CHAPTER ELEVEN
The owners of 187 were a pair of ex-cops who knew what cops wanted: strong booze, loud music, and a kitchen that stayed open until four-thirty a.m. to accommodate guys coming off the mid-p.m. shift, at two forty-five. For maximum grit, they’d rented a subdivided warehouse, sandwiched between a sandblasting company and an auto body shop on Blackwelder Street, an industrial zone south of the 10.
The door was unmarked, the handle a welded tire iron. He hauled it open and bass thundered out, rattling chain-link and razor wire.
The nearest residences were two blocks east, across Fairfax, which might or might not put them beyond the sonic blast zone.
Good luck getting anyone to serve a noise complaint.
The floor thronged with law enforcement and those who loved and lusted for them. Female cops seldom bothered, making 187 a popular choice for civilian women slightly past expiration date.
Jacob paused near the entrance, scanning for Mai.
She’d stand out in this crowd.
Plenty of cleavage. Plenty of tramp stamps rising above low-riding waistbands as the bearers bent to aim for the corner pocket, to whisper, to lick an earlobe.
No Mai.
It was tough for him to imagine her here. She must’ve felt like raw rib eye. Tougher still to imagine her finding him, chatting him up.
Taking him home? That was impossible to imagine.
Another dead end. Time to go.
But the PA was blasting Sublime, and he felt too keyed up to sleep.
He fought his way to the bar, three-deep with boozers and flirters. An hour before closing, desperation reigned, couplings forming and imploding like some frantic game of human Tetris.
Behind the bar, Victor was already pouring him a double bourbon. Loyalty born of bad habits. Jacob pictured his own funeral: a tearful crowd of bartenders and convenience store clerks.
Victor set his drink down and turned to collect another order.
“Yo,” Jacob yelled, waving him back. “You remember a girl was in here couple nights ago?”
Victor gave him a look like they made you a detective?
“She left with me,” Jacob said.
Victor laughed. “You’re not narrowing it down none.”
“She came with a friend. Hot as hell, if that helps.”
“We don’t allow that kind,” Victor said. He tapped the rim of Jacob’s glass. “Four more, I bet you find someone who looks just like her.”
He hustled off to confront demands.
Jacob sloshed the bourbon, watching it cling to the side of the glass, feeling no desire whatever to have a drink.
But high-functioning alcoholism demanded dedication.
He tipped the liquor back, tossed a twenty on the bar, turned to go, ran smack into a pillowy chest.
His usual midweek prize, soft around the edges, hard in the face; bleached, un-picky, and deep into her cups.
She pouted. “You spilled my drink.”
He sighed and signaled to Victor.
—
HE WALKED HER TO HER CAR, pointed out his own, and told her to follow, adding, “Drive carefully.”
She snickered. “Who’s gonna pull me over?”
In his kitchen, he stood with his pants around his ankles, a drawer handle poking his bare ass, a bottle of Beam in hand to swig from whenever his enthusiasm waned.
She paused from going down on him to shoot him a stern look. “Don’t pass out on me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No whiskey dick, either. Hang on, I need to pee.”
Her knees cracked as she stood up and left the room.
Jesus Christ, he thought.
He heard the stream. Loud. She’d left the bathroom door ajar.
“Very classy,” she yelled.
“Can you get a condom, please? Bottom drawer left.”
The toilet flushed, the sink ran, and she reappeared, sans jeans, shirt open, flapping the condom like a sugar packet.
“You have roaches,” she said.
Though he knew it wasn’t fair, he couldn’t help but compare her to Mai.
Maybe she was what he needed to help him forget.
Uncomplicated.
He sat down on a kitchen chair, rolled the condom on, gave his thigh a slap.
“At your service,” he said.
She stumbled over and positioned herself over him, her breasts swinging in his face. She was about to lower herself when she paused and kicked at something on the floor.
“Uch. You need Raid.” She kicked again, let out an annoyed yelp. “Fuck.”
“What.”
“Fucking thing bit me.”
“What?”
“Whatever,” she said, plopping down on his lap.
Another satisfied customer.
He took hold of the flesh at her hips and started to swivel her back and forth atop him and then he realized that she was gasping still, and it didn’t sound like she was having any fun.
He looked up and saw her eyes rolled back into her head, her head lolling, chin to chest, drooling.
This was a first for him. He’d been known to pass out mid-act but he’d never been the other party. Feeling slighted, he gave her a shake. “Hey.”
She slumped forward against him, her body seizing violently.
He swore and tried to hold her up and she pitched backward off his lap onto the linoleum, bashing her head against the fridge door and landing with her legs spread.
He dropped to his knees, ready to do CPR.
She was blinking up at him, white with terror. “What’s happening.”
“You tell me,” he said.
She stared down at her own genitals; at his; at his face.
She scrambled from the kitchen.
He followed her into the bathroom, watched her hop into her clothes.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You hit your head.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
As she raised her foot to tug on her heel, he noticed a red welt on her left instep. “Are you allergic to something?”
She didn’t answer.
Then she said, “It felt like you were stabbing me.”
He said, “I . . .”
He stopped. He didn’t know whether to apologize, or . . . what. He felt he should make an effort to get her to stay, at least until she was good to drive. He started to say so and she waved him off, grabbing her purse and rushing out into the milky morning.
From the window he watched, unnerved, as she sped away.
He dressed and got down on hands and knees to hunt for roaches.
He couldn’t find any, not there or in the bathroom.
All the same, he tied up the trash bag containing his old waffle and took it out to the thirty-three-gallon cans at the side of the building.
He walked to 7-Eleven, bought one can of bug spray and one box of roach motels.
Thinking that the bug bite theory didn’t have much going for it.
Her eyes white. Her breath whistling.
It felt like you were stabbing me.
Maybe she had a condition. Dryness. After all, she’d gone with Extra Lubricated.
A funny thought popped into his head. The Hebrew word for penis: zayin.
Also the seventh letter of the Hebrew alphabet: 
.
Also the word for weapon.
The shape had it. A blade or an axe or a mace.
His was the dick of death.
A schlongsword.
Excockabur.
He started to laugh. He couldn’t help himself.
He went around setting out the motels, spraying poison until the apartment was well and truly fogged. He threw open the windows and went to get cleaned up.