like a construction site. Sheet-rock had been kicked in, exposing two-by-fours, bands of electrical wires yanked out and dangling, the concrete floor covered in crumbly plaster and nails. The shrill metal music wrenched to an out-of-time beat.
The junkies lazily stirred, like cold-blooded lizards unable to reanimate for lack of sun, pawing, groping, grasping. They looked barely alive, fighting to keep their eyes open. I felt disdain for the whole sorry lot well inside me. Who chooses to live like this?
Then I saw the bruises. Up and down arms, around the wrists, deep blues and purples. My eyes darted to a dark corner and a wood chair. No one sat in it, but twine hung loose from the arms and legs. Liquid pooled underneath, as if someone had pissed himself.
“Can I help you?” Bowman said. It wasn’t really a question.
I’d been in a few bar fights over the years, and I had some weight on me, but at that moment I was really glad Charlie had agreed to come along. I was out of my element here.
“I’m looking for my brother,” I said, unable to think of anything better.
Maybe the honesty disarmed him, or maybe that was the whole sizing-up process and I didn’t pose a threat—I don’t know—but Bowman eased up, haunches and shoulders relaxing. He sniffed hard, grabbed his pack of Camels off what used to be the hostess station, struck a match, and took a long pull, tip glowing cherry red. He blew a ring of smoke in my direction.
“Who’s your brother?”
“Chris Porter,” I said. “I thought this was his computer shop?”
Bowman peered over his shoulder. The men at the table chuckled.
“He ain’t been around here lately,” Bowman said, before affecting the mannerisms of the world’s most unconvincing receptionist. “But if he stops in, who should I
“What are you going to do?” Charlie asked. “Just knock on the door?”
“I don’t suggest sitting here,” I said. Another thing I knew about speed: that shit made you jumpy. “Liable to get a shotgun stuck in our faces.”
“I figured we were going to be dropping in on some druggies playing video games,” Charlie said. “This place ain’t right.” He swallowed hard.
I made for my door handle. “You can wait here, if you want.”
My work boots crunched snowy stone. I kept my hands out of my pockets. A moment later, I heard Charlie’s door slam behind me.
As we drew nearer, the music churned louder, grating and dissonant.
The door was ajar. I slowly pushed it open.
There was scarcely any light, just whatever natural gray filtered through the windows. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I found the big, bald-headed man with the tattoos and wife-beater waiting. He didn’t look happy to see us.
It was as cold inside as it was out, not even a space heater, but he didn’t wear a jacket, just the tank top, the word “Bowman” stretched across his broad chest in cracked vinyl letters. He had shoulders the size of bowling balls and the Star of David etched into his neck.
Behind him, three other men with the kind of inked-up bodies you get only from long stints in prison, matching flaming-wing-and-gun tattoos, glanced up from a card table where they sat. Workers on an assembly line, screwdrivers and solder in hand, huddled over a mound of squiggling computer innards. Tendrils of smoke slithered from ashtrays and melting wires. You could taste the chemicals burning. But it was what was beyond them that really caught my attention.
On the grimy floor, a half dozen malnourished girls and boys lay, their gangly arms and legs intertwined, blissed-out heads resting in each other’s laps or drooping in a nod. The girls appeared woefully underageand whorishly dressed, the boys all weak and thin. It was easy to see my brother was not among them.
The inside of the shop was gutted like a construction site. Sheet-rock had been kicked in, exposing two-by-fours, bands of electrical wires yanked out and dangling, the concrete floor covered in crumbly plaster and nails. The shrill metal music wrenched to an out-of-time beat.
The junkies lazily stirred, like cold-blooded lizards unable to reanimate for lack of sun, pawing, groping, grasping. They looked barely alive, fighting to keep their eyes open. I felt disdain for the whole sorry lot well inside me. Who chooses to live like this?
Then I saw the bruises. Up and down arms, around the wrists, deep blues and purples. My eyes darted to a dark corner and a wood chair. No one sat in it, but twine hung loose from the arms and legs. Liquid pooled underneath, as if someone had pissed himself.
“Can I help you?” Bowman said. It wasn’t really a question.
I’d been in a few bar fights over the years, and I had some weight on me, but at that moment I was really glad Charlie had agreed to come along. I was out of my element here.
“I’m looking for my brother,” I said, unable to think of anything better.
Maybe the honesty disarmed him, or maybe that was the whole sizing-up process and I didn’t pose a threat—I don’t know—but Bowman eased up, haunches and shoulders relaxing. He sniffed hard, grabbed his pack of Camels off what used to be the hostess station, struck a match, and took a long pull, tip glowing cherry red. He blew a ring of smoke in my direction.
“Who’s your brother?”
“Chris Porter,” I said. “I thought this was his computer shop?”
Bowman peered over his shoulder. The men at the table chuckled.
“He ain’t been around here lately,” Bowman said, before affecting the mannerisms of the world’s most unconvincing receptionist. “But if he stops in, who should I
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