The Honey Pot

Prologue

She watched from the door of the bathroom as Roger poured three fingers into the glass and drank. He set the glass down on the bar and looked at the places where the skin over his knuckles had split, his expression was not at all bothered by what he'd just done. In fact, he seemed to be admiring the little cuts and bruises with glee. Then he saw her and lowered his hand, eyeing her as she staggered out of the bathroom door to sit quietly on the couch.

His face hardened as he watched her. She realized she was fidgeting, her one hand moving up to twirl with a strand of hair. She'd done it idly a thousand times while watching TV or reading a book, but now she was doing it differently. It was a manic movement, the kind performed to establish a sense of normalcy in an abnormal situation. She was in shock and next would come panic if she didn't grab ahold of herself.

She put the hand down in her lap, focusing her gaze on him. Waiting.

He looked at her thoughtfully and poured three more fingers into his glass and then took the one off the bar that had been hers and poured adding fresh ice. He took his and moved.

"It's on the bar," he said, walking back into the hallway bathroom, leaving her to collect herself on her own.

She looked at the glass from across the room, the lighting of the bar made the crystal shine white and blue, the whiskey was a brilliant gold. She imagined she could see the condensation forming on the sides. She didn't get up, she didn't cross the room. Instead she listened to the sounds of him running cold water over his hands, opening and closing the medicine cabinet, then the pop-pop-pop-popping as the shower curtain was torn from the metal rings on the rod and then laid out on the tile floor.

There was grunting and sighing for a few seconds and then he came back out. She met his gaze and looked away, frightened. She felt a hand on her shoulder and she cringed. The grip tightened and she felt herself turned to face him as he knelt down, making his face level with hers.

"It's done, nothing can change it. Now help."

"No." It came out as a sob and she felt him holding her in a way she knew he meant to be comforting. She wanted to scream.

"I know, baby. I know. You've got to be strong for me, okay?" He let go and walked back into the bathroom. She heard him dragging it across the tile and closed her eyes, listening to him bringing it out into the hall. "Get her feet."

She shook her head, keeping her eyes shut tight.

"Becca!"

She jumped up and went to the bar, looking at the glass on the bar as if it were the only thing in the room. She couldn't look at it, she couldn't see it again. Seeing it made it real. If it was real than it had all been real. She drank the bitter amber liquid, sobbing as she listened to him curse and then grunt and groan.

The door opened and shut. She felt her gaze drift up to the mirror at the back of the bar. She'd hung it there when he'd first moved her in, it gave the bar a bit of class, just like the lights. She could see the open bathroom door, the light drifting out onto a patch of carpet. She could see the tile, white, brilliant and then she thought she saw the pool of red growing. It grew as if it were a living thing, pulsating, spreading as if it sought to cover the whole world.

She closed her eyes and looked away. She wanted to shut the door. She just stood though, waiting, watching the red pool growing. Listening for the sound of movement in the hall that would signify his coming back.

She lifted herself up onto the barstool, tearing her gaze away from the mirror. She looked at the phone in its cradle on the bar. She wanted to reach out, but she couldn't.

Her hands were glued to the glass-- its white and blue crystalline beauty, the chill of it in her hands-- she couldn't let go, it was too important.

PART ONE: ROCK BOTTOM

Chapter One

He was sweating as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The apartment was large and spacious-- empty. He ditched the tool belt and the five-gallon bucket of white eggshell finish paint by the door and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat come off on his fingers. He grimaced and wiped the hand on his jeans.

The first thing he needed to fix was the elevator.

He'd taken the twelve flights unprepared, lugging the five gallon tub of Behr paint, the tool belt over one shoulder and the trash bag with his newly purchased wardrobe. He went to the kitchen and spit in the sink. He tried the faucet. A sputter, a shutter, some spray as the pipes clanked. He ran some cold water into his hands, having a drink. He took off his jacket and draped it over the counter putting his hands in his pockets.

The wallpaper would have to go. He went and tried the switch by the door. The light came on. Wiring seemed okay.

He went to the bathroom. The light worked fine in there too, but the bathtub was slick with back up. He blew air out through his mouth, the stink was awful.

Five-hundred bucks. It ain't worth it, Ingram. You'll go crazy in three days.

