by R. A. McGee
“I don’t know. Sometimes some people need to be taught a lesson. Spitting on people is a no-no,” Porter said.
“Well, I hope you’re somewhere nearby if anybody ever spits on me.”
“I guess I could stalk you. Follow you around everywhere. That way I can be there in case something bad happens,” Porter said.
“Way to make it creepy,” Erin said with a smirk.
“What? You wouldn’t like a big guy staring into your bedroom at night, fogging up the window? Keeping an eye out, you know?”
“I would rather the big guy be in my bedroom.” Her face dropped. “That didn’t sound right. I mean, it's safer than outside. You know, so you’d be closer. I always put my foot in my mouth.”
Despite the throbbing pain in his head, Porter smiled.
Erin hopped off the bar. “You around tomorrow?”
“I think Badway has me in an indentured servitude contract.”
Erin looked confused.
“I’ll be here.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.” She hurried to catch up with a group that was just leaving.
Badway locked the door behind the group and flicked the lights off. “You ready to go upstairs?”
“Sure, but I have stipulations,” Porter said.
“Shoot.”
“First, clean my head up.”
“Already planning to, bro. What’s the second?”
“It’s time to tell me about these guys. If you don’t, I’m leaving. Family or not, I already told you I don’t like to be blindsided,” Porter said.
Badway nodded and led Porter out of the club and into the apartment upstairs. The door was ajar, and Badway pushed it the rest of the way, letting Porter enter in front of him.
Porter flipped the lights on as he went, coming to a stop in the skeleton of what would be a kitchen someday. He leaned against the counter near the sink.
Badway appeared from a closet in his room with a large bag with straps and smaller packs strapped to it. There were patches with his name, rank, and blood-type indicators. He sat the bag on the counter and washed his hands thoroughly.
“At least lean down a little, you big bastard. I can’t see the top of your head.”
“Stand on your tiptoes or something,” Porter said.
Badway went into the unfinished second bedroom and came back with a metal folding chair, splattered with paint. “Sit.”
Porter sat.
Badway washed his hands again and this time put on a pair of blue gloves from an unsealed packet. From his pack, Badway retrieved a brown bottle of something, and what looked like a stapler in a Ziploc bag. “Let me see.”
Porter leaned his head toward his cousin.
Badway poked and prodded, pushing the wound on Porter's head and then opening it up slightly.
“What do you think?” Porter said.
“I think I’m lucky you shave this big head of yours. Makes it much easier to see.”
“No, dummy, how bad is it?”
“It’s not too bad. Looks like the wall took the brunt of it. I checked to make sure there were no remnants of glass in the wound. If it were smaller, I would use Dermabond or superglue to close it,” Badway said.
“What are you gonna do?” Porter said.
Badway picked up the closed baggie with the stapler. “I think three or four of these bad boys and you’ll be on your way.”
“At least get me a beer before you turn me into arts and crafts time,” Porter said.
“Bad idea, bro. Alcohol makes your blood thin. You’ll bleed more,” Badway said.
“I’m aware.”
Badway shrugged and pulled a beer out of the melted ice water from the cooler on the floor. He changed his gloves again, then squirted the brown liquid on Porter’s head.
“That’s cold,” Porter said.
“You don’t want an infection, do you?”
“Use a lot of that stuff over in the sandbox?”
“Not really. When I was an SF medic, we were always out in the field and the injuries were much worse. I usually only had a chance to stabilize someone, then a chopper came and grabbed them. I let the doctors give them a broad-spectrum antibiotic if they survived. Since we have the luxury of time with you, I can make things cleaner,” Badway said.
“It's gonna take a while?” Porter asked.
“Ten minutes, maybe a little more. The least I can do for you is take the time to do it right.”
“No, the least you can do for me is tell me why those assholes keep coming into your club starting trouble,” Porter said. “They weren't there to have a good time, they were just causing problems. Why?”
Badway sighed. “I told you they were Armenian, right?”
“Yeah, I got that much. Why is a group of Armenian thugs causing problems in your terribly named club?”
“You think it’s that bad?”
“Without a doubt,” Porter said.
Badway held the stapler for a moment like he was searching for words. “So you noticed that there are a bunch of parcels for sale around here, right?”
“Sure.”
Badway put the stapler to Porter’s head. “This will hurt a little.”
“Do your thing.”
CLICK
“The guy who’s selling all those parcels is named Gor Petrosian. He’s got this real estate development company, always seemed a little shady to me.”
“Okay, so what does Petrosian want? Buy the club or something?” Porter said.
“Yeah. He has the bright idea that if he can get my club, and get a bunch of the others to sell, he could own the whole area.”
“How do you know that?” Porter said.
“The guy with the green tracksuit? That’s one of his younger brothers. Hurik, I think. He was in the club a few times getting loaded and ran his big mouth. Sat right there on the end of my bar and told me exactly what his brother’s plans were, like I wasn’t the guy who owned the place,” Badway said.
