The 7: Gluttony Read online

  As quietly and as quickly as I can, I dress. I pause at the doorway to turn around and say something, anything that would make this situation any more tolerable for either of us. But I say nothing as I look at the haunted ghostly looking figure at the window. No, I just open the door, scoop up the stuffed envelope and leave.

  I’ve done what I was hired to do, and as sickening as I found it, it’s worth the act for the hefty price paid. Feeling wretched and exhausted, I make my way back to my hotel, to shower and collapse into bed, but only after I count my money. Patting the envelope in my coat pocket, I shake my head hoping to fucking Benjamin Franklin I can get the images of that poor woman out of my head.

  FIVE

  Pounding on my door jerks me from a dead sleep, and I bolt upright in a state of panic. I wipe my eyes and search for the source of the noise. I’m momentarily confused by the cash scattered around haphazardly. Last night’s events flood my mind, and I recoil at the memories. My cell phone vibrates on the bedside table, and I welcome the distraction. Grabbing it, I swipe the screen to answer and hear an ear-splitting scream through the speaker.

  “Hello, who’s there?”

  The pounding on the door I dismissed as a dream a moment ago starts up again, harder and more persistent.

  “What did you do?” a woman screams through the phone.

  “Who is this?” I demand, but I receive another blood curdling cry that turns my guts liquid. The cry is desperate, the plea accusatory.

  “Open up, Colt, we know you’re in there,” a deep voice growls through the door, followed by more pounding.

  The person on the phone wails louder in misery, uttering words I can’t make out, giving me no choice but to hang up and toss the phone on the bedside table to worry about later. After wrestling with the cash and comforter on the bed, I climb out and see I’m still wearing the pants of my tuxedo from last night. I’d come to the hotel with the intention of showering and sleeping. Instead, I drank more and passed out while counting the cash—my emergency cash I keep separate from any account.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I make my way to the door, opening it with a snarl. “What is it?”

  On the other side of the threshold stands two men dressed in dark navy suits. One is black, tall, and bald. The other is white, chubby, and has a receding hairline along with the telltale red nose that suggests he’s had a drinking problem for many years. Both are wearing badges hooked on the pocket of their jackets. I look from one to the other in confusion.

  “Coltin McCauley?” the smaller guy asks, raising his eyebrows in question.

  “Yeah, but it’s just Colt. I haven’t been Coltin in years.”

  The two men share a look telling me they know exactly who I am. This annoys the piss out of me, but I just stand and wait silently.

  “We need to talk with you for a minute. You going to invite us in?”

  “Talk about what?” I ask defensively.

  “We will say inside,” the bigger guy says, then leans forward and lowers his voice. “It’s about what you were doing last night, and we don’t need an audience.”

  There’s no threat to the words, but it is clear by the stern look and aggressive, tense body language, he’s coming in whether I invite him or not. Gritting my teeth, I open the door wide, allowing them entry. They both look around suspiciously as they walk to the sitting area.

  “Anyone else here?” the smaller guy asks, continuing to the bedroom to look inside.

  I don’t bother to answer; he will check regardless of what I say so I walk casually to the small bar refrigerator, take out a bottle of water, and chug it down before turning to the men. Both now stand watching me, their keen eyes convicting me of some offense or another. But I’m no longer a kid; they can try to do what they want, but they won’t get me again.

  “Am I going to need my lawyer?” I sneer and sit in the closest chair.

  “Why? You hiding something?”

  Smirking, I wipe a hand across my mouth and wait as the two men sit of the edge of the couch.

  “I’m Detective Lobos. This is Detective Newland.” The shorter guy hitches his thumb to his partner. “We need to ask you a few questions about last night.”

  Last night. I want to gag just thinking about it, but I keep my face free of expression.

  “Sure, you going to tell me why you’re asking?” I toss a hand up in a questioning gesture.

  “We’ll get to that, just tell me where you were and what you did.”

  I sit forward to rest my elbows on my knees, clasp my hands in front of me, and look to the floor then to the detectives.

  “I escorted an artist, Mirana Perez, to her event at the Art Institute.” I shrug, there’s nothing illegal about being a date. “We ate. We mingled. I took her back to her hotel a little after midnight.”

  “Were you paid to escort Ms. Perez?”

  “Yeah, I am an escort.” I shrug again. They already know this.

  The two men share another look. This time, it’s loaded with knowing distaste for me and my profession.

  “What did you do when you took Ms. Perez back to her hotel?” This from the bigger man, Newland.

  “You mean, did I fuck her?” I blurt out without an ounce of shame.

  Newland’s lip hitches at the corner in a snarl for a split second before he straightens his face out again. The mask of innocent interest takes over, and he nods for me to continue.

  “Of course, that’s not a part of my job; that would be prostitution, officers. And I don’t do anything illegal, as I’m sure you two are well aware of my parole. But we are adults, and though I don’t like to kiss and tell, yeah, I fucked her. We took a bath, I drank more bourbon, and then we ended up in bed.”

  Fuck, my stomach rolls at the thought of it. Mirana’s head down, ass in the air with that fucking nasty tail bone protruding, almost coming through her flesh. It makes me shudder just thinking about it, and in the bright light of day, it’s all the more horrific.

