My specialty is…well,
let’s just say that I fell into it a couple years back. It
involved a lot of beer and a 9 millimeter. A gun instead
of a girl. You know, the usual greed. I try not to think
about it much. Why cry over spilt milk, as my mother used
to say.
“So…Mac, whadda
ya think?” the ugly thug named Murphy says to me behind a
smoke screen from his Marlboro. My name isn’t Mac,
but it caught on about the same time I fell into this gig
and it kind of stuck.
“Kneecaps next.” I
shrug. “And if not, try alcohol where the bullet holes are.” The
massive lump of flesh on the concrete floor—lying in a puddle
of his own miscellaneous bodily fluids—moans his protests,
though with the duct tape, there ain’t much. He’s bleeding,
but not bleeding out. Right now he’s very much aware of his
own delicate mortality, and that’s exactly where I want the
old, fat bastard.
Murphy gives me
a yellow, toothy grin of approval. It’s a jackal’s grin,
and there’s no play-acting on his part.
“And if that don’t
work?” he says on cue.
“Light a match.” Now
the millionaire-turned-money-launderer does his best impression
of a fish out of water as he tries his binds for the hundredth
time. His eyes become saucers as he looks up at us.
“Yeah, gonna cook
him up good!” Murphy again shows way too much enthusiasm,
and what troubles me is that I know it’s genuine. I’m play-acting.
He’s just a punk. Not like me, but a genuine, idiotic punk
that will wind up guest-starring on “Cops” someday. The guy
can’t get it through that thick skull of his that ninety-percent
of this game is psychological. Gus keeps sending me these
whack-jobs to train and I’m starting to take their general
lack of intelligence as a personal insult against my character.
Among other things,
that’s Murphy’s main problem: No imagination. Murphy’s my
latest protégé. Lucky me.
Regardless of
the fact that he just said we were going to cook him, Murphy
pulls his knife instead—a ridiculous thing that proves he’s
trying to compensate for something. I keep my poker face,
but inside I’m screaming: You’re overdoing it! We’re
not going to get anything! You’re going to give him a heart
attack!
“Oh yeah, old
man!” Murphy’s bouncing around like a kid warming up for
the multi-colored plastic balls in the playpen. “I’m gonna
gut you…gonna gut you!”
The old man’s
shaking bad now. He’s probably just soiled himself for the
second time. And here’s Murphy…pushing him farther.
“Yep,” I say,
still trying to play along. “And after that…”
My pocket starts
playing a tune from the Godfather. The guys love it, and
that’s the only reason I have it set. When I pull it from
my pocket, I see my handler’s number on the ID.
“Excuse me,” I
say politely down to my guest. “I’ll be right back.”
As I walk out
the door, I whisper, “Don’t do anything until I
get back,” into Murphy’s ear.
“Oh yeah, baby!
Gonna cut you up good! I’m gonna get me an ear like in Iraq!” He
thinks I’m playing the good cop. Even if this were true,
he’s overdoing it. He’s seen every damn gangster movie out
there and studies them like the Bible.
“Vietnam, you
idiot. And I mean it,” I hiss through my teeth. My phone
keeps ringing in my hand, but I hold my gaze with Murphy.
It’s takes a bit—my phone eventually goes to voice mail—but
finally Murphy sees the steel in my eyes. Then his face falls
like a kid who just heard Disneyland fell ill to a match
and a can of gasoline. “I’ll…leave you some fun…” Murphy
starts his I’m-a-big-boy speech, but I cut him off.
“Don’t. Do. Anything.” It’s
taken me quite a bit of restraint not to just slap the kid.
I try to keep my voice low and away from our guest so I don’t
undo some of our hard work. “Just keep him scared. Nothing
else.”
I brush pass him
and out the back door before Murphy can queue up another
line from one of his b-rated movies.
No imagination.
Inside my jacket
I have a pack of smokes. I slip one between my lips while
I dial. I think his name’s Phil, but I honestly can’t remember.
