Burn Scars by Eddie Generous (best novels for beginners TXT) 📕

Cary yanked it open, looked around for a few seconds and found the cans of Wildcat Strong—four cans left behind from the Lana, Dylan, Moon visit. Cary cracked one and chugged the entire can like it was water. He then took another can and drank about half of it.

He belched. “Jim quit today, made a scene. Linda called me this afternoon, said something had to be done.”

Rusty lit a cigarette and said, “Yeah, Christine said he quit. Not good right? Is it going to screw everything up?”

Cary shook his head. “Linda called me tonight. Again. Jim called up to their house and yelled some more.” He took a drink. “Christine told you about Jim?”

Rusty nodded slowly, severely.

“Yeah, well, Linda called me a second time, first time she said something had to be done, but the second time she meant like right flipping now, and told me to go talk to him.”

“Didn’t go well?”

Cary took another slug from the can. “You know where he lives, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well…”

—

The apartment building where Jim lived housed four squalled units: two upstairs and two downstairs. The first unit, the one on the ground floor of the place —the one at the street corner only a few feet from a BB pock marked stop sign—had a little pink bike chained to a wooden post with flaking white paint that sullied the kempt green grass on the street side with lead-based dandruff. Cigarette butts littered the asphalt and garbage bags and loose recyclables filled the entirety of the porch next to the door. A yellow bulb beneath a smoky, bug-laden cover lit the iron steps to the second-floor apartments. Grime coated everything.

Up top, the lights were out in apartment D, but in C, yellowy light filled the four dirty windows, and heavy metal music pounded, rattling the glass in the frames. If any of the other tenants complained about the noise, it hadn’t been to the police.

Cary climbed the steps without touching the banister. He’d parked a block away and walked with his head down and hands stuffed inside pockets, trying to be forgettable if anyone saw him. Being inconspicuous was not easy for a big man with thick glasses. Before he knocked on the door, he paused in the light coming through the white curtains. A dozen or so heavy breaths entered and then left his lungs as he slipped blue, plastic gloves onto his hands. Linda told him about Jim seeming high and talked about residue. Told him that the ministry of transportation pulled over drivers and swiped their hands for drug residue—was bad enough he didn’t have the right kind of licence, but if they caught him with drugs on his hands while driving the truck, there would be even bigger trouble. She’d told him all of this in a such a way that he dared not question it, though he’d never heard of such things, but taking her at her word had become his norm and swiping a driver’s hands sounded plausible, also why would she lie to him?

He knocked and waited. The music was so loud that he had to knock again. The door swung wide and Jim wore only boxer shorts and a stained white undershirt. “Buddy!” He was thin, had ropey veins running up his arms and in his neck. One vein centered his forehead like an aboveground oil pipeline.

Cary offered a grin and stepped inside when Jim gave him room to do so. “Want to turn that down some?” He pointed to the stereo system. “We won’t be able to chat with it on that loud.”

“No problemo.” Jim spun the dial to a quarter of its prior volume after he pushed the door closed.

The room had white walls turned yellowy. Pinup girls in poster sizes and a Toronto Maple Leafs emblem big as a flag filled in a handful of eyelevel gaps. The ancient hardwood floor was as much grooves and gunk as it was wood. The ceiling fan was still, the blades furry and blackened with dust. A squat and long coffee table centered the room, between the second- or third-hand couch and the cabinet big screen TV. On the table were a mirror platform and a goodly mount of cocaine. The place smelled like tobacco and burned rubber.

“You quit, that wasn’t part of the plan,” Cary said, trying to look at Jim.

“So what? Fucking Linda thinks she can pony train me. Nuh-uh, no way. Not me. See how it’s gotta—what’s with the gloves?”

Cary lifted his hands and turned them back and forth. “Found some poison ivy today, filled these gloves with calamine lotion. Itchy as a bugger.”

“Ha, you crazy sonofabitch! I got poison ivy on me once, just on my legs. My sister sat right in it when she popped a squat. Shit, she was in the back seat of the Jeep with her pants down, scratching herself bloody. Screaming her damned fool head off. Dad said he was going to pull over and give her something to scream—why’d you say you were here?”

“What do you mean Linda can’t pony train you?” Cary said, finding it easy to stare into Jim now.

“That bitch, I got her, see?” Jim tapped his temple. He’d obviously been at the cocaine all day. It wasn’t just the eyes or the ill-considered actions. He wore the aura of a man too cooked for anybody’s good. “I got her, she’s gonna pay me or I’m going to the cops, tell them all about her plan.”

“So, what, you’re spending in advance?”

“Yeah, well. I had this Investors Group guy convince me to save a hundred a month for my daughter’s school. Been doing it for six years. Sara’s mother’s a real piece of work, but she don’t bug me for money, married this lawyer wannabe and he does all right. Like not a real lawyer, though. I don’t see Sara much,