Wherever the Wind Blows

***This story contains violence, drug abuse, and explicit content.

"Yo Ricky, you think I could get a five?"

"The fuck you mean? We been in line for 30 minutes and you mean to tell me now that you ain't got the dough to get in the joint?"

"Common homes, you know I'm good f'r it" Ronnie replied.

Ricky blurted out a laugh then said: "I know for a fact that I'll never see this five dollars again," he paused for a moment before handing him the wrinkled bill which they both used to slam down a line of smack off the dash of a '91 Cavalier just forty-five minutes earlier. "You're lucky I got no one else to go in with."

Ronnie's head was beginning to spin as they approached the front door, above which the red neon sign screamed "Mickey's" for all of Youngstown to see. It was a grimy club on the south side where trouble of several varieties could be found on any given night of the week. Ronnie didn't know what night it was and it didn't matter. He didn't have a job or any place to be. Over the past 12 years since he abandoned his family, Ronnie stripped himself of all responsibilities and reduced his behaviors down to only those that served the most primal human drives. He lived to trigger the dopamine system and numb all other emotions in the process. Heroin, cocaine, alcohol, sometimes sex if he could muster up enough blood flow to keep an erection, and rarely, food, after days of fasting, was all that could galvanize him into action. Somewhere deep inside him, he was aware of his flaws. The self-hatred hid in the recesses of his mind but he would catch it peeking out of the shadows when the conditions were right. When those emotions crept in he would find himself at places like Mickey's where a bag of the good stuff was only twenty dollars or a blowjob away.

They were next in line when two girls bust out the front door, one of them with vomit already spewing from her mouth. "Get that shit the fuck outta here!" The girl, who was made of little more than skin and bones trodded off with the help of her friend.

"Howdy hey Brando," Ronnie said to the bouncer.

"Ah shit. You gonna cause me problems tonight Ron?"

"No sir. Pretty sure you gave me a concussion last time," Ronnie replied.

Brando stared at him considerately then said: "You get one warning tonight slim." Ronnie nodded in agreement.

The club was perfused with a dim red glow which faded into darkness in the back where the dance floor pulsed with lights to the beat of some R&B song. The musty air smelled of spoiled beer, sweat, and a dozen varieties of cheap cologne. It was a sticky, claustrophobic place full of men wearing excessively starched collared shirts with gold chains draped over their exposed chest hair. Every woman in the place was too good for even the noblest of the dip-shit fellas in the place. The unfortunate part was that they didn't realize it. It was a sad place where everyone was in search of something they would never find here. 

"Let's get a drink, what do ya say my man?" Ronnie asked. 

"You mean how bout I buy you a drink? That's what you're saying isn't it?" 

"I got you next week. I promise." Ronnie said as if any of his promises have ever held up. 

"I'll get you one drink you no good piece of shit." 

"My man. Whiskey neat." Ronnie grinned. He was out of smack and coming down. He found that alcohol took the edge off the comedown, and he knew that being drunk would suffice until he scored some more with the twenty in his pocket which he neglected to tell Ricky about. 

The bartender brought them the generously poured shots of bottom-shelf whiskey which they threw back without so much as a grimace when Ronnie noticed one of his dealers from across the club. "Yo hold up slick Rick, be right back," he said to Ricky as he made his way across the club. 

Ricky saw where Ronnie was heading and called out: "I thought you said you didn't have no cash you son of a bitch!"

Ronnie neared the other end of the room when a short burly man pulling a young woman of not more than 120 pounds by the hair crossed in front of him. She tried to gain her feet but kept slipping in the accumulation of beer and filth on the ground. "Get you're fucking hands off- !" she screamed out before he let her have one across the face. The bridge above her right eye swelled up immediately and her legs no longer fought for support. She only grasped helplessly at the hands which clenched down at the base of her scalp. As the man crossed the club towards the exit, no one batted an eye for longer than a second. Ronnie took two more steps towards his dealer, Marty, who sat in the corner with his head down, then felt the anger well up inside him. He turned towards the front door and walked with a vigor that he hasn't had in a dozen years. When the man dragging the woman disappeared out the front door, even Brando let the atrocity continue. Ronnie cracked his knuckles, kicked open the front door, and yelled out: "Hey motherfucker!"

The man turned to meet the blazing fury of Ronnie's right hook which he ate right in the jaw. Blood and teeth, or fragments of them, when skipping across the sidewalk. The man released his grip on the woman as he stumbled to keep on his feet. Ronnie was on him like a ravenous dog. Even after twelve years of drug abuse he somehow maintained his lean muscular build from his days as a baseball star and unleashed everything he had. Blow after blow the man's face swelled. By the fourth strike, Ronnie was on top of him pummeling his face. It was the seventh or eighth blow that knocked the man's left eye out of its socket. It rolled down the man's face until it dangled by the nerves, swaying back and forth across his cheek. 

"Oh fuck! What did you do?!" the woman cried out. 

"Go on lady, get out of here," Ronnie said wiping the speckles of blood from his forehead. 

"You're a dead man! You know who this is?" She asked. "We're both good as dead now," she began sobbing. 

Ricky came running out of the door and said: "Oh shit Ron. Oh, fucking shit this ain't good. We gotta get out of here." He grabbed his arm and started pulling him down the street. 

"That man was beatin on that girl Rick. Somebody had to do something," Ronnie replied. The red haze of anger was subsiding slightly. The heat behind his ears now felt the cool breeze of the autumn night. 

"That man was Paul Carfaro you dip-shit. Don Carfello's, thee fucking Don Carfaro's, only son. And you just fucking mutilated him!" Rick began hyperventilating. "You need to get out of town, tonight." 

"Listen slick, I ain't got nowhere to go. Besides they don't know who I am."