Don’t care too much, either. Names are liabilities in my
profession, which is why I haven’t heard my own birth name
since mom died.
The phone connects
without a greeting as I’m still fishing for my lighter. “Go,” I
say. I step into one of the alley’s shadows, behind the old,
condemned warehouse that should be put out of its misery.
Somewhere nearby I can smell urine and maybe something more
solid along with it. I try to ignore it.
“Gus says he needs
you back, right quick.”
“I ain’t done
here.”
“Yeah, well leave
it to the kid.”
I snort a laugh.
Still can’t find the damn lighter. “He’s not ready to go
solo. He’ll kill the old man and get nothing.”
“Not your concern.
Gus says he needs you now. As in yesterday.”
As in yesterday. Phil’s
another one who lays this gangster crap on five layers too
thick. The ones who stick around, the ones that last longer
than a couple years like yours truly know that shit like
that’s for late-night cable.
But Phil’s my
handler, and I’ve been working with him for six months now.
I don’t know what happened to the last guy, and I don’t want
to know.
“Okay. Tell Gus
I’ll be there in ten.”
I head back inside,
pocketing the smoke I was about to light. Since I’m now officially
on the move, I doubt I’ll have time to enjoy it, and I don’t
want to stink up my BMW. Never enough time to enjoy things.
Story of my life.
As I step back
into the buzzing pale-yellow fluoresces, I find Murphy straddling
the guy like a two-bit stripper trying to demote herself
to street whore. He’s still got that damn Australian knife
out, and now he’s holding it behind the guy’s ear lobe like
he’s ready to slice himself a hunk of apple. The man is wailing
out a sad, pathetic plea underneath the duct-tape that would
have pulled on a string in my heart ten…no, fifteen years
ago.
I see there’s
no new blood. Just in time.
Murphy’s got such
a hard-on for bleeding the guy that he didn’t hear me enter.
Sloppy. So damn sloppy. I let the door slam hard behind me.
His shoulders flinch when the door claps like a thundercloud,
but when he turns around to face me he’s all cool again.
“Quick call, eh?”
“Yeah,” I say,
gesturing Murphy to get off, which he hesitantly does with
a completely over-the-top look of disappointment. Leave this
guy to Murphy. Yeah, right. We’ll have Miami Forensics on
us within the hour.
“What’d the boss
say?”
I want to tell
him to mind his own damn business, but I have a vague idea
how Murphy got into this gig and I doubt it was for his intuition.
He’s got the same chin as Giacosa, Gus’ worthless cousin.
“He said he needs
me downtown on an urgent matter. Wants you to take care of
this piece of shit.”
Murphy’s eyes
light up like a Christmas tree. But the old man’s face has
hit a new low. Maybe too far to be useful.
I storm forward,
pushing Murphy aside. With one smooth move, I yank the duct
tape off of his mouth like I’m trying to start my fifteen-year-old
lawn mower.
“Me or him. Where’s
the mon—”
“Locker!” he screams
so loud that even I flinch. He’s spitting everywhere. “I-I
got it in a locker at the YMCA! Southeast side, A-45! Key’s
at my apartment!”
I look back at
Murphy with a thin smile. The man’s in tears at my feet,
babbling on and on about being sorry. Now Murphy’s back to
being the ten-year-old kid again who just found out Santa’s
prints were on the gas can.
“Take him back.
Tell Phil,” I say, pocketing the duct tape. “And don’t hurt
him until Phil says so.”
Murphy knows he’s
done for the night. He looks down at his ridiculous knife
with utter bewilderment, like he doesn’t know what to do
with his life from this point on. No more for him tonight.
No more ever if I could have my way.
I’m at Gus’ for
a grand total of two minutes. Gus is the type to offer you
a drink no matter what time of day it is and no matter how
long he wants you around. You can be his favorite cousin
or a street urchin and he’ll still offer you a scotch. He’s
just that kind of guy. He’s smooth. He’s considerate. He’s
at the top, above the dirt and slime that comes with the
job. He’s not like me.
