Collateral Damage by Bill Tope

Collateral Damage by Bill Tope

Challo stood back from the bus, along with a handful of other riders, to allow those departing to step onto the curb and be on their way. As they did so, some of the men fixed Challo with hard looks and sneers, as if daring him to engage with them. He shrugged away the random animosity and at last boarded the vehicle. He was used to the stares and the taunts. Today, Christmas Eve, most of the seats were filled with impoverished travelers and others who didn’t drive, who were visiting the strip malls and groceries and resellit shops, in an effort to make something of this year’s holidays.

Challo, all six and one half feet and 400 pounds of him, eased down  the narrow aisle and found a window seat. He was just settling in when a young raven-haired woman dressed in goth regalia took the aisle seat next to him. She glanced out the window, and he took in her dark penciled brows and abundance of black mascara and lipstick. She had innumerable piercings in each ear, but as he tried to count them, she peeped into his eyes.

“What’re you staring out?” she asked.

Challo blinked, embarrassed, then decided to just come clean. “I was, uh, counting the number of earrings you got.”

She surprised him with a broad smile, which revealed an elaborate array of dental grillz, festooned with gold and platinum and jewels. Challo stared. She frowned. “What are you staring at now?” she demanded.

“Your teeth,” he blurted. “They’re beautiful!” The girl, who revealed herself to be Wanda, smiled bashfully.

“What’s your name, handsome?” she inquired. He told her. “Like in a well?” she asked unexpectedly. Challo stared at her, all at sea. “You know, a well: a deep subject for a shallow mind?” And she laughed prettily. Challo blinked at  her. Wanda shook her head. “Get with the program, big guy,” she told him. “I tease my friends.”

Challo smiled. Did this mean that this pretty, outrageous girl was his friend? Yay! he thought.

“Where you headed, Challo?” she asked next. He told her he was going home.

“Me too,” she said. “Hey,” she said, turning abruptly to face him again. “You wanna come over to my house for supper?”

Challo was taken aback. No one, in his 29 years, had ever invited him to their home. He was flustered. “I…uh…I,” he stammered.

“Is that a yes?” she prodded. Challo nodded his head. “Terrific! It’s a date, then.” Challo was gobsmacked again. This would be his first ever date, too. “Look,” she continued, “it’s nearly five. Why don’t you get off with me at my stop and we can walk to my place. Okay?”

Challo nodded again.

At length, the bus pulled to a stop and several people got off, among them Challo and Wanda. Challo courteously offered to carry her bag. Wanda graciously consented.

As they walked along the darkening street, Wanda talked incessantly, not shutting up for a moment. This was alright with Challo; he enjoyed listening to her voice. He thought it sounded like ice cubes tinkling in a glass tumbler.

At long last, they reached Wanda’s tiny house, with the missing tiles and shingles and the brown grass peeping through the seams in the pavement. Wanda fished round in a mailbox appended to a wooden post and disinterred some mail, which she promptly disposed of in a conveniently placed trash can. Challo cast a look in the receptacle and saw that it was nearly full of junk mail.

“Expecting something important?” he asked.

“Well, yeah!” replied Wanda. “I submitted a novel three months ago to this publisher in New York, and I expect to hear back almost any day!”

“You wrote a book?” asked Challo with surprise.

“Sure,” said Wanda. “It’s my fourth,” she added, unlocking the front door.

Challo was floored yet again. He had thought that Wanda, who surely wasn’t as old as he, and with her grillz and many piercings and goth makeup and apparel, was for all of that, just a regular person. Now he was thinking that she was smart and maybe out of his league. Worry creased his face. Wanda instantly spotted it.

“What is it, Challo?” she asked.

“I never knew you was a writer,” he said uncertainly.

She laughed. “You don’t hafta be intimidated by me, big boy — or even impressed. I haven’t had anything published yet,” she told him wryly.

“But, you will,” he said with certainty. They peered into one another’s eyes. And smiled. Wanda led the way into the living room. Challo had to duck his head under the doorway.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

“I’ll take a Coke,” he replied.