  “And after?” Lobos prompts.

  “I dressed and come back here,” I reply, leaving out the vomiting and passing out. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

  My irritation is beginning to reach its peak, and I need a shower.

  “You didn’t speak with her at all after you left her room at 1:30am?”

  “No, I…” My foggy brain begins to fire up, and it dawns on me that these are detectives, not average policemen busting my balls for the sake of it. De-tec-tives. The ones that investigate crimes. Fighting the panic that tries to surface, I swallow and stay perfectly still. “What division of the CPD are you all in?”

  “Homicide,” Newland says looking smug.

  Icy fear crawls up my spine.

  “What the fuck, homicide?” I blurt incredulously, sitting up straighter in my seat and looking from one man to the other. “Are you saying someone’s dead?”

  “Mirana Perez was found by the staff this morning.”

  “Found how?” I ask through numb lips, but I know. Somewhere in my mind, I know the answer. The way she looked standing by the window, gaze distant. She had to have been the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

  “She was deceased.”

  “Fuck!” I jump to my feet holding my hands out. “And you’re questioning me? You think I did something to her?”

  The room sways, and if anything were left on my stomach, I would be hugging the toilet again. The smell of prison antiseptic, the clank of the locks engaging, and the sounds at night from men in their cells blowing each other…

  My world tilts sideways, and I have to reach out for the chair so I don’t fall face forward.

  “Calm down, Colt, we have to interview everyone from last night.”

  This doesn’t do shit to calm my nerves, but I do right myself. Passing out may look suspicious in any case, but the flood of fears makes me shake. Clasping my hands behind my head, I shut my eyes and am sucked back years ago.

  A square room and cops breathing down at me to confess. The
blood dried in the lines of my hands and all I can see is how strangely dark it looks. Not at all like the bright red shown on T.V., more like blackened creases crying out to be scoured…and someone’s dead.

  “The hotel security videos show you leaving,” Lobos says, pulling me back to the present. “You’re not a suspect, not at this time.”

  “At this time?” I drop my hands to my hips and scowl. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  The men stand, meeting me eye to eye.

  “It means if we find anything that looks remotely suspicious, then you will be a suspect. Number one, considering you were the last person that saw her alive,” Newland says, returning my scowl.

  “You just said the video shows me leaving?” The two men ignore me and head to the door. “Wait, you need to finish telling me what’s happened?”

  Newland opens the door and exits. Lobos follows then turns, foot extended to keep the door from closing. “This is an ongoing investigation. Be advised you need to stay in the city where we can find you if the need arises. Your PO has been informed.”

  The door closes with an ominous click, leaving me in a state somewhere in between a meltdown, a blowup, and sheer panic.

  No way in fucking hell can I go back to prison.

  What do I do? I still have another four years before my time is up. I go back now? If not for Mirana, then some trumped up bullshit on the prostitution.

  “Fuck!” I scream and punch the wall to my left.

  It cracks under my fist, splitting the skin of my knuckles in the process, but I don’t give a shit. Ignoring the blood and pain, I return to the living room not quite sure of what to do next. I grab my laptop, sit down at the dining room table, and begin searching the news. It doesn’t take long to find something, and as I look at the photo, I all but wilt back in the chair, feeling all the blood rush out of my face. The first page of the Chicago Tribune website is a photo of Mirana and me at the Art Institute last night. It’s not professional, probably a cell phone, but it is clearly me. I am looking off to the side as Mirana looks up at me, a curious expression on her face, as if contemplating my death.

  The image makes me sick, and I know what scandalous article will follow. I stop at the first sight of my name and list of many sins, and I close the computer and shove it away, feeling numb. After just staring at my hand with its newly opened skin, I quickly dress in my winter garb, heavy coat, and ballcap. I have to leave this apartment, this Godforsaken place and its never-ending winters. My thoughts run wild as I exit the lobby and through the open door held by the doorman. The snow is not as heavy as yesterday, but the bitter cold licks my exposed face while I walk without a destination down the city sidewalks. People sit in cozy little cafes and coffeeshop windows, and I wonder what my life would be like had I never played basketball, never pursued a dream, and never knew the power of money.

  I could just take off. I can make money anywhere.

  With enough cash, I could buy a new identity and a way out of the country. I could start new, continue to be an escort under a different name. The idea is tempting, but the tough part is starting all over again when I’ve just built a client base, an idea that is not at all appealing.

  Something bright red against all the white catches my attention, and I glance to the side and almost trip when my eyes land on her. She’s across the street, looking down at her phone, and she has no idea I am watching her. I pause to look in a shop window, keeping the reflection in sight. The woman is oblivious to her surroundings, keeping her eyes on the device, and I can see the trail of earbuds climbing through the top of her collar and into her ears. She’s not close enough for me to make out her face, but I will be, once she crosses the street. Having finished whatever she’s doing on her phone, she tucks it in her coat and watches the street light for the walk signal.