But Gus ain’t
pouring me a drink this time. That’s alarm number one. Without
any formalities at all, he tells me to head to the safe house
by the pier—not one of my regulars. He has something I need
to take care of. Something he only trusts ol’ Mac with. Lucky
me.
I eye a small,
but noticeable shine on his bald head. Sweat? Could that
be sweat? The guy runs his air conditioner like it supplies
his office with actual oxygen. That’s alarm number two.
When I’m in the
car, driving to a safe house I normally don’t frequent, I
realize what alarm number three was. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t,
give me that very simple assignment through Phil. And he
didn’t once look me in the eye; not in that whole damn time.
And Gus is a good poker player.
It’s been a while
since I’ve had a three-alarm buzz in my head. I know I’m
getting old because I don’t enjoy the rush anymore—actually,
I never did. I know most guys keep a bullet in the chamber,
but I don’t. Before I get out of the car, I pull the action
back, take off the safety, and put it back in my holster
with a shaky hand. Unlike some macho guys, I don’t consider
carrying a loaded gun pointed at my Johnson a manly perk
of the job.
The walk up to
the small house is only about ten steps, but I’ve already
thought of a dozen escape plans that include Mexico, Canada,
the west coast, or Europe. I also think about my retirement
stash taped to the bottom of my sink. But by the time I hit
the doorstep and my hand touches that cold brass knob, that
buzz in the back of my head has been neatly filed away. My
brow is now dry as an autumn leaf. It’s my specialty, after
all.
“Big Mac!” a goon
whose name escapes me says with open arms. “We’ve been waiting
and waiting!”
“Well, your waiting’s
over,” I reply with my best million-dollar smile. “What do
you got for me?” I have my thumb hooked in my waistband like
I had too much to eat—another beer-loaded night for me, my
posture says. But it’s also exactly two inches from my pistol
beneath my sports jacket.
“Got a real doll
in here for ya,” the goon who suddenly reminds me of Murphy
says. He’s got a wickedly yellow smile, and it makes my stomach
churn. “We’ve been sitting on her like we were told. Kept
our hands to ourselves like good boys.”
“Good self control,” I
bark a fake laugh. I don’t like this one bit, and I feel
that three-alarm buzz I filed away coming back.
“If you want any
help with this one, Mac,” a second goon says, stepping out
from behind the bathroom door. He’s redoing his fly. I hadn’t
noticed him before, and that alone gets my nerves dancing. “We’d
be happy to lend a hand.”
“Oh yeah!” the
first goon says. “Real happy!”
Giving them the
laugh that goes with my million-dollar smile, I pat goon
number two on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, boys. I’ll
let you know.” I head down to the cellar, careful to close
the door behind me. I can still hear their pre-teen chuckles
as the old staircase creaks under my weight. I file away
potential alarm number four. Whatever happens tonight, I
gotta keep my cool if I’m going to get through it. After
all, it still might be nothing.
It’s dark down
here. Pitch black, in fact. For now I wait on the lights.
I hear muffled breathing, a sound that you learn to identify
only after years of ugly experience. It’s ragged, panicked
breathing that’s from the nostrils. That’s because the mouth
has something more important to deal with instead of air.
Like a gag. Or a gun.
After I feel my
loafers hit the concrete, I pause long enough to extract
a pair of latex gloves from my pocket. In darkness, the sound
of latex snapping into place echoes like a gunshot on a Sunday
morning. I hear the muffled and staggered breathing shorten.
All psychological.
“I don’t know
who you are or what you’ve done,” I say, starting my little
spiel. Done it a thousand times, and I imagine I might do
it a thousand more before something retires me. I try not
to think about the alarms in my head, especially when retirement comes
to mind. “But you need to know a few ground rules before
we begin.”
I reach out for
the light switch.
“One,” I say. “I’m
not going to lie to you. Ever.”
I hit the switch.