She halted. “You want cocaine?” he asked with concern.

“Coca Cola,” he said. “Diet, if you got it.”

Wanda seemed to relax, as if a great load had been lifted off her shoulders. “Comin’ up, big guy,” she said with a grin.

Challo, oblivious to her prior discomfort, accepted the cola gratefully and took a sip. He sat quietly on the sofa; there was no TV or stereo in the room. A table lamp flickered slightly.

As she cooked, Wanda banged pots and pans and rattled tableware and made a racket, yet kept up a steady stream of conversation with her dinner guest. Whatever she was cooking smelled fabulous. Challo felt his stomach rumble.

“Come and get it!” Wanda belted out at last, and Challo heaved himself off the sofa and walked into the kitchen. “Take a seat, babe,” said Wanda, and she began transferring what smelled like ambrosia to Challo, into serving dishes. Challo mostly existed on fast food and microwave dishes and the like. He hadn’t had a home cooked meal since he was a little boy.

“You wanna say grace?” asked Wanda, surprising Challo again. When he didn’t reply, she said, “That’s okay, I’ll do it.” As she bent her head, Challo did likewise and a moment later, she lifted her pretty goth face and smiled. She has a heck of a smile, thought Challo.

“Help yourself, handsome,” They dug in. Wanda had prepared a mountain of spaghetti noodles and a river of marinara. Plus, there were bricks of toasted garlic bread and a rain forest of fresh, delicious salad. They ate prodigiously. Challo really put the groceries away, but Wanda, as petite as she was, held her own. She insisted that her guest have seconds and then thirds, of everything.

At long last they were finished and Challo felt comatose. “You stretch out on the sofa, babe,” suggested Wanda. “Good for the digestion,” she told him. Challo took himself off to the little living room and collapsed onto the sofa and was almost instantly asleep. Two hours later, he came awake with a start. Where was he? he wondered. His own apartment didn’t have a sofa, just two recliners, and he couldn’t stretch out like this on them.

He glanced up and saw Wanda, sitting at the end of the sofa, smoking a cigarette. No, that didn’t smell like tobacco; it was….

“You wanna get high, big guy?” asked his host.

Challo instantly came to a sitting position and shook his head no. “Nuh uh,” he said. “I don’t do drugs.”

She discreetly extinguished the joint in an ashtray. “What do you do, Challo? I mean, do you work?”

“I’m a carpenter,” he replied.

“Oh! Really? Two of my brothers are carpenters, back in N. Dakota, where I’m from. You carpenters do alright for yourselves,” she said, nodding approvingly. “What do you do, build houses?”

Challo furrowed his brow. “No, I make pallets.” he replied.

“Pallets?” she asked.

“You know, like in Walmart, they got pallets you put cans of paint on, or trash cans and stuff.”

She nodded. “Does that pay pretty good?” she asked conversationally.

Challo nodded. “Two dollars an hour, plus overtime.”

Then it hit Wanda. Sub-minimum wage was earmarked for the physically and mentally disabled. She felt for Challo and the way he was being exploited by the powers that be. It occurred to her that she had met people like Challo all her 23 years: the bereft, the despoiled, the beaten down.

“That’s good, Challo,” she told him. “How long have you been working for…where do you work?”

“Fit To Work Industries,” he said. “Down on the waterfront, in the big  warehouse,” he explained. “I been there nearly ten years,” he boasted.

“Have you ever tried to find other work?” she asked.

“Why would I do that?” he wanted to know.

She shrugged. “I dunno, maybe you’d get paid more.”

“No!” he said sharply. “Then they’d raise my rent and I’d lose my food stamps and my insurance!” Challo seemed scandalized at the very suggestion of bettering himself.

Wanda relented. “You’re right, babe. Hold onto your job. You got it good.” She smiled at him.

“What do you do for a livin’, Wanda?” it was Challo’s turn to ask.

She hesitated. “I told you: I’m a writer.”

