Dark End of the Street

1 POUNDING THE PAVEMENT Horvath wakes to the sound of a head slamming against the concrete outside his window. The noise is dull and hollow. There’s no echo but you can feel it in your teeth and bones. There are sounds that can make a tough guy flinch. He put in a wake-up call last night, but this isn’t exactly what he had in mind. At first it’s like a baseball hitting a brick wall at 90 mph. He thinks about this and sees the wind-up, the pitch and release. The impact. He imagines the ball, afterward, dropping to the ground as if exhausted from a long day’s work. Then he sees the man’s dead eyes, the sweat, the pained rictus of his mouth. Arms and legs flopping like a ragdoll. And the other man, straddling a lifeless body. Clenched jaw, red eyes, bulging veins. Hands grabbing the man by the lapels, balled into fists as they pound him onto the unforgiving surface, again and again. Horvath throws his legs over the side of the bed, scratches himself, yawns. Lights a cigarette. He was dreaming of deep oceans and infinite deserts just a few minutes ago, and now this. Life’s not a dinner menu, he thinks. You don’t get to pick and choose, or place your order with a nice-looking waitress. No, they bring out any old thing and you have to eat it. Two more head-slams, but the sound is different now. Softer and more precise. Like a musk melon whacked in half by a machete. He can hear the man outside, breathing heavily. He can hear sweat drip down onto the pavement, blood pooling under the bodies. Or maybe it’s just his imagination. And then everything goes quiet. The man’s strength has suddenly drained, like motor oil into a drip pan. All you have to do is twist that nut and it all comes rushing out. Horvath sees the limp arms and rubbery legs. Even his eyelids are exhausted. He knows how the guy feels. Like he hasn’t slept in years. Empty, useless, going in circles. Running on cigarettes, bourbon, and cold soup he doesn’t bother to reheat. The man falls over, completely spent. He’s now splayed out over his friend as if they’re hugging. He makes some sort of noise, a soft moan. The other man doesn’t make a sound. Horvath gets up, stretches, makes a screechy noise as his fingertips reach for the ceiling. One last puff before he crushes the cigarette into a square glass ashtray. He looks over at the easy chair, where his wilting pants hang over the back. The belt is still attached, winding through the loops like an arm around someone’s waist. Time to get dressed. He sighs into the gray pants. Shoes, shirt, jacket. No tie. Wallet, keys, wristwatch, spare change. Lighter, smokes. Ready to go. The elevator is more like a coffin. Small, dark and airless. Depressing. Silent and unmoving, the passengers are more like corpses than living breathing humans. In fact, most of them have already died. They just don’t know it yet. Horvath presses the glowing L. The doors shut, and the elevator moves. The other passengers, a man and a woman, get off on the third floor. There’s a jagged crack in the mirror, like a lightning bolt, and the silver is wearing away, so it’s more of a window than a looking glass. Anyway, he doesn’t like what he sees. He used to look like that famous actor, or at least his less-attractive cousin, but now, when he looks at himself in a mirror, Horvath sees a child’s drawing. The lurching caretaker of a haunted house, or a man released from the hospital a few days too early. A tarnished brass plaque reads THE EXECUTIVE in a cursive script that’s so ornate it’s almost impossible to read. Horvath laughs soundlessly. No executives ever stayed in this dump, not in the last 20 years anyway. This is the type of hotel where people don’t stay the night. They stay for an hour, or they live here for weeks, months, maybe years. Some of them die here. Or they hide out until it’s safe, then get dressed and walk down the street with a spring in their step, whistling on old tune until someone slips up behind them and sticks a knife in their back. He lights up at the exact moment he sees the NO SMOKING sign. Actually, it says N_ SMOKING. The O has been melted off, incinerated. And the rest of the sign is scarred with cigarette burns, like an abused housewife who’s going to do something about it one of these days.