This is Belmont. Transfer to red and brown line trains at Belmont. The CTA's automated announcement jerked Browny out of his self-pity. He hated that fucking voice. In '98, he and Mark Grace made the same trip from Addison to downtown routinely. "We need to get us some down-town pussy," Grace would say. "I'm tired of these Wrigley skanks." Back then, the conductors made the announcements. This one dude always messed up. He'd call out the wrong stops, or say the doors opened on the left when they opened on the right. Now they had a fucking computer making the calls. That was the problem with the world today. Nobody accepted mistakes. One fuck up and you’re gone. Well fuck them all.
The train pulled into Belmont and two unabashedly inebriated men wearing identical Sammy Sosa jerseys walked through the doors. They looked to be in their mid-thirties. One was short and fat, the other tall and skinny. They reminded Brant of Abbott and Costello. Brant loved to eavesdrop on Cub fans. In general, they were pretty knowledgeable, but they shared one huge blind spot. Each year, they thought the Cubs had a chance to win. Now they were finally right, but it had taken 93 years.
"It sounded like a bomb went off," the fat one said. "The fucking ball bounced right over the screen. What do you think it will be worth if he dies?"
Kerry Wood had struck out 12 Yankees that night to lead the Cubs to a game four victory, but that's not what the town was talking about. The second to the last batter Wood had faced was Derek Jeter, and now it looked like Wood might be the last pitcher Jeter ever faced. The first pitch careened off the top of his helmet and he hadn’t moved since. It had been almost 16 hours now.
"It just breaks my heart. Guess he won’t win the MVP with catheter stuffed up his cock," said the skinny one.
"You can't actually be happy that a man might die."
"He's a Yankee."
"You're fucking sick."
The only time Brant had talked to Jeter was during batting practice before a spring training game in '98. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Confident—but not cocky—and very easy to talk. Brant had liked him instantly. He thought about Jeter lying unconscious in a hospital bed, his life turned around in the time it takes a 97 mph fastball to travel 60 feet, and he started to laugh.
"Where the fuck is he?" Gyp had been waiting for Brant outside her grandfather's penthouse apartment for almost an hour. She needed money, and she needed it now. She was hoping to find some cash stashed in his mattress or in a shoebox under the bed, like people always found in the movies. But even if no hidden treasure turned up, she could hock a couple TVs and some stereo equipment. Brant had agreed to help her haul the stuff off for a cut of the profits. Now he was fucking late. "I swear to god, if that asshole stands me up, I'll cut off his remaining nut."
Gyp was reaching into her purse for her cell phone when she felt a hand cover her mouth. She let out a muffled scream as she was pulled back into an alley. "Oh shit, Tsang’s found me," she thought.
But it was only Brant. The fucking guy didn't know when to act serious. He was always messing around with her, and constantly trying to fuck her. She hated to think about what he was like when he had two good balls.
"Come on, baby. How about a quickie in the alley?" Brant had her pinned against the wall, a lecherous and stupid smile across his face.
"You're fucking late." Gyp was still too scared too tired to berate him properly. "Let's get this fucking over with." She grabbed his hand and led him around to the front of the building.
In the elevator, they didn't say a word to each other. Brant had never seen Gyp like this. She seemed so sad and scared. It was the first time he'd seen her when she wasn't high. The elevator door opened and he followed her quietly into her grandfather's apartment.
She turned the key in the lock and the door opened easily. She was not happy with what she saw. "That fucking cunt!" she screamed. "I can't believe she did this!" The apartment lay in ruins. The stereo, the TV, the whole fucking home entertainment system were all gone. She walked into her grandfather's bedroom, and saw her worst fears realized. It looked like a cyclone had moved through. Clothes and papers and drawers lay strewn about the room. An empty shoebox was at the foot of the bed, and the mattress had been ripped open.
Suddenly, Gyp was dizzy. She needed a hit and she needed it fast. She hadn't had any coke for almost a day, and her only supplier was trying to kill her. She stumbled past Brant on her way to the bathroom. Maybe there was something in the medicine cabinet.
"Hello bitch, you're late." Gyp didn't even jump at the voice. It was Tsang. He’d been waiting for her behind the shower curtains, and she knew she was dead. Part of her was relieved. She hoped it would be over quickly. A second later a hand pushed her hard to the floor, and she tensed herself for the sting of the knife . . . but it didn't come. Instead there was a crash and a muffled yell. She turned around to see Brant and Tsang struggling in the tub, the shower curtain wrapped around them. Brant had Tsang by the throat. After a brief struggle, it was over.
"I didn't drop this one," Brant said.