The Bad Kind of Lucky by Matt Phillips

Author:Matt Phillips
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

The church smelled of day-old tortillas and oxidized red wine.

Remmie said to himself: The body and blood of Christ.

The priest, tall for a Mexican, wandered through the rows of wooden pews toward the altar. Above him, another crucifix glared at Remmie, but this one held a tortured Jesus leering like a prisoner. So fucking morbid, this whole Jesus-on-the cross thing. The church itself was drab, a wooden building constructed without craft or artistry; Remmie imagined a loose affiliation of underpaid locals nailing two-by-fours together. He wondered how the steeple hard-on managed to stay upright.

Remmie followed the priest at a distance, his breath crushed into a ball inside his chest. What was he so nervous about? Wasn’t this like walking into a fairy tale, a museum of myth? Maybe, but it scared him, too. All this talk of hell and purgatory and…Shit, who knew what the truth was anymore? Not Remmie. He figured, after the last two days, he didn’t know shit about shit. Never would neither. Not if the world could help it.

The priest stopped at the altar, kneeled, crossed himself. He bowed his head for the appropriate duration and mumbled to himself. Afterwards he stood and faced Remmie, his flat, rounded features draped in shadow. “What brings you to the house of the Lord, señor…?”

“Miken. Mr. Remmie Miken. I come from—”

“Los Estados Unidos. I can see that.” The priest folded his arms across the leather bible, waited.

Remmie scraped his feet against the polished cement floor, smoothed the front of his Hawaiian shirt. He was aware of the sound his hands made against the fabric, like sandpaper on skin. He said, “I just need to kill some time. That’s about it. I need…I need some sleep, father.”

The priest nodded. After a long, sobering silence, he pointed at a pew near the front of the church.

Remmie moved forward, sat where instructed.

“Lay down if you wish.”

“I mean, I can just sit here for a little bit and pay my respects.”

“And to who will you pay these respects?” The priest had perfect posture, almost like a steel spike ran down through him from heaven itself.

“God in heaven,” Remmie said.

“And his only begotten son?”

“If you say so, padre. If it means I have to say so while I’m here.”

The priest shrugged. “Respect what you will. Life, I hope.” His round eyes narrowed, kept on Remmie’s slumped frame. “At the very least.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You have blood on your hands, friend.”

Remmie looked down at his hands—holy shit. His hands were caked in blood. Trevor’s blood. From when he got shot. From when Remmie tried to…Why hadn’t he washed? He didn’t remember the blood being on his hands while he drove…But, yes, it was. And Gonzo not saying one word. Good riddance to that fucker. This was like running around with mayonnaise on your face. Holy shit, indeed. Remmie shoved his hands beneath his thighs, like a kid trying to keep himself from reaching for a candy bowl. “It’s nothing, just a thing I had to do…” His voice trailed off.

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