“He didn’t forget who you are; he just doesn’t care,” Porter said.
CLICK
“So why is he selling the other parcels, if he needs them all?” Porter asked.
“None of the parcels have sold. I bet he tells his clients they don’t get any offers or that the ones they do get are super low. By the time he gets all the pieces in place, he’ll be able to buy them all much cheaper. Some of these people will be begging to take a lower price, just to move the property. Then he can swoop in, pay them what they’ll take, and bang. Five hundred condos.”
“How did Petrosian approach you?” Porter said.
“Everything was legit at first. He sent a lawyer with a stack of papers, profit and loss statements, projected earnings, and the estimated gross the last couple of owners made with the place. Tried to convince me the place was a money pit.”
“It is a money pit,” Porter said.
CLICK
“Yeah, but it’s my money pit. I don’t have to sell it if I don’t want to.”
“When you didn’t want to sell, that’s when the trouble started?”
“Well… yeah. Basically. The guys would come in once in a while, get a little loud, just to flex a little muscle. I didn’t pay attention to those clowns. I don’t scare easily. Family trait, you know?” Badway said.
“Believe me, I know.”
“Last night was the first time they did anything like that. I wasn’t going to let them put their hands on any of the staff, especially not the girls. I had enough of the shit. It was just fortunate you were there too. Made my life a lot easier.”
“Glad to help, but you know this is bad, right? A couple of those guys were carrying. What happens if they come back and want to shoot?” Porter said.
“I’m not worried about me, I’ve been shot before. Not a fan, but I can work through it.”
CLICK
“And I’m not worried about you because you’re too dumb to die. But what about the rest of the staff? How would you feel if Erin got s
hot?”
“Funny you mentioned Erin. I’ve seen her fawning over you. How do you feel about that?” Badway said.
“Don’t change the subject, Sarge. I’m serious. How dangerous is Petrosian? Are the guns just for show or are those guys down?”
“If what I’ve heard is true, they’re serious business.”
“Nice to know after the fact,” Porter said.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t think it would be like that.”
“Now you know better. Talk to the cops; see what they can do. If not, I still know a guy at Homeland Security who works the organized gang task force. He owes me a couple of favors—”
CLICK
“Damn it, man. I thought you said three or four?”
“Sorry, it was a little worse than I thought. Organized gangs? You think Petrosian counts?”
“He’s the Armenian mob, genius. He counts.”
There was silence for a few moments as Badway reloaded the stapler. Porter took a big pull of his sweating beer.
“What do you think’s gonna happen tomorrow?”
“What do you mean?” Porter said.
“Kevon has court. What’s going to happen?” Badway said.
“How should I know? I’m not a lawyer.”
“Yeah, but you were a federal agent. You know how this kind of stuff works.”
“You were in the Army; can you drive a tank?” Porter said.
CLICK
“Yes.”
“Of course you can. I don’t know anything about parental rights or whatever his problem is. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” Porter said.
“What happens if Kevon can’t find his son?”
“Worry about it tomorrow. No sense in making some plan if everything gets handled in court in the morning,” Porter said.
There was silence in the room for several moments, while Badway lined up the staple gun for another shot.
“Porter?”
CLICK
“What?”
“Thanks for tonight. I can’t really rely on Steven and Rowdy to handle those types of things, you know? I appreciate it.”
“I’d do anything to get you to sleep outside, even take a bottle to the head. Small price to pay for a good night’s sleep.”
CLICK
“Done with the staples. Didn’t think it would take so many, but your head is big.” Badway squirted a clear gel from a tube onto his gloved finger and rubbed it along Porter’s wound. “You should be good to go.”
“Great. Get me another beer.”
Badway stripped his gloves off and pulled two beers out of the cooler, handing one to Porter.
Porter chugged the entire thing. He stood, then leaned on the counter, hand on his forehead.
“Easy, bro. I was just stapling your head. You may be a little woozy.”
“You ain’t lying.” Porter pulled off his T-shirt and threw it, the bar towel, and bag of ice into the black contractor bag that was the garbage.
“We could have washed that stuff,” Badway offered.
“No thanks.” Porter padded to his bag on the floor and pulled out a clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “Give me a couple minutes.”
The shower worked just as well as it had that morning, and Porter was glad to rid his body of all the funk from the club. He dried off and put a fresh shirt and shorts on.
Badway was already pulling his bedroll outside.
“Hey, Sarge?” Porter sprawled out on the couch.
“Yeah, bro?”
“Try to keep it down out there. You don’t want to scare the neighbors.”
Eight
Sleep came easily that night. Porter had a dream about Trisha, his ex-wife. In the dream, they were standing in the same room, back to back. All around them, the house was on fire: walls, floor, ceiling. Even the cups in the cabinet were on fire. Each of them held a phone receiver—the old type, not a cell phone. Despite being back to back, they couldn’t hear each other. Porter yelled and screamed, but nothing he did could make her hear him. He woke up as the phone in his hand started to melt.