Challo grinned. “Right. But you said you ain’t sold none of your books yet,” he pointed out.

“They pay me to write, give me an advance, they call it,” Wanda lied, knowing that Challo would buy it. Somehow, she didn’t have the heart to tell her what she really did for a living. Would he even know what a prostitute was? she wondered. She asked, “Do you have family in the area?”

“Nuh uh. They’s all gone. They passed when I was little, before I went to live at the hospital.” Challo seemed to withdraw into himself.

“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow, Challo?” she asked, glancing at her watch and hurriedly changing the subject.

“We’re off till the day after New Year’s. Hey, I better get goin’, I hafta catch my bus.”

“It’s after nine, baby, the buses stop running at eight. And the service isn’t operating over the holidays.” For a moment, Challo looked panicked. “Don’t worry,” Wanda said, “you can sleep here tonight. Then you can stay over for Christmas, won’t that be fun?” She thought that Challo looked pleased as a pup. “Lemme get you a blanket, for the couch,” she said. Before they retired, Wanda asked Challo if he could reaffix the bracket to the window shade. Taking the hammer she offered him, he proudly performed the task. Wanda rewarded him with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Lying on the sofa under a luxuriously warm comforter, Challo dreamed of goth girls with grillz on their gorgeous white teeth. Always a light sleeper, he was awakened suddenly by the sound of a key being turned in a lock. He lifted his head from the pillow and listened intently. He heard the rattling of the lock and curses coming through the door. Finally, the door swung open and banged against the wall. A figure stumbled forward into the room.

“Wanda!” bellowed a drunken voice.

Challo glanced in the direction of Wanda’s room, saw the light flash on under the door. The intruder stumbled forward a few feet, again bawled, “Wanda!” The goth girl emerged from her room, and immediately approached the figure, shushed him.

“Quiet, Mark, you’ll wake him.”

“Who?” he asked belligerently. “Who you got in your room, bitch?”

Unseen by Challo, Wanda gestured in his direction.

“Shit!” exclaimed Mark. “He’s a big one, ain’t me? Hey, he better mind hisself, I’m packing,” and he dug a huge, menacing black revolver out of his parka. Snowflakes drifted to the floor.

“He’s harmless,” Wanda assured the visitor. “He’s touched,” she said, gesturing to her head.

“Must be,” said Mark. “If he’s sleepin’ out here!” and he guffawed loudly. He replaced the gun under his coat and placed his hands around her waist.

“What are you doing here, Mark? What do you want?”

“A little lovin’,” he slurred, running his fingers up her sides.

“It’s Christmas,” she scolded. “I told you I was taking the holidays off this year.”

“Well, I wanna get off too,” he said with a sloppy grin.

Challo took that moment to stir. “Get your hands off her,” he warned.

“Hey, go to hell, you big fuck!” snarled the other man, “else I put a round in your ugly head.”

“Mark, no,” pled Wanda, taking the man into her arms.

“Thas’ better,” Mark slurred, and allowed himself to be led toward the bedroom. When Challo stood, all six feet six inches of him, Mark leaned back and gazed up. “Goddamn, you a long, tall drink ‘a water.”

“Don’t hurt him, Mark, please,” Wanda beseeched him. “I’ll make it worth your while,” she promised temptingly. “Stay back, Challo,” she said.

“You’d better,” Mark warned menacingly. “Hey Chocolate, you can come watch if you want,” and he laughed like a drunken animal. He stared shrewdly at Wanda, said, “Holdin’ out on me, huh?” and without warning, he backhanded Wanda hard across the face.

Seconds later, Challo was on his feet, hammer in hand, and was levying a powerful blow upside the much smaller man’s head. Mark dropped like a sack of flour and made no further movements.

“Ms. Tourissant,” said the police detective, gazing admiringly at the scantily clad young woman, “I believe we’ve gotten the gist of your statement tonight. We need to take Mr. Woodruff in and interview him again down at the station.” Crime scene techs swarmed through the house. The body had been claimed by the coroner.