“Two,” I continue. “I’m
going to hurt you bad in the next few days…” And I’m
going to enjoy every minute of it. You probably won’t. That’s
how ground rule number two usually finishes. Occasionally
I vary it depending on my mood and if the guy looks tough
to crack. But my sales pitch tonight falls a bit short. Tonight’s
flavor of choice is something along the lines of hot wax
stuck to the roof of my mouth. And after I hit the lights
and my brain finally registers what my stupid eyes see, my
tongue has just stabbed itself into that hot wax. It burns
like hell, and I’m suffocating.
She’s about eighteen.
And she’s beautiful. But not the kind of beautiful that makes
a guy run pick-up lines in his head before she can even bat
an eyelash. Not to me, at least. Not now.
Strapped to a
chair with a silver strip of duct tape across her mouth,
she looks at me with the biggest eyes I have ever seen. She’s
still wearing her school clothes—something trendy, expensive,
and border-line Britney Spears—but she looks like she took
a spill in the gutter before she wound up on my plate. She’s
shaking all over, like any poor kid would whose just been
kidnapped and taped to a chair. Otherwise she looks unharmed.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper.
She’s eighteen, alright. Yes, I’ve done some work on kids
and women before. And yes, I hated every minute of it. I’m
not a monster. It’s just my job to play a monster. It’s a
part of the slime that comes with my life. But this is different.
Much different.
I’m not guessing
that she’s eighteen. I know she’s eighteen. I know because
she’s the striking image of her mother, and I haven’t seen
her in eighteen years, give or take nine months.
Five alarms, baby.
My head is on fire.
I get maybe thirty
minutes alone with Heidi. Then Gus himself shows up. The
big boss never shows up. That would have been alarm
number six if I hadn’t already made up my mind twenty-nine
minutes ago on how I was going to play this.
“How’s it going,
old man?” Gus says from upstairs. New, yellow light spills
in from the cellar stairwell, and I can see his hearty pear
shape casting the most anti-heroic silhouette down on the
wall before us.
“Good,” I lie. “Bring
the boys down. She’s ready.”
I hear a shuffle
of feet as Gus, the two thugs, and at least two more come
marching down. “What’d I tell you,” I hear Gus bragging to
his right-hand man, Martin. I’m sure it’s Martin—he never
leaves home without the guy. “Mac is the best.”
The cellar suddenly
becomes very crowded as they all beset her like a semi-circle
of piranhas. The two thugs from before, as well as Gus’ left
hand man who’s name I never caught, immediately begin to
undress Heidi with their eyes. They don’t know who she is.
But, of course, Gus knows. If Gus saw their faces, he’d cut
off their fingers.
I can see a wave
of utter relief hit Gus’ face when he sees the girl unharmed. “That
didn’t take long at all. And you didn’t put a scratch on
her.”
“I prefer it clean,” I
say, and that’s no lie. Now it’s show time, and even though
my pulse is off after the fuzzy, mechanical rabbit, my composure
is ice. I casually walk up to Heidi, who’s either doing a
grand-stand performance herself, or is genuinely scared out
of her wits—probably a bit of both—and I carefully wrap my
fingers around her throat. Her eyes respond instantly, bright,
glossy, and Bambi-like.
“Tell him what
you just told me,” I say. Then, deep inside, I begin to pray.
“I…I…don’t know…” she
starts, but something’s wrong. She can’t get anything else
out. New tears quickly join her moist cheeks, and her chest
starts to tremble, like she’s hyperventilating. “I…I can’t…”
“Come on!” I shout. “No
more games. Out with it!”
She breaks down
then, and I can feel her moist cheeks on my wrist as she
bows her head and cries.
“Mac, what the
hell is this?” Gus’ left says. When I turn, all of the men
have bewildered looks on their faces. Only Gus looks as broken
as the girl. He’s doing his best to hide it. I hate to see
Gus this way.
“Damn it. Martin,” I
spit. “Give me your silenced piece.” I reach out for it,
my other hand still around the girl’s throat. He looks questioningly
at Gus, whose face has just turned stark white.
“Mac,” Gus starts
to whisper, but then he catches himself. He knows we’re in
too deep now. That’s why he called me. I’m the one who’s
used to wading through this shit, not him. That’s why I’m
the specialist. He’s going to trust my call. That’s why I’m
here.
