Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  I tap Speaker.

  There’s a silent pause. A short breath.

  The warmest voice I’ve ever known fills the air.

  The One Girl speaks.

  11

  Ozwald stands in an alley in front of a run-down warehouse with five men of the Shaw gang.

  Rain pours down on them, but they seem unfazed by the weather. Ozwald has his sights zeroed in on the warehouse and what’s in it. Money is what Shaw wanted, and money is what he shall have. Shaw says The Massive is the last big job for them. The kind of job you go away on. He’s shared little details about The Massive, but Ozwald trusts Shaw unconditionally, as do all of the Shaw gang. Wars and blood will bring men together.

  Ozwald nods toward the right of the warehouse. Two men pull down masks and take off around the back. Their boots still shine in the night and rain. Ozwald glances to the remaining three. No words said.

  It’s all understood.

  Masks come down.

  Inside the warehouse, a garden-variety drug deal is going down. Hard-ass thug boys with neck tats and Glocks exchange powder and pills for currency. Stacks and stacks of currency. They’ve all seen Scarface way too many times. Played Call of Duty and GTA for far too many hours and now they are convinced they are the baddest men alive.

  Those beliefs change now.

  Ozwald and company move in from all angles without making a sound. Pushing in like a white-hot knife through a stick of butter. The thug boys barely look up before they each catch a round in the forehead, and after a simple poof of blowback from the back of their skulls, the baddest men alive are no more.

  The stacks and stacks of currency are tossed into bags before the last body slumps to the floor. Ozwald and his kill squad are done and out the door in seconds.

  Box checked.

  Ozwald isn’t sure it’s enough cash to do The Massive. He is sure Shaw will let him know.

  12

  I touch Play.

  I touch Pause.

  Need a second.

  Unknown. The missed call said Unknown. I just hit Pause after the first syllable or two. I think she was able to get out an H. I knew who it was. That schoolboy stomach thing, that tingle, that damn silly thing that stopped me in my tracks in the third grade when Jessica Woodrow said simply, “Hi.” You would have thought she asked me to debate existentialism or challenged me to a knife fight. I might have chosen either over having a conversation with a living, breathing person who possessed a vagina.

  That was then, this is now. I still suck at this.

  Taking in a deep pull of air, I hit Play…

  “Hi, Jasper…it’s Lucy. Been a long time, mainly my fault, I guess. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I’ve heard about…some things. I hope you’re okay. Let’s talk, okay? I’ll try you again later. Bye.”

  I set the phone down. Maybe I dropped it. All I know is it’s not in my hand anymore. I watch colors flicker across my television without really processing the images. While staring at the intense violence on my television, my mind twists pretzel-like, round and round. All around the words Lucy just said to me. Not to me, into a soulless machine. But through that soulless machine her words reached me. More than reached me.

  Leveled me.

  What the hell was she saying to me?

  What does she know? Does she know all about the failures?

  Does she know about what’s become of me?

  My mind weaves around her message. Dissecting every word. Each syllable. Every little pause or inflection she placed on those words or syllables. She heard about some things—shit. So many things she could have heard. The amount of things that have happened since I last talked to her could fill an ocean. None of them are all that good. Was she calling out of pity? Compassion? Was she bored and wanted to talk to a freak? Have I become a sideshow for her, that guy who is usually good for a rib-tickler, or does she actually want to know if I’m okay?

  People always say that shit, I hope you’re okay, but don’t mean it. I rarely do. It’s just a thing you say to express feeling, even if you’re void of such a thing, but Lucy is different.

  She probably actually meant it.

  I pick up the phone. Unknown. I don’t know where she called from, but I have a number for her. I could call some of her old friends and maybe get her number. Scanning down my contacts, I see so many people I haven’t spoken to in a long time. So many of those people are perfectly happy with that arrangement.

  Me too.

