THE BASIC OBSTACLE to getting justice is that everything in life has its consequences. Of course, you could argue that they hurt you and your revenge is their consequence. But bullies see themselves as the status quo, and when a person is a reactive type, like myself, what you consider “getting even,” they call “provocation.” They actually expect you to sit back and take it. And once you learn that the consequences are coming, it gets harder to ever relax. For each pleasure I’ve enjoyed I’ve had to pay back in sorrow. So now, every moment is shadowed by the evil one, waiting with a grin. Each emotion becomes, in that way, a parody of itself.
Outside it was nice and cool and clear. Every single person in the whole city was right there looking at each other. All the hidden craziness was blatantly dancing, blasting radios, making conversations, shrugging off responsibilities, flirting, fighting, leaving forever and turning over a new leaf. It was evening. It was beautiful. Then, across the street, I saw Sunshine.
I was a freight train. I didn’t have to think. I ran right into her, screaming. Not words, but a high-pitched shriek and she saw me coming and was surprised. I ran into her face and it had surprise on it because bitches like that think they can get away with anything. They think they can take your girlfriend, rub your face in it, sic their goons on you and still be invincible. It was so sweet letting her know how wrong she was. I smashed her. I could smell her fear. I could smell her leather jacket, it was spanking new. I smashed her face and gritted my teeth and pulled her by her new shirt and smashed her again. I hit her so hard, my hand broke. I could feel it go. Then she actually fell down and began to cry. You hit them and they fall down. It really works that way. Then some blood started dribbling out of her nose, like a school kid. It was the same color as Dino’s blood but there was a lot less of it this time. Everyone on the street who had nothing to do kept looking at us and everyone else kept walking.
She didn’t say anything. I felt great. I felt really good. I walked away with my hand swelling but I started to feel tense again, so I kicked her one more time, really hard, and then I felt fine. I was so happy. I was free. I was the freest bird.
There was only one thing left to take care of, Delores. I touched the gun. I could shoot her. Or better yet, I could smash her too. I could smash her ugly little face.
Then the weirdest thing happened. I remembered the way Delores used to say my name when she came in after work. I remembered how I was the only one who never took her money or broke her nose and who always took care of her, even when she was driving me crazy. I remembered the way we used to run into the water in our underwear in front of everyone at the beach because neither of us had bathing suits.
Oh shit, I thought. Oh shit. I can’t smash Delores. I love her. Maybe we can talk things over. Maybe she can act like a reasonable human being. But we’d have to go away from here, far away from Sunshine and all those yuppie influences. Then she could get her own apartment and we could have a normal relationship. All she had to do was show in some little way that she really loved me.
When I got home, the red light was blinking on the answering machine. Wow, my first message. I bet it was Delores. She probably thought the whole thing over and decided to come back home.
“Hello? This is Coco Flores. I want my eight dollars for the paint. Eight dollars.”
She didn’t even add, “I know you’re having a hard time right now and I can’t be there for you at this moment but I really am your friend.” She just said, “Eight dollars.” In fact, she said it twice.
I almost turned off the machine but there was a second message. Dolores!
“I hope you fucking die,” she said.
All my breath came out of me. I was very quiet. The city was quiet too. All I could hear was the buzz of the cassette inside the phone machine. It was spinning around and around. What would happen to all my anger now? Where could it possibly go? I walked into the kitchen and poured a drink. I didn’t care what color it was anymore. Then I stood at the threshold of the bedroom, staring at the bed. Maybe I’d be able to sleep there in a couple of weeks. I went back into the living room and stared at the answering machine, sipping my drink. I listened to the hum as the tape rolled on empty, empty.
“I just want you to talk to me, Marianne.”
It was a man’s voice. A man’s voice on the tape. A man’s voice was inside my apartment. He was panting, out of breath, but from tension, not exercise. You could hear him sweating. I punched the button and rewound it back.
“I just want you to talk to me, Marianne. Talk to me or I’ll kill you.”
“I know who you are.”
Oh God, it was Punkette’s voice.
“I know who you are and you’re in big trouble.”
Right on, Punkette. What a doll. Look at the way she stood up to that bully. Who was it, Punkette? Who?
But the tape finished.
All that was left of Punkette was her comeback.
Outside, the church bells tolled eight. I could hear the noises again, the cars and the drug dealers and people saying all kinds of bullshit. I was shaking with the memory of Punkette and the voice of her killer. A killer who wasn’t a dope-fiend actress. Charlotte was just a run-of-the-mill liar in a standard fucked-up relationship. She didn’t murder women. She loved and hurt them. That’s all. She didn’t kill Punkette. It was a man. A man did it. Of that, I was sure.