He looks at Martin,
and then takes in a big, deep breath, like he’s about to
go venture the deep-end of our scum-covered pool. Then, he
gives a solemn nod.
Martin pulls out
his gun. It’s the nicest piece among the boys. He’s got the
long barrel of a silencer already screwed on—one of the many
reasons why he’s Gus’ right.
I let go of the
girl’s throat, and place the barrel carefully against her
forehead. Her eyes sharpen when she feels the cold metal,
and her crying instantly stops, like she has a light switch
inside her brain. I’m impressed.
“For the last
time,” I shout. “Tell me where…”
Then we are all
deaf. Never fire a gun underground. Trust me on that.
It would have
been a different story if I had pulled the trigger with Martin’s
gun. Still holding it against her head, I fired my pistol
out from under my jacket, straight into Martin. Even without
his shooter, I know he’s the most dangerous, so I drop him
first.
Before the others
can even gasp, I kill the rest. Whirling, I fire my pistol
at the thugs on the right, and Martin’s pistol at the thugs
on the left. They all go down in a hail of gunfire. I’m not
the best of Gus’ thugs in a firefight, but we’re practically
standing within arm’s reach of each other in this tiny cellar,
and I have two full clips versus their holstered guns and
slack jaws.
A ragged breath’s
length later, only Gus and I are left standing. His eyes
are wide, and the blood has completely deserted his face.
“You’ve been good
to me, Gus,” I say, but I soon realize that I can’t even
hear myself. I guess that Gus must have read my lips or my
face, because he only vacantly nods in response.
I put one in his
head, as merciful as I can be. Gus slumps to the ground like
all of the strings holding his rag doll body up were cut
at once. Snip.
“And I’m sorry,” I
whisper, but again no one hears me.
Twelve hours later,
Heidi and I are across state line number three, into Louisiana.
This will be hour thirty for me without sleep, but my passenger
is sawing logs in a fetal position. She hasn’t stirred for
hours and I’m envious. Just looking at her adds ten pounds
to my eyelids, but I don’t stop. I don’t dare. Not yet.
I had always dreamed
about this day. Never did I have silly illusions about becoming
the next Gus and making it big in the crime world—all
of the little Murphy’s running around doing the shit work
while I got rich and fat, sitting on my throne of drugs,
booze, and women. That wasn’t for me, and never once did
I think it could be. No, if I wanted to one day vanish—and
I had fantasized about this day for years—I needed
to be someone who could vanish. A Gus couldn’t
just vanish.
My fantasy was
to one day grab that day-pack I had squirreled away, take
my modest but small fortune taped underneath my bathroom
sink, and throw it all into my old ‘87 Camero I had stored
away off-site in a container no one’s ever seen before. I
would just drive west, maybe to Mexico or California, and
get as far away as I could.
A Mac like
me could disappear as long as I didn’t do anything stupid.
My job was all about the stupid—getting back what
wasn’t rightfully theirs and dealing with people whose greed
got the best of them. If I didn’t burn any bridges, I could
just vanish. If I didn’t do anything that would put a price
on my head, no one would care enough to follow. Like run
with money that wasn’t mine.
Or shoot a Gus in
the head.
When I find an
old motel that looks like it could quite possibly be abandoned
in the outskirts of Baton Rouge, I decided it’s time to stop.
I’m not sure how much longer I can last, and the steering
wheel’s starting to look mighty comfortable.
She’s still out
when I go pay for our room with cash, but she’s yawning and
rubbing sleep from her eyes when I get back. I toyed with
the idea of carrying Heidi up to the room like a father would
his eight year old daughter, something real sweet and paternal
like, but she wakes up before I get the chance. I wouldn’t
know how to do it anyway, so it’s just as well. Also, she’s
still looking at me like I’m a mad man. She doesn’t know
me, who I really am, and I have decided to keep the connection
between her mom and me a secret. Either the right moment
hasn’t arrived yet or I haven’t found enough courage. I honestly
can’t tell which.