  I reach Lucy. My finger hovers. A simple touch will reach her or at least put me on a path that will lead to her. I watch my finger shake, then pull back. I can’t talk to her now. Not like this. Not after all this time. I can’t talk to her with all this shit about Wilson. Too much to get into. I need my head in a better space. I’ll call her later. When I get right. When I can tell her I’m okay.

  Unknown.

  No shit.

  13

  Alex and I meet at this little greasy dump between my place and LA.

  The beaten-to-hell sign out front boasts House of Chuckles has the best waffles in the state of California, an accomplishment to be sure, but impossible to prove. I guess they can lay claim to best in CA as long as at least one person thinks they’re the best. Maybe they keep some toothless mental midget stashed in the back (and on the payroll) who will confirm Chuckles’s elite waffle status if ever called upon. I will say, they are pretty damn good, but the best in the state is a stretch.

  Regardless, the coffee is solid, and it’s got these booths that are like deep circular nests that slightly resemble big red vinyl hot tubs. The juke plays three bands and three only.

  REO Speedwagon, Rush, and the Replacements.

  No idea where the love of R-bands stems from, but hey, whatever gets Chuckles into his special place. This has become our go-to spot over the last few years. Usually a meeting spot for Alex to make sure I’m alive. Take my pulse, in a matter of speaking. He’d probably actually check it if he thought he could get away with it. He worries, hates to show it, but I know he does. Shit, if I was him and he was me, I’d worry too.

  I’m not particularly close with any other members of my family. Our dad died when we were young, and our mother passed on about ten years ago. It’s not Ozzie and Harriet–type material, but it’s our family.

  There’s one other bit of family history, but I don’t talk about that.

  Ever.

  My favorite thick-fingered waitress moves like a cannonball toward our table. Pouring me a fresh coffee, she drops some sugar and cream on our busted-up table. Her makeup looks like it was applied with a butter knife, but she smells amazing—maple syrup with a hint of Irish Spring. She fakes pleasant well enough, but despite our warm feelings for her, I’m certain she hates us. Alex politely waves off her offer for steamy joe and orders up an orange juice instead. Of course, when the OJ arrives, he liberally adds some vodka from a steel flask he must’ve brought from home. He keeps his stash tucked in his suit jacket, Alex’s little helper. He had a thing for the Russian brands, but lately I’ve noticed he’s developed a real taste for a few out of Texas. Austin, I believe.

  Bluh. I get a shiver. Ex-wife used to guzzle vodka like her life depended on it.

  From the moment we sat down, I immediately sensed something is up with Alex. The air between us, it’s thick. Damn thick. It’s a see-through wall of tension constructed with a soup of thoughts held together by some unseen bonding agent, and these thoughts are making my brother an uptight asshole at the moment.

  It’s in his eyes. There’s heaviness. His shoulders are scrunched up around his ears. Perhaps that’s why he needed a splash of vodka in lieu of caffeine. Does he need a conversation lubricant or a conversation inhibitor? I’ll find out shortly. Then again, he could be thinking of one of the times we met like this. It was under similar circumstances.

  Captain Kangaroo is a walking bag of Australian money. Multimillionaire. I might be fudging some of the details, but I believe his wealth is a co
mbination of a family trust fund, the sale of a business in the ’90s when you could pretty much sell anything as long as it could be loosely described as an Internet or dot-com company, and then he had a semi-successful run as a pro poker player.

  He also bankrolled my first film. The one that made money.

  Some say the one that didn’t suck balls.

  When you are trying to raise money for an independent film, Captain Kangaroo is the perfect guy to get. Usually people will hit up dentists, doctors, or family members who are comfortably well-off, max out credit cards, or a combination of all the above. But if you can land a Captain Kangaroo, then buddy, you are gold. A guy with stupid money and who just wants to have his name run in the credits so he can tell friends he’s in the biz or just wants to have a nice back-pocket story when pitching dick at a bar.