He stood, stretching his tall frame. His body felt good, like he’d caught up on the sleep he’d missed his first night in town. Badway was in the kitchen pouring cups of coffee.
“That actually smells good,” Porter said.
“It’s this fair-trade stuff I got from a farmer’s market,” Badway said, pouring a large mug for Porter.
“Hipster coffee?”
“Hipster coffee,” Badway agreed. He passed Porter his mug. “Brown guy, black coffee.”
“Works for me,” Porter said. The coffee was bitter, with a faintly nutty flavor that Porter couldn’t place. He drained the mug. “What time is your boy’s court hearing?”
“Three.”
“What time is it?”
“Twenty ‘til.”
“No shit? Why didn’t you wake me up?” Porter said.
“You were so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked like a big, hairy baby. But you should probably move your ass.”
“I’m waiting on you,” Porter said as he slid on a fresh pair of blue jeans, a clean button-up shirt, and his Chuck Taylors. He was frustrated to see a few drops of blood on his shoes. “That’s never gonna come out,” he said to no one.
The pair left, leaving the door that wouldn’t lock ajar, and took the back alley down to where their cars were parked. Porter looked at the phallus on the side of his truck.
“It's like a low-rent version of the Oscar Meyer Mobile,” Badway said, laughing until his face was red.
“Laugh it up. I’ll drive us to court in that thing,” Porter said.
“Not a chance. I’d rather run the whole way there.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Porter lied.
Traffic was uncharacteristically light, and Badway settled into the drive.
“Sarge?”
“I’m not answering to that anymore,” Badway said.
“Fine. Hey, private,” Porter said.
“Damn it, what?”
“Why you so attached to this Kevon kid? Did he save your life over there or something?”
“We weren’t anywhere near each other. He was a grunt, I was off doing my own thing.”
“Why so loyal?” Porter said.
“When I first got back last year, I used to volunteer at the VA. You know, the Veterans Administration hospital?”
“I know what the VA is. Dad was a vet, remember?”
“That’s right. I was super bored when I first got out, so I was trying to help other guys who were just coming home. Kevon was in a group I ran,” Badway said.
“Who would let you run anything?” Porter said.
“I got my degree in psychology, remember? I’m no doctor, but the VA needs all the help it can get. You know, twenty-two veterans off themselves every day. Did you know it was that high of a number?”
“I heard that somewhere,” Porter said.
“So Kevon came to my support group. Most guys cycle in and out when they think they are better. Kevon was the most stable of them all, but he came every week. Never missed once in eighteen months. He told me it made him feel better—being with the other guys, talking things out.”
“I can respect that,” Porter said.
“Once I heard about what was going on with Stacy and the baby, my heart went out to the guy. I knew I had to help him. If paying a lawyer is all I can do, then it’s all I can do. But I wanted to help.”
Badway pulled into a small parking lot across from the courthouse.
“Hopefully things work out this morning. He sounds like a guy who needs a win,” Porter said.
“In a big, bad way.” Badway pointed under the passenger seat. Porter looked and saw a small lockbox mounted to the floor.
Badway gave him the code, and Porter opened the metal box and took his gun off, as well as his ever-present Spyderco pocket knife and the extra magazine living in his pocket. Badway handed Porter his revolver and Porter slid that
in the lockbox as well.
“No reload?” Porter said.
“Five shots is all I need.”
“You’re like an old man,” Porter said.
The pair walked across the street and through a courtyard that led to the front door. Up a set of large marble stairs, a large walkway led through several columns and into the lobby of the courthouse. There was a group of police officers working in the lobby.
One stood up front, directing people to divest themselves of all metal items. Two more stood behind a large, old x-ray machine. The first of these helped people put their items into bins and on the belt. The next officer worked the machine, watching his screen for any contraband. The last officer stood on the far side of a walk-through metal detector. When people made it through the gauntlet, he was the last to wave them through; if they passed without alarming the machine, they would be granted access to the courthouse.
Porter had played this game many times in his life, and he knew the rules well. Everything even remotely metal came off and went into the bin.
“You have everything off your person, sir?” The officer's name was Peterson.
“I’m good to go,” Porter said.
“Come through for me, please.”
Porter passed with no alarm. Officer Peterson motioned Porter to the right to retrieve his personal items.
“You ready, sir?” Officer Peterson said.
“Yeah. I’m gonna beep,” Badway said. “I always do.”
“Is everything out of your pockets?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then walk through, please,” Officer Peterson said.
Badway went through the metal detector. As he predicted, the machine alarmed.
“I thought you told me you had everything off your person, sir?”
Badway pulled his left pant leg up, revealing a hellacious scar left from an orthopedic surgery. “I have a big plate in there. Can’t take it out, boss.”
“What happened?” Officer Peterson said.
“He cut his leg shaving,” Porter said from where he was waiting.
“A bad day in a bad place,” Badway said. He didn’t elaborate.
“You’re good to go,” Officer Peterson said.
Badway put his pant leg down, retrieved his items, and joined Porter.