Gus didn’t know
about me and Heidi’s mom, Rachel. No one did. Even though
we were kids back then, just a pair of stupid teenagers with
raging hormones and puppy love, we were careful. She was
the daughter of Sonito, from Northside—we had to be careful.
I was young, not suicidal. If he had known, Gus wouldn’t
have sent me. If he had known, I would never have known Heidi
here even existed. Part of me hates him for not knowing.
Part of me is thankful—for Heidi’s sake, at least.
The hotel room
looks like one of the dungeons I usually work in—or, used
to work in, I suppose—and I laugh when Heidi wrinkles her
nose.
“It’s just for
a couple hours,” I assure her. “Then we’ll keep rolling west.”
She looks at me
with her mother’s hazel eyes again, and I feel a string in
my heart reverberate. “And how long will we keep running?”
I shrug. “Until
it’s safe, or when you want to stop. But it isn’t safe yet.” Back
in Miami, I imagine that people have just started to notice
that Gus and his boys are missing. I didn’t do anything amateur-like,
like torch the house as I know Murphy would have, so it might
be a while before they find the bodies. I also wiped down
everything Heidi and I touched as we left. As for the gunshots?
Well, Gus picked that location for a reason. People in that
neighborhood don’t look around when there are gunshots. If
we’re lucky, when the police eventually get called to investigate
the smell in a week or two, they’ll think it was a Sonito
family retaliation.
I drop Heidi’s
luggage on the uneven bed. It’s a large, black duffle bag
that I know holds either a brick of cash, drugs or both.
I noticed that her eyes haven’t left the bag since I took
it out of the trunk.
On our way out
of town, we stopped by her ex-boyfriend’s place and picked
up what Gus and probably half of the Miami underground were
after. Valdez or Sonito property, I imagine. Like always,
I just don’t want to know, and I would have rather left it
to rot too if Heidi hadn’t begged. She told me that Valdez’s
boys had gotten to the boyfriend before her, and the bag
was all that was left of her old life. I wouldn’t have been
a great father—I cave too easily on everything.
I pat the bag
warmly for her to see. I know she still hasn’t figured out
who I am or why I saved her, but I imagine that she thinks
it has a lot to do with the bag. “I’m going to grab a quick
shower. Try and get some sleep.”
We both hear the
activities in the next room, something kinky and loud, and
she gives me a queer look.
“Just try,” I
say again. I snatch up my day-pack and head into the airliner-sized
bathroom.
Normally, after
a job, I shower. I know it takes days to get gunpowder residue
off your person, but I’m old fashioned and usually try anyways.
I initially went into the john to do just that, but now that
I’m slumped against a wall of mildew and god knows what else,
I find that I’m just too damn tired. I look at the old and
crackled face in the mirror and realize that I should have
run years ago.
I want to reminisce.
I want to bring up memories of Rachel, to remind myself of
why I did what I just did, but I’m too tired.
I can’t even remember
Rachel’s face right now—all I see beneath my eyelids is Heidi’s
face soaked in tears. God, when was the last time I saw Rachel’s
glowing face? Fifteen years ago? I didn’t know about Heidi
then—how could I? Rachel was so beautiful that day…even lying
in a pine box with a summer’s dress on and her bosom ceasing
to rise and fall. I vaguely remember a little girl there
crying, a red face soaked with tears, a confused little girl
who didn’t belong at a crime-family’s funeral. Do I really
remember that, Heidi back then, or did my imagination just
fill in some gaping holes?
I settle with
splashing water on my face. I even toy with the idea of changing
my clothes—hell, I should do it just so I can burn them in
the morning—but my clumsy fingers can’t even undo the buttons
on my shirt.
When I come out
of the bathroom, my sack under my arm, Heidi levels my gun
at me.
“You sick old
perv,” she spits. She’s holding it like an amateur, like
she fears it rather than respects it. It’s obvious that she’s
surprised by the weight, but still does her best to keep
it upright. I can’t even remember when I put the thing down. “I
will never be your little whore!”