  You never talk profit with a guy like the Captain. One, film profits are fuzzy at best, and two, the good Captain already has money. What he wants is a story he can tell over and over again. If that isn’t enough, you tell him that he can come on set to hang out. And if that doesn’t work, you throw in an introduction to a gorgeous actress or two. Never guarantee sex. That would be crude and not a great idea if you want to keep the actresses on your film, but the implication should always be he could fuck one of them.

  Sex and hope or, better yet, hope of sex. Greatest sales tools available.

  All those bullet points on my sales pitch were enough for Captain Kangaroo to lay down a cool eight-million-dollar investment in my first film. Luckily he got all those perks, his full eight million back, plus a nice 14.3 percent profit.

  Not bad. Not bad at all.

  The Captain should be happy. I’m banking on his happiness. This is one of the few healthy relationships I still have in that business, and this is why I have asked my brother, Alex, to reach out to Captain Kangaroo.

  The last time I asked Alex to call the Captain, we met here, and later Alex ended up with a divorce, crabs, and a now ever-present vodka habit. A part of him blames me for all of it, I’m sure, but he’s such a good guy he’d never say anything.

  “You’re not putting me through that motherfucking bullshit again, you fucking mentally stunted turd bandit,” Alex says.

  “Whoa, whoa, man. The hell?” I say.

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about. No way in hell I’m getting dragged down into your attraction for disasters. Not going through that again. Not this time. Not ever. I’m in a better place, man.” He says before taking another pull from his beverage.

  “Did you call the Captain?”

  Alex doesn’t answer.

  His eyes dig into me.

  His left eyebrow gives an ever-so-slight twitch, more of a tremor-brow. I can make out a lone vein rising in his forehead. Yeah, that blue line is pumping up nicely. My fingers squeak as I grip the red vinyl seat tight. The horrible sound sends a nails-on-a-chalkboard chill up my back. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Alex squeezes his eyes shut tight. He begins to count backward just above a whisper starting at five. This is new—a therapy holdover? A self-calming Zen thing? His eyes flip open once his countdown ends. After a gulp of his screwdriver, he says, “Yes. Fuck. Fuck yes, I fucking talked to him.”

  I know his elevated levels of hostility can only mean the good Captain is on board, but I need some details.

  “And?” I ask.

  “He said he’s down. He said last time was the balls. He did have one condition, however.”

  “And that was?”

  “You cannot, will not make something even vaguely resembling that piece of artsy shit second movie that crawled out of your artsy ass. He also said it was the worst piece of shit he’s ever seen in his life. Complete shit. The worst kind of shit, unspeakable shit—”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  Alex resets, “I know it was a personal film for you. It was personal to me too, ya know?”

  “Okay.”

  “It hurts, I know. I know you don’t like to talk about what the movie was about. What it meant to you, but I think you should. It meant so much to you that you lost everything making it. Try to talk it out at least? Let it out for fuck’s sakes.”

  “I don’t talk about that.”

  “Jasper.”

  “I don’t talk about that.”

  Alex has tried this before. His heart is in the right place, but like I have plainly stated, I don’t talk about that. He knows what that movie was about. I know what that movie was about. Don’t see the need to discuss. He’s frustrated with me, I can see it. He’ll let it go. He’ll try again someday. I know he truly believes talking might help. I appreciate him caring, I do, but I don’t share his view.

  “Anyway, Captain wants assurances,” he says.

  Like I touched on, the good Captain financed my first film, so when it was time to make a second one, I called him. Everything was cool until he read the script.

  Not a fan.

  He declined, giving the same artsy shit/complete shit narrative Alex just recited. In fairness to the Captain, everybody gave more or less the same response to my work entitled A Devil’s Teardrop on Angel Wings. In the industry it was known as ADTAW. Nobody got the title, not sure I did either. Also, no one in the world would give me any money to make it, not one penny. The studios, the minis, the majors, independent finance, they all turned up their collective noses and gave the project the collective finger. I was obsessed with making the film. I was also taking a lot of drugs, drinking an ocean of vodka, and having nonstop sex with questionable people.

  Strong creative and financial decisions during that time did not come easily.