He shut off the light and went into the bedroom. A mattress, a lamp, a bottle with a card.

"Freedom and respect take hard work."

He smiled. Nothing like working for ex-cons. The old man had been a phone number on a card until the day before. A connection, someone who had work he could give to a bum just out and going for the big CL.

CL: Clean living.

He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Eight-dollar bottle of Scotch. He laughed because it wasn't funny at all. He capped it and tossed it in the little can by the door.

Just think, Ingram, four apartments, one month-- you finish on time you keep the job.

He went back down the hall into the main living room slash kitchen. The place was spacious, he saw the potential. He looked up at the oxidized tin tiles in the ceiling and then down at the scuffed wooden floors. Off in one corned was a single small writing with it's back pressed against the wall. There was no chair. He went over and tried the drawers. They were locked. He stood back and contemplated the squat little desk a moment before waving it off for later investigation.

The phone was on the counter.

He dialed the old man's number, the one on the back of the card. Checking in, giving his preliminary opinions of the place. Yes, he'd found the old super's truck in the basement garage. Yes, he'd found the present by the bed. He went to the fridge. There was a loaf of bread and some bologna.

"Yeah," he said, shutting the fridge and turning back to the big blank empty room, speaking into the phone. "Thanks, that'll come in handy when I get hungry later."

"Okay," the old man said. "You need anything else use the list of numbers in the truck, Morey used to keep them on a pad in the glove box."

"I understand," Ingram said, looking down at his work boots, wondering if there would be anything else required of him.

"Kid," the old man's voice through the phone had shifted a bit. "There's a park down the block, you go for a walk. It's a nice night."

Ingram smiled. "You're giving me permission?"

"You ain't inside anymore," the old man laughed, the phone crackled with the wheezing of his lungs. "You don't need permission. I'm supposed to remind you, though, you got a meeting with the parole officer tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, I know." He went back into the bedroom, fishing the bottle out of the waste can. "Little cocksucker drove me here, just to make sure the address was real."

"What do you want society to do? Trust you?" The old man cackled. "Start tomorrow at noon. Tonight, just get drunk, maybe go for a walk, then sleep."

"Yeah." He took the bottle and opened the icebox, putting it in.

"I was like you once. I know it helps to have a friend."

"Mr. Capp..."

"What's up?"

"Nothing, just... thanks."

"You don't like saying thanks to people, do you?"

"Not really. Can you tell by my tone?"

"Nah, I was just like you once. You don't want to say it to me you don't have to. Just put in eight hours a day on that building and you'll be fine." Capp coughed. "And if any of the tenants call you..."

"Yeah?"

"Be nice to them, they might tip you."

"Now you're just trying to be degrading, aren't you?"

"Heh heh. Nah, they're the ones that are going to be degrading, I'm just telling you not to hate them for it. They're snobs and artsy-fartsy people, they don't know any better."

"Like toddlers, huh?"

"You got it. Night, kid."

"Night."

He rang off and took off his shoes, leaving his socks on. He looked out the window at the top of the building next door. He cracked the window and stuck his head out to look down the iron steps of the fire escape to the alley twelve floors below.

He pulled his head in and went over to fall back on the mattress, it was hot in the room, the air was thick with the stink from the bathroom, it had seeped through the entire apartment.

Rock Bottom. Hard Work. Clean Living. This was what drove guys to commit crimes. He closed his eyes, thought about a blonde in a kimono in a penthouse apartment eight years ago. He was out like a light, trying not to dream of the smell of wet hair and linseed oil.

Chapter Two

She lay in the bed, his hand cupping her breast as he snored lightly by her side. She took the hand away and eased her way out of the bed, walking, nude, over to the bathroom and closing the door before turning on the light.

She looked down at the white tiles of the floor, blinking at them. They were not the same as the bathroom in the hall, but she couldn't help but imagine she saw a slight stain in the grout work. She went over to the sink and took the little glass off the edge, turning on the water and waiting. A sputter, a shutter, some spray as the pipes clanked. She let the cold water run into the glass, looking at her reflection in the mirror on the little medicine cabinet. She'd begun noticing the darkness under her eyes, growing and growing.

Three weeks, Becca. Why don't you just sleep?