"How fucking high are you?! People are gonna talk and Don will find you. That's not a fucking 'if', this is a matter of 'when'. You need to be gone when he hears about this." Rick said. 

"Okay, okay. Let me stay with you tonight. I'll take a bus out of town in the morning." Ronnie said. There was a moment of silent consideration before Ronnie added: "Ain't nobody knows where you live." 

Rick agreed and they ambled discretely to his place. 

The next morning Ricky sent Ronnie on his way with enough money for a one-way bus ticket for somewhere as far as New York or Chicago. He didn't want to know where he would go for both of their sakes. When Ronnie walked out that front door he knew damn well that he wasn't getting on a bus to anywhere without a fix and a sack to get him by for the next couple of days. The idea of going through withdrawal on a Grey Hound to who the fuck knows where sounded leagues worse than being shot execution-style in some back alley. So he did the only thing a heroin addict knows how to do. He took the fresh wad of cash so graciously given to him by the only person that remotely cares for him and went to search for his old buddy Martin at, you guessed it, Mickey's. "Ain't no way my name has leaked to Don already," he thought. 

When he arrived at Mickey's it looked decrepit in the late morning light, standing solitary on the desolate street corner. Martin had somewhat of a permanent residence at Mickey's. It was a prime location for sales during business hours when feigns woke up for their morning fix. Ronnie crept around back to the trash-laden alley, his heart racing. Ronnie was a smart man, and somewhere deep in his drug-bathed mind was the conception that he was making a terrible mistake, but this was overpowered by the incessant need to get what he wanted. What he needed. So he knocked on the door. It sounded dull and lifeless, and somehow it instigated nausea within him. "A fix will cure that," he thought. 

A small window slid open at head level and there appeared the face of Martin. Immediate relief poured down upon Ronnie. "Martin, homes what's up?" 

"What the fuck you doin here Ron? You got nothin but trouble on your tail." Martin replied. 

"Brotha I know, please hook me up and I'll be outta here. Gettin on a bus today and I won't be a bother to you no more," Ronnie said flashing eighty bucks. Martin looked at him with disdain and uncertainty, then he unlocked the door. 

"Best make this quick. I can't be associated with you right now." 

Ronnie entered, oblivious to the black Mercedes in the alleyway or the man sitting inside of it. 

"Yo Martin you're a lifesaver my dude," Ronnie said. 

Ya whatever man. What can I get you?" Martin asked while fidgeting with his phone. 

"Whatever I can get for eighty. I'm leaving today so I need to stretch this bag. Hook a brotha up could ya?" He said handing over the cash. 

"Yeah, you said that, and no, you get what you get for eighty. I don't give a shit where you goin," Martin said before disappearing into the back room. Ronnie was left in the darkness of the club which retained its smell from the night before, but in all other ways felt haunted, like it was part of a past life. Ronnie has been frequenting this place for the past twelve years, and this would be his last visit. 

Martin returned with the bag and slapped it into Ronnie's hand. "You best be gettin out of here," Martin said, but the truth of the matter was in his eyes. 

"Shit," Ronnie thought realizing how long Martin was in the other room and what he must have been up to. 

Just then the door burst open. The morning light cast the shadow of big Don Carfaro across the floor of the club. In his hand was a Smith & Wesson Magnum, the weight of which could be felt from feet away as if it had its own gravity. Don's eyes were like black holes. "Good morning Ronald. I think we need to talk," Don said gesturing towards a chair with his gun. Ronnie slowly walked over to the chair fully aware that he would be lucky to be alive in five minutes. "Sit, please," Don said. He was as calm as a man leaving Sunday service. "Do you have kids Ronald?"

"Yes sir," he replied. 

"Ah, how nice. Tricia and Levi. Sixteen and twelve. Austintown school district. Am I right Ronald?" Ronnie's heart sank. How the fuck did he learn all that in ten fucking hours.

"Correct sir," he replied. 

"I tell you what Ronald," Don said leaning in and putting the barrel in Ronnie's mouth "you're going to die today. I'm just trying to decide if I should first go take an eye from each of your children and come back to shove them up your ass."

"He sholn't uh it the girl," Ronnie forced out.

"What did you say? Don asked, pulling the gun out of Ronnie's mouth.

"Your son. He shouldn't of hit the girl." 

"What girl?"

"I don't know who she was. He was dragging her across the floor by the hair and beating her. I only tried to stop it."

"You mean to tell me that my son was in here beating on a woman?!" Don asked, visibly angered now. He turned to Martin and asked: "Can you corroborate this?" 

Martin reluctantly nodded his head. "Yes, I saw it."

"Jesus fucking Christ, how in the fuck am I just hearing about this?" Don holstered the pistol, fixed his hair, and wiped the sweat from his overweight face. "I fear that I've embarrassed myself, gentlemen. I must apologize. My son neglected to inform me of the entire story. Us Cafaro's don't treat women the way you just explained to me. Ronald, I'm going to let you go, but don't let me ever see your fucking face again."

Ronnie stood up and slowly made his way to the door feeling to ensure the bag of heroin was still securely in his pocket. As he reached the door he looked over his shoulder to ensure it wasn't some ploy. Don sat in the chair rubbing the back of his neck. Ronnie pushed out the door and into the glorious sunlight which he never expected to see again. The air felt crisper than ever before. Never in his life had he felt this alive. It was like a new beginning. He thought maybe, just maybe he could begin to turn his life around. He rushed back to Ricky's to tell him the good news. 

Twenty hours later Ricky found Ronnie dead, in a pool of his own vomit, in the darkness of his downstairs bathroom, with the needle still dangling from his arm. Ronnie was always on his way out, it was just a matter of where the wind blew.