I see that she’s
come to a conclusion about why I helped her. Though she couldn’t
be farther from the truth, I can see why.
“No, wait,” I
say, putting my hands up slowly. I start to chuckle. She’s
so cute with a pistol. “You don’t understand.”
And I guess she
never will. It’s like god himself took a Louisville Slugger
and tried to knock my heart right out of my chest. I’m vaguely
aware of the fact that I’m in the air, flying backwards.
Then I see the muzzle flash. Then I hear the explosion. It’s
like my brain couldn’t register all that just happened, so
it decided to show me the pointers in slow-mo instant replay.
I crash off the
wall, feeling something behind me crunch, and then I’m falling.
I don’t know why
I can hear this time, but I can. I should be deaf. She had
two pistols to choose from, and she chose mine instead of
the silencer. Silly.
“I’m so sorry!” I
hear her crying over me. In the corner of my eye I can see
my pistol tossed aside. Everything’s going blurry, and the
fire in my chest is drowning me alive. “God, I’m so sorry!” she
says again, but it’s like she’s a thousand miles away, and
getting farther and farther with every heartbeat I feel aching
in my chest.
It’s funny that
the first thing that I realize is that my hands are tied
behind my back. Not “Where am I?” or “Am I really alive?” but
the nasty cords someone used to tie my wrists. They bite
deep into my flesh, and I wonder if I’m bleeding. I can’t
feel my fingers.
The second thing
I notice is that I have no strength. Not even enough to lift
my head up and see who’s in front of me. Yes, I have to lift
my head, I realize. I’m not face-down on shag brown carpet
anymore. I’ve been propped up in a chair. How long have I
been out? How long have I been dead?
“Wake-y, wake-y,
Big Mac,” I hear a shrill voice say, like a kid adventuring
into puberty. “Time to pay the piper, old man.”
The voice sends
a river of ice water through my veins, but not because I’m
surprised to hear it. Somehow I expected it. Somehow I knew
it would come to this.
“Murphy,” I’m
amazed I can flap my lips but not lift my head. I feel his
cold talons dig into my chin, and he lifts it for me.
“So good to see
you again.” He gives me his decaying, yellow grin. Then I
feel that ridiculous knife of his bury itself into my chest,
right where the bullet struck me.
My body convulses
like he just hooked up my nipples to a car battery. “You
fuck!” I shout. “You’re supposed to ask me a question first!”
The knife pulls
back. Oddly, the pain instantly stops. It feels distant now,
like a pin-prick. “Okay, you want a question? Here’s a question:
Why’d ya do it, Mac?”
Thump.
The knife goes right back in. Same spot, like he’s a surgeon.
I shake hard in the chair I’m tied to.
Murphy’s laughing
now. “She’s not even your kid, man! You threw away your career,
your life, for some punk that ain’t even yours!”
He pulls the knife
out again, and my body stops shaking. “No,” I whisper. “You
don’t understand…”
“Of course I understand,
Mac,” Murphy says. Stab. “This is all some silly
guilt trip that started eighteen years ago, right? Left poor
old Rachel alone so you could pursue…what? Lots of money?
Wealth? Happiness? How much does a guy like you make, Mac?
How much shit can you buy in a month? And you still got regrets?”
I’m shaking my
head feverishly now, like I’m a delusional drunk in denial
of the truth. Maybe I am.
“You threw away
your whole life for a girl that doesn’t even look like you!”
“But she’s Rachel’s!” I
suddenly scream. “She’s Rachel’s daughter! It doesn’t matter
if she’s mine! She could have been! If we hadn’t lost the
baby, she could have…”
Stab.
“But she’s not,” Murphy
laughs. “And even if she was yours, she wasn’t worth throwing
your life away for. Look at you! She left you for dead after
you saved her ass. She’s just a thug. A thug like you and
me.”
“No,” I whisper. Stab.
More convolutions. “She wouldn’t have been! She wouldn’t
have been if…!”