She sipped the water and ran another glass full, taking it with her back into the bedroom. She frowned as Roger rolled over in the bed, taking up the whole mattress. She sipped her water and went out into the hall, moving quickly past the open doorway of the little guest bath and into the living room.

The sofas, the rugs, the original photos purchased at a gallery of an artist friend. She'd redecorated three times to get it all looking like this. Burgundy throws, cream-colored lounges, a red-stained mahogany coffee table to match the red-stained mahogany bar. Glass countertops, glass panes in the bar cabinets and bookshelves, Austrian crystal in the light fixtures and on the bar-- all of it hers. The apartment was hers, in her name, paid for by Roger.

She sat down on the long lounge sofa, the cool creamy leather against her bare flesh. She sipped the water and sat in the near darkness looking at the blank flat screen television in the entertainment center. It was all so alien, this place.

The clock on the Blueray read 4:00 am. She set the glass on the coffee table and leaned forward, letting her forehead rest in her hands, she wanted to sleep. She wanted to sleep so badly.

As she closed her eyes the image came back; the woman's face nearly caved in, whimpering, pleading. She couldn't take any more of this. She had to get out. She had to leave. She had to run, hide and stay hidden.

She lay back on the sofa and watched the ceiling fan turning and turning, in the morning she would be alone again. Alone in the apartment that was hers, bought and paid for. She'd clean the bathroom for the fourth time, convinced she could still see the blood in the cracks between the tiles.

She would lie there until the morning when she would hear Roger get up and move into the shower. She would dress and make breakfast for the both of them, eating only a few bites herself before it was time for him to leave. She would think about going out but she wouldn't go out. She would think about packing a bag but she wouldn't pack a bag. She would fall asleep finally, she had to sooner or later. She would fall asleep from exhaustion.

Chapter Three

The loud whine of the compressor and the scraping sound of the rooter in the pipe filled the bathroom as he fed another foot of the snake down the bathtub drain doing his best not to breathe through his nose. He wanted to vomit at the cruel, unforgiving stench. He wanted to vomit at the cruel, unforgiving world.

The morning had been one of sheer depression. The parole officer was smug, arrogant and superior. Everything in his manner had said, "you will fail and I'll send you back."

He shut off the rooter in frustration and that's when he heard the knocking. He jumped up, tearing off his gloves and thinking it must be the cleaning supplies he'd ordered from Rent-A-Vac.

"Coming, coming!" He tossed his gloves on the counter and went to the door, opening it wide to find her there. From down to up and back down again slowly he took in her bare feet, her legs in short, summer shorts, her T-shirt with The Flaming Lips written in hot pink across the chest, her dark brown hair... he stopped staring and shook his head. "Sorry, thought you were Rent-A-Vac."

She was small and her face was kind of angular in a way that fashion magazines had made appealing. He took in her slender frame and the way she stood with her hands on the back of her hips, her elbows out behind her.

She took a step back putting one hand to her nose, expelling a breath. "I'm... I'm sorry, you smell awful."

He grinned and backed away. "Sorry, I'm in the middle of a dirty job. Fixing a sewage problem. What can I do for you?"

She smiled, it was mock polite. "Well," she said, hesitating in a wide-eyed girlie manner. "I know it's not an unreasonable hour for you to be working. I know you have a lot to do, Mr. Capp told us all you were going to be redoing a lot of the old apartments, but..."

"Spit it out, miss. I ain't got all day."

She crossed her arms, the girl was gone. Her eyebrows furrowed and she was suddenly angry at him for singing arias in the library. "I was taking a nap. You woke me."

"I'm sorry," he said, putting one of his grimy hands on the doorframe just to show it off. "I didn't know it was nap time. I thought everyone in the building would be out during the day. It is a Tuesday after all, a lot of people work 9 to 5."

"Yes, well, I don't," She said, cutting off his sarcasm. "That nap I was taking was the first real sleep I've had in three weeks, if you don't mind cutting out the heavy power tools just for today, please."

He held up his other hand. "Sorry," he smiled, realizing he wasn't being polite at all like he'd been instructed. "I'm having a bad day. I wasn't trying to..." He paused, the thought coming to him quickly. "Hot milk and Oreo cookies," he said.

"What?"

