The Salvation Shark, Chapter 19

Becki

It’s almost two. Anton still isn’t awake. He even smiles in his sleep.

We got a much nicer hotel last night, a real one, like the ones I’m used to staying in. I wanted my own room, but Anton insisted on a double. As soon as we got to the room, he did about ten lines of cocaine. I’d never seen cocaine before, and he sat there on the bed, cutting it with a razor blade and then snorting it through a rolled hundred dollar bill. He asked me if I wanted some, and I almost started crying. He left abruptly, and I watched some stupid religious movie until he returned around four-thirty. He climbed into bed without saying a word and fell asleep. I left the TV on all night.

I took a walk around our floor about an hour ago, but it didn’t help. I considered running away, but I know that if I went, Anton would find me. That was enough to make me cry, which I did in the bathroom with the fan on so that he couldn’t hear. Then I take a long shower, but when I get out, I still feel dirty.

As I’m brushing my teeth, I hear the television turn on, turned up loud. I almost want to stay in here the rest of the day. I wish I had run when I had the opportunity. Why had I been afraid? I put on the same clothes, because even though they are dirty, I don’t want Anton to see me in just a towel.

“Hurry up!” he calls. “We have places to go, and I’m hungry.”

When I come out of the bathroom, I can’t look at him. I want my momma so bad. Why has this awful thing happened? What did I do to deserve it? I’ve tried to be good all my life, what did I do wrong?

“Get your shoes on,” Anton orders. He’s smirking like he knows something I don’t. “I have things for you to see today. We need to get moving.”

“I don’t want to see anything,” I whimper.

“I don’t care what you want,” he hisses. “There are things you need to see that are important to the job. Besides, I’m out of coke.”

“I don’t want the job,” I say in a defeated voice. “Do whatever you need. Leave me here, take me back, whatever. You can have all my money. Just let me go.” I’m crying now. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I cover my face and sink into the chair.

He waits for my sobbing to subside before saying, “That’s just too bad.” He still has that grin on his face. “There isn’t any turning back now. You’ve started the ball in motion.” He stops pacing and kneels down in front of me. “Besides, you had plenty of opportunity to leave. The pay-phone at the end of the hall is in perfect working order, and you had a quarter in your pocket.” He grabs the hip of my jeans and squeezes out the shape of the coin. “You still do. Not that it matters, because your record company would be happy to accept a collect call from you. You know their number, they made you memorize it.”

"Yes," I say, even though I can't tell if he's asking.

He shakes his head. “If you really wanted to get away from me, you had plenty of opportunity. Instead, you stayed. Why is that?” He raises his eyebrows like he’s waiting for me to answer. “You didn’t, my dear, because you know that if they could get their hands on you, you’d be back on a stage in two days, no matter what happened to you during your foray with me.” He looks out the window. “You know that I’m your only way out. You hate these people because they have no idea who you are, and they don’t really want to.” He pulls open the window, which was nailed shut last night.

Anton takes a deep breath. “Most of them can list off your vital statistics faster than their own, but they have no interest in the real you. None of them know that even though you don’t write your own songs, you love to write poetry, which, for your age is pretty good. They don’t know about the time you were twelve and broke your leg when you fell off the log you used to help you see that older boy swimming behind the fence in the next yard. They don’t know these things about, and they don’t care to know. You once thought this would be great, but you hate it now, more than anything. Even though you are starting to wonder if you will ever see your family again, you still don’t leave, because you would have to see the public again, and in your mind, your questionable fate with me is still better than that.” He turns back to me and raises his eyebrows. “Am I right?”

Finally, I come to my senses and shake my head. “No,” I say. “No, you aren’t right! I didn’t leave because I was scared you would find me. I was scared you would get to me before them.” I’m crying so hard now that I can’t even see.

Anton chuckles. “That’s what I thought.” He falls back onto the bed and turns on the TV. He paid extra to have the porn stations unscrambled all the time. “Get your damned shoes on,” he orders. “We need to get going.”

I wipe away my tears and force myself to stop crying. After a while, I go back into the bathroom. I mumble that it’s because I need to wash my face, but I really just don’t want to be in the same room with him anymore. I turn the water on and sit on the toilet for a long time, face in my hands, crying hard. Through all the noise, I hear Anton exit.

When he’s gone, I turn the water off and sit there, still crying. How could he have known about when I broke my leg? How did he know about the poems I write? No one has seen them except my momma. All those things he said that I could never vocalize. I’m surprised he didn’t mention how I’m so upset that I vomit at least once before I go on stage. My personal trainer was afraid I was bulimic for a while, and when he found out the truth, he thought my teeth were going to rot from so much acid pouring over them. My doctor told me I needed to take a break from touring. The record company took that into consideration when they were booking the second Northeastern tour (this time with two dates in Canada) and gave me one night off a week instead of every two.

Finally, I manage to compose myself, actually do wash off my face and put my shoes on. Instinct leads me downstairs to the hotel bar. The doorman asks me for ID, but Anton waves at him from a back corner. The doorman steps out of the way and I go to Anton’s table. He’s drinking champagne and there are three empty flutes in front of him. He motions for me to sit.
“Again,” he says. “You could have walked right out the front door.” He’s smiling from ear to ear. “I thought I’d give you another chance.”

“Please,” I say, covering my face. “Just don’t... Not now.”

“You aren’t being simply forced to do this without compensation,” he says, finishing his drink and motioning for another. “I can give you anything you want in exchange.”

“I told you, you can’t buy me.” I cut him off with a wave of my hand before he can say anything. “And I don’t want to be involved with murder. I don’t care how much the person deserves it.”

The waiter brings over another glass, and Anton gives him a twenty-dollar bill. The waiter scurries off.

He sighs. “I can make sure that you are never caught. You will never serve jail time, never go to court, never be arrested, never be suspected...”

I shake my head really hard until he stops talking. “I’m not going to kill a person, Anton. It’s not about repercussions. I don’t think I could actually bring myself to do it. I don’t think I could live with myself after it’s done.” I wave away another waiter who asks if I want a drink. I can feel tears coming. “I’m not that kind of person.”

He shrugs. “It’s really easy to do,” he says, still smiling. He pats his jacket and I can see the butt of the gun underneath it. “All you do is pull the trigger. Once, twice, three times, a lady.” He curls and uncurls his index finger a few times. “Just jerk your finger and it ends. Just like that.”

“It’s not ‘just like that,’” I say. “That person is dead and gone!”

“You already said you believe in God and Heaven, right?” he asks, holding his palms up. “It’s not like it’s all over, they go to a better place. It’s easy to do!”

“That’s not the point!” I say. “I can’t kill a person! If it’s so easy, then why don’t you do it?”

He quiets, seems less animated for a moment. Even his smile diminishes–not disappears, just diminishes. “There are extraneous circumstances,” he says. “I just can’t do it.”

“Why not?” I demand. I’m not sure if I’m going to sob or scream.

“I can’t pull the trigger myself. It’s a stipulation.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

His teeth clench beneath his open-mouthed smile. “It’s not possible for me to do it myself,” he hisses through them. “I need to get someone else to do this for me.”

“Is this some kind of contract?” I ask. My voice is raising high, but no one seems to be paying attention. What I really want to do is get someone to look over at us and do something. No one is paying attention. No one cares.

Go to Chapter 20