  A bus’ air breaks hiss from the corner as it slows to make the wide turn onto the main street where I am. I glance at it and back to the women. She’s walking across the street with her head down, eyes back on her phone. She can’t hear the bus with her headphones in, and at the angle it’s turning, the driver can’t see her. Acting on instinct, I turn and run toward the woman as hard and as fast as I can. We collide, and the breath whooshes out of her lungs when we fall onto a snowbank just as the bus drives by.

  My heart is beating so hard, it's drumming through my ears as I look to the woman. She’s on her side and squirming to get away from me. Shifting, I give her enough space to maneuver my body so she can escape, and by now, good Samaritans have stopped to check on us. I nod at the strangers, not really answering the frantic inquiries of my and the girl’s well-being. No, I can’t speak, I just watch.

  The hood of her coat has fallen back, and I can see the gold in her brown hair, shining in spite of the gray skies. The side of her face is a lovely alabaster, and I struggle to see more. But before I can, she places her hood back over her head and quickly walks away. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t hesitate as she rushes down the sidewalk while I am questioned by nameless, faceless witnesses. After several assurances of being perfectly fine, I jog to catch up with the woman.

  Three blocks later, I spot the red coat, but I would know her graceful walk in anything. She’s not moving as fast but not at a leisurely pace either. Keeping my distance, I follow with my heart lodged in my throat, watching as she enters the church. I wait no less than a full ten seconds before I open the door and follow.

  The sanctum is warm, and the weight of the day seems to come crashing down as I step inside. If I were a religious person, I would feel welcome, almost at home here. The woman is already at the front removing her coat. A moment later, she kneels to pray. As usual, I ignore the priest. I can see him plainly in my peripheral vision speaking in quiet whispers with an elderly man off to the side. I proceed to sit in my usual spot, silently watching while allowing my heartrate to return to normal.

  Once I can breathe deeply, I remember that I could be a murder suspect. And again, I know, without a doubt, this is the last place I should be. But from the moment I saw her, weeks ago, I knew it was no use; I have to be where she is. As I sit and stare, I know it’s always been that way, only I was too stupid to know it. Yet there is that small issue of the blood on my hands and the fact I am a convict. Not to mention I’m a whore for hire who would and have sold my soul to the Devil so I can have as much money as possible. Then there’s the fact that a woman I was with last night is dead, and I could be implicated in her death. The pathetic image of Mirana at that window will haunt me for the rest of my life. Along with the other ghosts.

  A shadow silently moves past where I sit adding up all the shit in my life and takes the seat on the pew in front of me. The priest doesn't turn to look at me. He just sits and waits without saying a word. I resent the man and his never-ending quest to engage in conversation with me. After this morning's news, I'm sure he's even more curious about me.

  “You might as well ask, Father,” I grumble and remove my coat. For some reason, I know this time, I’m going to talk.

  SIX

  “What would you like to talk about?” the priest asks innocently, as if we are friends meeting for beers and bullshit.

  Shaking my head, I snort. The man is trying to appear nonchalant, and it is a terrible act for him.

  “You’re not very good at this, are you? Or is it just me? I can feel your curiosity like heat from a boiler.”

  The priest turns his head to look at me seriously. His piercing dark eyes bore into mine, making me feel all of two inches tall.

  “That is your conscience wanting to rid itself of sin. Listen to it; it will never lead you wrong.”

  After holding the soul gazing stare for only a moment, I pull my eyes from the man and watch as the woman stands and lights a candle. In honor of whom? She leaves via her usual route through the side, and I want more than my next breath to follow her. But I sit and welcome the anger and resentment that creeps through my chest.

  “What do you want from
me, priest? You want me to say all my wrongs out loud?” I shift my gaze back to him and sneer. “Does that get you off? Listening to others’ sins? For shits and giggles, you listen and judge? I have had enough judgement for a lifetime, thank you very much.”

  Father Michael’s face crinkles at my words, and the unmistakable look of pity and concern knits his brushy brows.

  “No, Colt. I am only here to help you if you will let me,” he says sadly, as if accepting the fact that I’m a lost cause.

  The priest leaves me, now feeling even worse. Something I didn’t think possible. Looking down at my hands, I recall the night in vivid detail and have to swallow back the bile that rises at the memories. I’m sick to death of it, so sick I could scream and pull the hair from my head. Now this with Mirana? How much more can one man take?

  I ball my hands into fists and look up to the front of the church, to the statues I never really think about. The image of Jesus, bloody and broken, has always made me uncomfortable, most likely because I have no soul. A morbid realization, one I think I have denied for years.

  Is a corrupted man salvageable? Is there any kind of redemption for someone like me?

  My eyes drift toward the exit the woman uses, and a longing desire to know overpowers the resentment. Without really thinking of what it is I’m doing, I stand and walk over to the corner and enter the confessional booth, shutting the door behind me. Feeling foolish, I sit on the small bench and wait. For what? I have no idea.

  The space is no bigger than a closet, and very little light shines through. Maybe that helps those that come here, spilling their guts for absolution? People tend to do more things in the dark they would never do in the light. I learned that from the women I’ve been with very early on. The soft sound of the door in the adjacent booth opening and closing sounds. My heart rate picks up, and I know, without a doubt, this is going to be most unpleasant. A divider slides open to my right, revealing a screened window.