He shrugged, taking his hand off the doorframe and taking out a handkerchief to wipe his hands as he talked. "It always worked for me when I was little. My mother would heat up some milk and get out a package of Oreos. You have to eat them the right way, though. Unscrew, lick all the cream, dunk the cookies... always works."

She blinked. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he tossed his handkerchief over his shoulder. "I'll cut out the loud work for today. I got some painting I can do. Sorry I bit your head off."

"No, it's okay. Thanks." She turned to go, but stopped. "My name's Rebecca," she said, making a little wave goodbye over her shoulder as she began walking down the hall to the next door. "Rebecca Bloom."

"Ingram," he said, nodding. "Ben Ingram."

"Yeah," she said, "Mr. C told us."

He took a step out into the hall and leaned against the door. "He tell you anything else?"

She unlocked her door with a key she'd produced from her back pocket. Looking back down the hall at him, she pushed the door open and smiled. "Yeah, he said to lock up." She went in and shut the door.

He smirked as he heard the deadbolt turn. He went back in the apartment, leaving the door open to let in some cool air from the hall.

Feisty, he thought, pocketing his handkerchief. Good looking, too...

He looked at the clock on the microwave oven and decided it was past time to knock off for lunch. He went to the fridge and tore open the bologna making two sandwiches and setting them on the counter top without a plate.

He looked out the open door of the apartment thoughtfully and went into the bathroom where he'd left his tool belt on the commode. The pencil was the kind used for marking studs, black with too thick-- too black graphite. He went back and stood at the kitchen counter, sketching as he ate. An eye, a nose, another eye, all on the white marble of the counter top-- the face was done in twenty minutes and he studied it as he chewed the rubbery meat through the spongy bread.

"Bet you go by Becka or Becky," he said to the sketched face. He ran his tongue over his teeth dislodging some of the meat. "You got one of them informal faces that don't suit a formal name."

There came no reply and he took another bite of the bologna sandwich.

He'd emptied the Scotch bottle that morning, draining its contents into the sink while adjusting the collar of his one dress shirt. He'd filled it with water from the tap upon returning, putting it in the refrigerator to cool for later. He drank some of the water and shook his head.

Formal faces, he thought. How many people had formal faces? Had he ever met any? How long did faces stay formal before age made them informal again? He took another swig of water and contemplated. "I'd like to do you in charcoal," he said to the wall.

He heard the sudden sound of water being turned on next door. He stood and walked, following the sound down the hall, past the hallway bath with it's horrid stench, and through the bedroom. He leaned in the door of the master bath watching a few droplets of water leak out of the shower fixture. He imagined her in her short-shorts and her ratty old T-shirt. He imagined her peeling out of them slowly.

He shook his head. No, he smiled. Bad boy. Get back to work.

He went back into the kitchen, tossing what was left of his second sandwich in the trash. He took a rag and wet it in the kitchen sink, wiping away the sketch from the counter. He went over to the paint bucket and grabbed a pan and a roller.

When the shower turned off ten minutes later he did his best not to notice.

Chapter Five

She sat at the kitchen table. One towel wrapped around her as she dried her hair with another and looked balefully at the package of Oreo cookies. She'd hidden them in the cupboard over a year ago during a diet and forgotten about them. She listened to the television set, Barbara Walters was getting into it with Joy Dehar. She tapped the counter with a finger, fidgety, watching the milk in the pan on the stove.

"He's not what I expected," she looked at her cat, Fizgig. "I mean, you think prison... I don't know, less hair more tattoos, maybe? I mean, he looked normal. You know, like a guy you see at the store."

The milk was just beginning to bubble, she poured it into the waiting mug and went over to the table. Four Oreos stood at the ready.

"Don't know why I was so mean. I mean, it wasn't his fault he woke me up. He's just doing his job. I didn't like when he called me 'miss,' like it was some put down." She couldn't put her finger down on exactly what it was in his speech that was so coarse. She sipped the milk and took the first of the cookies, unscrewing the top and licking the cream. "I hate arrogant people, like that."

She dunked the cookie as Fizgig jumped up onto the table to eye the glass of milk. "Especially men. Just because he's been in prison, he thinks I'm going to be afraid of him. I mean, I've faced..." She stopped, shoved the cookie into her mouth and listened to it crunch, drowning out her thoughts.