“If what?” Murphy
says, pulling the knife back out. “If you had chose Rachel
instead? If you had been around, been a dad instead of a
thug?” Murphy laughs. “She’s a thug. And a stupid thug. Look
at all you did for her, and she’s still going to get pinched.”
It takes me a
long moment to realize what Murphy’s saying. He sees the
light in my eyes and nods. “Yeah. She left your body in that
motel. With your gun. The bullet will match that gun, which
will match your fingerprints and hers. And then
that gun of yours will match the pile of bodies in Miami.
You know that girl has gotten her fingers inked before. She’s
got a week maybe before Miami’s finest send them over, and
then she’ll have her very own turn on the electric chair.
Good save there, Mac. You sure know how to choose them.”
Everything’s getting
blurry again. I look up at Murphy, my eyes suddenly very
tired. His face is starting to smudge like an oil painting
under a hair dryer.
“So if you still
want to save her…” Murphy continues. “Better get your ass
moving.”
He sinks the knife
into me again, like he’s trying to jump-start my cold, dead
heart.
I feel the carpet
on my cheeks as much as I can smell it, and in the distance
I can hear my Camero roaring to life. I try to get up, stumble,
fall, and then try again. Like a dying fish I flop back onto
the floor. God, it feels like there’s a bonfire in my chest,
and it’s spreading.
The most I can
manage is rolling over, and that alone takes a world of effort.
Like an idiot, I slide a finger into my shirt and feel where
the bullet struck me. Yeah, I’m wearing a Kevlar vest. If
I had told you earlier, it wouldn’t have been much of a story,
but let me assure you that getting hit with a 9mm point blank
wearing a vest is no light matter. I know I’m lucky to be
alive. Very lucky, assuming I can still pull through this.
Internal bleeding and all hasn’t been ruled out. I wonder
how many ribs are broken.
I roll my head
right, and I see a shiny, copper cylinder. 9mm shell casing.
Imaginary Murphy was right—she’s an amateur. More amateur
than he is.
I swim through
the pain and struggle to get moving. I got to be quick. I
can’t hear the three or four person orgy in the other room
anymore, and that certainly means they phoned the cops. If
I’m going to save Heidi, the police can’t find a body here,
or any guns. If they come and all they find is a little blood
and a broken wall mirror, they won’t have enough. That CSI
shit is expensive.
I gather up both
pistols, the spent casing, and my day-pack. The girl was
kind enough to leave me my retirement fund, though I doubt
that it was intentional. No time to wipe anything down. I
cracked my head and bled all over the wall when Heidi shot
me, but that can’t be helped now, and it certainly won’t
look like enough to keep the police interested. At the very
most, they’ll think it was just a drug deal gone wrong and
both parties fled. I stumble out the door in less than thirty
seconds.
Strolling down
the street, I see the first police cruiser roll up with its
gumdrops in disco mode. I can’t walk too straight—the pain
is so bad I’m amazed I can even walk at all—so I try to feign
a hangover rather than a bullet wound. An amateur would hide
or maybe put his head down and try not to make eye contact.
But the thing to do here is to be like anyone else. Look.
Rubberneck. I stop, watch the cruiser roll by, and get my
full gander as I watch him park. In the parking lot I just
struggled through not three minutes ago, the cop pops his
door open and rushes inside my room with a hand on his hip
iron. Then I move on. Casually. Modestly.
I move on.
I don’t know what
happened to Heidi after that. Hopefully her days of being
a criminal—a thug, as Murphy would have put it—are over,
and she’ll use whatever she thought was worth throwing her
life away for on something smart and inconspicuous, like
stock in Microsoft. I wish her the best, though I pray never
to run into her again.
As for me? Well,
I’ll survive. I always do. No one’s come for me yet, and
I count my blessings every day. I can’t exactly say that
I’m making an honest living and doing the American
Dream thing, but I’ll get by. Old habits are hard to break,
I suppose.
Just no more Murphy’s
for me. No more being a thug. I’ve moved on.
