January 21, 1978 (Part 1 of 8)

He pulled the 72 Volkswagen squareback into a slot right outside her place.  She lived on the ground floor, different than other women he’d known.  They always insisted that the top floor was safer.  He had to walk down a flight of stairs littered with cigarette butts and beer cans to get to her apartment.  He knocked once on a stamped metal door upon which only a peep hole interrupted the stark expanse.
            Staring at that hole, he saw it dim just a bit before hearing the chain slide and the dead bolt click.  The door opened to show anxious brown eyes and a question.
            “Where you been?  How’d it go?” she asked turning to walk into the dark apartment.
            “Piece of cake.  First knock, the junkies opened the door we hit’em hard.  Pieces out and shoutin’ and all that, ya’ know.  A regular shit storm.  They were too goddamn scared to even look at us.  Hit the floor and stayed face down soon as we said to,” he said following her to the sofa. 
             “How many?” she asked.
             “Two.  And some bitch that kept beggin’ us not to rape her.  Like we’d do that shit,” he snorted and sat beside her. 
              “Rat would,” she snapped.  She hated Rat.
              “Probably.  But Rat’s a…well he’s a fuckin’ rat and they work best in the dark.  Lucky for the dumb bitch that I was there”.
               They each lit cigarettes and sat smoking for a moment.  He got up and turned on the stereo.  Hendrix’s “Crosstown Traffic” jumped out.  He turned it to background level and sat back down, waiting for the questions.
               She wouldn’t allow herself to sound anxious.   That was too close to needing. 
               Finally, “So what’d the skinny prick have?”
               He just smiled at her.
              “What?” she said, puzzled and frustrated.
              “About three and a half pounds.  Decent Jamaican shit.  Pretty much what we thought” he told her, grinning now.
               Too smart and ahead of him again, she caught the grin, the unsaid, She leaned across him to grind her cigarette into the overflowing ash tray.  She stayed there, her body against him, and looked him directly in the eye for the first time…ever. 
               “What else?” she breathed smoke and stale beer and promise.
               He leaned back into the cushions and wondered, “Who the hell is this woman?”

He thought of the people that come uninvited to life.  In those days, in that haze, people seemed to drift into and out of orbit, no more remarkable than passing cars. 

               Her name was Kerry and while he couldn’t remember the first time he ever saw her, he’d never forget the last.  She’d entered his world about a year ago.  He didn’t know from where, just one of those people.  All of the sudden she was hanging with his buddies and helping hustle pool and drinking beer and doing shots.  He’d paid her no attention other than noticing a good figure and dark hair and darker eyes. 
              She had a measured way of responding to whatever the room presented.  Most of those days were a blur of drugs and booze so she responded to whomever seemed to hold the best promise of either, or preferably both.  He figured that she’d get passed around, used up and then disappear.  Like the rest. 
              But she’d turned out to be different.  At first, she was supposed to be Virgil’s squeeze so everyone stayed away from her.  Virgil wore Outlaw colors and dead eyes.  No one fucked with Virgil. 
             Until one day Virgil lost control and beat her black and blue.  Then, about a week after she got out of the hospital, he took his 4x4 to the garage where Jeff worked to have the oil changed.  That’s when they found the pipe bomb strapped to his truck.  It made the six o’clock news and she disappeared.
            They figured Virgil offed her and dropped her in the old quarry out by Arabian Mountain.  Then, maybe three months later, some fisherman found Virgil’s body, bloated and bobbing in the Hooch.  At the Keg, everyone assumed that the situation likely was due to the poor life style choices he’d made.
            And then, about a week later, she was back.
            “Been at the beach,” was all she’d say.
            So there she was again, circling the pool tables, totally focused as she moved to measure each shot, hitting when needed, close when not, and taking no shit along the way.
            Once, Rat had tried to walk off with a pot she’d helped him hustle off some wayward college boys.  She’d waited outside for him and clocked the drunk fucker with a pool cue.  Rat would have killed her but a crowd got there in time to pull them apart.  Consensus was that he owed her so he gave her 150$ and slinked off into the parking lot.  With her hair all fucked up, a bloody lip and torn jeans, she’d crowed like a rooster and strutted around with the money held high.