  I bankrolled ADTAW with my own money. Every dime that went into creating that film came from me. All my chips shoved into the middle of the table on that one. Bank accounts drained. Stocks and mutual funds sold. Credit cards covered the catering.

  Nobody does this.

  Nobody.

  Some people might put up a portion of their own nest egg to finish a film, maybe loan some funds from one of their LLCs if they love the project, but they do not dip deep into their personal accounts to fund the entire budget.

  I can’t stress this enough—I went balls deep. I went with every damn penny I had.

  Alex begged me not to do it. The begging took place in this very booth. “Can’t Fight This Feeling” was playing. He’s never been more correct about anything in his life. I’ll never tell him that, of course, but that single reckless decision changed me.

  Changed everything.

  A flood of financial information runs ripshit through my mind. Dollar signs flash. Numbers spin up and down like that big-ass wheel on The Price Is Right. Spent a lot of time watching the money bleed out from my accounts. Gazing helplessly as the debt piled up higher and higher. There’s a sting to that loss, everything I’ve lost, not all financial of course. This is why I’m here, at this table, having this uncomfortable conversation.

  I need a spark. Need something to pull me out. I need a project.

  “I need a hit,” I say.

  “No shit,” says Alex.

  “I want to do a crime film.”

  “Like what? Noir? Gangster shit?”

  “Thinking bank robbers.” I tear off a big bite from my waffle.

  Alex leans in. I have his attention. “Okay, I like those. People like those. The script? Is it good?”

  “Don’t have a script. Not that kinda film.”

  “No script?”

  “Nope. Not a single page.” I swallow hard, dragging down the so-called best waffle in CA.

  “That’s a problem,” Alex says, leaning back. I’m losing him now.

  “Not the way I want to do it. It’s not what the project demands. Want to do this as a documentary.”

  Alex’s eyes wipe clean. Face hardens, shoulders back up to his ears. He licks his lips. Finds his center. “Jasper. I know you’re all fucked up by the Don’t Get Tripped project—”

  “The what?”

  �
��That’s what Wilson is naming his docu—”

  “Don’t Get Tripped? Don’t Get motherfucking Tripped?” I realize my voice has escalated to a socially unacceptable level and has created an air of uncomfortable. I also notice my balled fists have slammed the table hard with every syllable. The plates and cups have jumped and landed in new locations scattered across the table. Tiny puddles of coffee and boozy juice have formed from the surprise bouncing. The House of Chuckles has gone quiet. Everybody has stopped enjoying their meals. They are now looking directly at our booth, as if we were a jackknifed manure spreader.

  “Yup,” Alex says, sipping his special OJ. He sits, just staring at me, waiting for my next move.

  I do not have one.

  The back of my neck is a sweaty slab peppered with spiking hair. All I can do is sit with my palms flat on the table. Fingers spread wide with coffee pooled between the webbing. Mouth open, air sucking in and out. I can feel myself rise up and float above my body looking down at my brother and me sitting in the booth. It’s as if I’m watching this happening to someone else.

  I do this sometimes.

  Remove myself from reality. Simply cut myself off from the situation. I’m sure it’s a defense mechanism, but I’d rather not understand the why of it. I just know I need it to happen from time to time.

  A blistering stream of memories mixed with random, unrelated images rips through my mind’s eye. The pace so intense it’s hard to identify them all. A psychological slide presentation put together special just for me, all care of my broken brain. There’s shit from childhood, of course, always childhood shit. Times spent with my family, good and bad. I’m at a bank depositing the first check I earned from my first film. Opening the first Insufficient Funds Notice mailed to me from the same bank after my second film. Moving into the burbs. My mother. A unicorn. Ex-wives. Meeting Rick from next door for the first time. There’s something I think might be a clitoris. Wilson being interviewed. Gorillas wearing people masks robbing a bank. Lucy…

  I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting like this, but Alex shakes my wrist. “Hey. Don’t twist off into never-never land. We have items to address here.”