“Can’t you come back for him in the morning, Officer Sweeney?” she asked him. “He’s so upset now. He may want to get an attorney,” she pointed out.

“I asked him already,” said Sweeney, “and he said he didn’t have an attorney.”

“He still might want to get one,” she said.

“Are you acting in his behalf, Miss?” asked Sweeney in a clipped tone. “Just what exactly is your relationship? You told me you just met this evening.” He looked hard at her.

“I did. We did,” she said. “We met on the bus and I invited him to share dinner with me — for the holidays,” she explained. She stared at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked the cop.

“Ma’am,” he said with a smirk. “We know you’re a hooker.” She frowned at him. “Oh, pardon me, an ‘escort,’ do I have that right?” He snorted. “What’d you do, cop a little business on the bus and try to ease your pimp out of the action and the john got feisty and killed him?”

“What’s the matter, Sweeney, can’t a girl celebrate the holidays like a normal person for a change?” she asked.

“Yeah, all the time,” he said sardonically. “I know you workin’ gals all got a heart of gold, am I right?”

“Like I said, Mark was hurting me, and Challo was just protecting me.”

“Just a big puppy dog, huh?” he said sarcastically,

“He is,” she agreed. “He’s what….” she struggled for the new term she’d heard “…special needs.”

“He’s a ‘tard?” exclaimed Sweeney. ‘Well, ain’t that convenient?”

Suddenly out of the bedroom emerged Challo, his hands secured behind him with a plastic tie. Another cop had hold of his arm.

“Hey, killer,” razzed Sweeney, approaching the big man. Challo looked terrified. thought Wanda.

“What’s the matter, Woodruff,” asked Sweeney, “didn’t get any tonight?” Challo winced. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sweeney went on. “That’ll change later, in lockup.” He laughed gruffly.

Wanda began to trail after them, but Sweeney called her back. The other crime scene techs had vanished and it was just the two cops, Challo and Wanda remaining in the living room. “Stand down, bitch!” snapped Sweeney hatefully.

“That’s Ms. Bitch to you, screw!” she hissed back at him.

The cop laughed unpleasantly. “To show I’m a reasonable man,” he said, “you won’t even have to screw me tonight; I’ll let you off with just a blow job.” Wanda’s lips curled up over her teeth and she spat at him. Sweeney backhanded the woman across the face with a loud slap. Challo reacted violently, tossing off the other cop with a shrug of his giant shoulder. Against all reason, Challo managed to break his bindings with pure brute strength and awkwardly lunged for Sweeney.

The other man deftly spun away and unholstered his weapon at the same moment. With a tight smile, he aimed the Glock at Challo’s gargantuan abdomen.

“No!” shrieked Wanda, throwing herself between the two men. But she was an instant too late and in that time, the sadistic cop shot Challo four times through his upper body, felling him at once.

Challo lay on his face, bleeding to death. His wrists had been bound with twist ties a second time. No effort to administer first aid had been made. Wanda knelt by his giant form, gently stroking his brown hair and speaking softly to him. By this time, other cops and CS techs had returned to the little house, and swarmed about the place, photographing and taking evidence samples and taking a statement from the witnesses. Sweeney preened importantly with the attention.

At last Wanda spoke up. “Why won’t you help him?” she asked despairingly.

A man who identified himself as the medical examiner said bluntly, “Ma’am, he’s dead. Nothing we can do now.” He covered the body with a sheet, and the young woman rose.

Right, thought Wanda. Her friend was just collateral damage in the never ending war against the marginalized, the disabled, those who didn’t count. A tear slipped down her pretty white cheek.

“Ma’am,” said a new detective, younger and more professional than his predecessor, thought Wanda, “what more can you tell me about the deceased, Mr. Woodruff?” Wanda sat on the sofa with the new cop.

She heaved a sigh. “He was,” she said wistfully, “a carpenter.”

“How long had you known him?” he asked.

She stared into space for a moment. “All my life,” she replied.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2024