Sand

Chapter 9: Neighbors

He couldn't remember being so excited. His elation quickly turned to fear as other explanations occurred to him. This sort of thing wasn't possible. He either had to be dreaming, hypnotized, or he had some serious mental issues. It was entirely possible that he had fabricated the event. Maybe the boy wasn't even real. Didn't schizophrenics hallucinate things like that? He needed to talk to Elaine. She could help him sort it out.

Davie, the only person on his floor he kind-of knew, other than his fellow parolees, peered out of his apartment over the door's security chain. He was a tattooed, scar-faced kid, probably in his late teens, and he often peeked through his door when he heard someone coming up the stairs.

Davie greeted him with a lift of his chin, and Wayne nodded in return. It was another first. No one in his new home had ever so much as acknowledged that he existed until then.

Three doors down, his heart picking up its pace, drew Dmitri's pistol and charged through his apartment door. Bass thumped through the thin walls from somewhere down the hall, and the TV next door boldly declared the second one would be free, just pay separate processing and handling, but except for these intrusions, his mostly empty room quietly awaited his return.

Dmitri's chair from the video leaned backwards against his sofa-bed. Blood and a puddle of what must have been vomit stained the floor beside it. A quick scan of the place confirmed that he'd missed the show. Whoever had been here with Dmitri hadn't given any concern to hiding what he'd done. If the police came now, they'd find all the evidence they'd need to prove that Dmitri's video had been recorded here.

Wayne climbed out of his jumpsuit, pulled on some jeans, a teeshirt, and hoodie, and grabbed the backpack hanging from the shower head. It was his "grab and go" bag, already packed with his important papers, a couple changes of clothes, a carton of Marlboro 100's and freezer-bag of trail mix.

Right on schedule, his fellow half-way houser and next-door neighbor Frank Kutchins knocked on the wall.

"Hey, Batman. You back?" he called.

He should have been ready for this, but he hadn't given Frank a moment's thought. He tucked the gun into his waistband and made a gruesome discovery as he turned to leave. A severed human thumb hung at eye level from his door, pinned there with a kitchen knife. It had been roughly hewn from its former owner, knuckle included. Judging by the blood trail running down his door, it had been cut from a living victim, he assumed Dmitri.

A knock on the wall startled him as he stared at the thumb, wondering who would go to so much trouble and risk to send him back to jail. "I hear you in there, Bats. I'm coming over, man. I gotta show you something."

"Dammit, Frank," he muttered to himself. "Why can't you mind your own business?" His time had run out. He couldn't afford to waste any more of it with Frank.

Wayne set his backpack by the door as "Handsome" Frank's heavy footsteps approached from the hall. He opened the door and stepped out to greet him.

"Heya, Bats," Franks said with a big smile. "What's up, bro? We going out? Never-mind. Go back inside real quick, and look out the window. This shit is epic."

Frank was an enormous man who claimed he got busted for laundering mobster money. He didn't seem to have the smarts to change a light bulb, but Wayne never questioned him about it. Frank also claimed to be Italian, though he spoke with an Hispanic accent and looked every inch the Latino. He never changed his story, though, and that piqued Wayne's curiosity, so they started talking, and became friends. His friendly, round face always seemed to be smiling at something, and Wayne enjoyed his company.

"Sorry, Frank. I can't right now. I have to meet somebody from work. You'll have to tell me about it later, alright?"

Frank dismissed the epic scene with a wave. "Nah, it's just that kid, Gills, pounding on a junkie. I'm sure we'll see it again soon enough. You coming back soon?"

Not if I can help it.

"I won't be long. I had shit day, though, and don't want to go out. Why don't you call down to Sarto's and order some pizza and wings. Get whatever you want, but give 'em my name, and I'll pick it up on my way back. We'll hang at yours in case the asshole from the hospital is trying to find me. If they can't reach me, they can't mess with me, right?"

"Yeah, right on. I got some new movies from the dvd guy on thirteen. Hey! I can ask Nikki to come over. She is righteous dirty, bro. A few beers and some classic 80's porn on the tube? I know she'd be up for it."

Revolted by the idea of watching porn and sharing some slut with Frank, he nearly said as much. He had no plan to return, though, so what was the harm? "Sure, why not? Don't drink all the beer. I'll be back in forty minutes."

"Cool, Bats. I take back all that shit I been sayin' about you. Maybe you're not as bad as I thought." He lumbered back towards his apartment, but turned back after a few paces. "Just hurry up. I'm hungrier than a stoned hobbit."

Wayne waited for Frank's door to close, wondering how the man survived behind bars. He reached through his door for his backpack and said a quiet farewell to his fat, overbearing, lying best friend.