Promises to Keep

by Sex, Nikki

  No, not cops. It couldn't be that old nigger down the hall, either. He didn't seem the type to snatch somebody like this, even if he could find a friend to help him. He was more the get in your face, holier than thou type.

  Jonah's body suddenly slammed against a wall as the van took a hard turn.

  He stopped wondering who his attackers were for a second and started thinking about how to escape. He'd seen this movie once, where the hero kept track of where he was being taken by counting the turns. That way, he could figure out where he was if he got out of the situation.

  OK, that was one, he thought to himself

  Another sharp turn and another slam against the wall, the opposite one this time.

  Two...

  A stop for a few seconds.

  OK, we're at a light.

  Then another sharp corner to the right, and another, left. Then another. Some of the turns and stops came so quickly that, by the time they'd moved off the paved road onto gravel that skittered under the tires, he wasn't sure how many turns or which way they'd occurred.

  Jonah lost count twice, started over once, and finally gave up.

  Stupid, gay-assed movies.

  Cool night air rushed in as the doors opened. Jonah braced himself. Hands grabbed his ankles and yanked him out. He landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him, once again. Gravel cut into his skin as he landed on the dirt road.

  "Get up!"

  Jonah was jerked to his feet and then led down the road. Grass replaced gravel and wooden steps replaced grass. He heard the creak of a screen door opening and he was pushed inside.

  "Sit!"

  Jonah sat, half expecting to fall again, but his butt found a chair underneath it. Only then was the bag pulled off his head.

  He was in an old farm house, by the look of it. Warped wood covered the floor, stained and worn from generations of muddy boots and dogs and children, long since gone. Jonah could hear the slight creak behind him as the night breeze pushed against the screen door ever so slightly.

  The room was not furnished at all, except for a single rough wooden farm table in the center across from where Jonah sat. Four chairs lined the opposite side of the table and in those four chairs sat four men. Jonah recognized only one.

  "Chet! What the fuck man?" He tried to rise but strong hands behind him shoved him back down.

  "Joney," Chet ran his fingers against the table's surface. "We got us some trouble here."

  "What trouble, Chet?" Jonah could feel the nervousness creep into his voice. He could hear it too. "What you playing at?"

  Chet's fingers found a long splinter on the cracked and weathered tabletop. He pried it off, revealing a long narrow strip of lighter wood beneath. He looked at the splinter for a moment and then placed it in his mouth where he twirled it with his tongue until it settled comfortably in one corner.

  The look Chet was giving him was cold and dangerous.

  What have I done?

  He tried to remember some of last week, but all he came up with was a happy, kind of blank haze.

  Chapter 18.

  "Joney, Joney, Joney,” Chet said with a disappointed sigh. “We need to talk about money."

  "Money..." Jonah stammered out. "I don't remember anything about any money. I've owed you before; you know I'm good for it."

  "This isn't a couple of hundred bucks of pills on credit, Jonah. This is fifty large we're talking about."

  Chet leaned forward, the makeshift toothpick poking out from his grizzled mountain man beard accusingly.

  To Jonah's memory, Chet had always worn a beard as thick and shaggy as the top of his head was bald and shiny. It made him look like a maddened killer—a look that he'd always used to his advantage.

  Tonight though, it wasn't all beards and haircuts making him appear pissed. Jonah was certain that Chet was truly angry.

  "Fifty thousand dollars? I don't know what you're talking about." Jonah laughed nervously. "C'mon, Chet. This is a joke, right?"

  "No joke, Jonah."

  Chet reached over to the gas lantern that provided the room's only light. He fiddled with the knob on the tank, coaxing just a little more light out of the twin mantles. As he did so, he went on, still speaking very calmly, very coldly.

  "Last week, you were strapped. Last week, you said you'd do anything to earn your fix. Remember that?"

  "Yeah, I do—kind of."

  This wasn't looking good.

  Sure, he remembered not having any money, but he never had any money. Sometimes, if Chet was in a good mood, he'd let him do stupid shit for a couple of pills. He'd washed his Lexus, he'd picked up his dry cleaning, he'd even pumped out his septic tank, but he'd never done anything worth fifty grand.

  "Not 'kind of,' dumbass, most definitely. You were busted last week, and I gave you a job to do.” Chet leaned forward. “Did you do it?"

  "Yeah, sure. Of course I did it," Jonah lied. He still had no clue what Chet was talking about.

  "You did?" Chet gestured to the man at his left with an open hand. "Then why, pray tell, did my associate drive all of the way from Ashville to ask me why his package never arrived? Why is the good Mr. Sanford sitting here before you, empty handed? Why did he express his extreme disappointment with my organization and myself? Why, due to this unfortunate incident, is my judgment and trust in you called into question?"

  "I told you, Chet. I did what you asked." Jonah still had no clue.

  Jaw clenched, Chet stood up and walked around the table toward him. His hands balled into fists. "Which was?" he said with deceptive mildness.

  Jonah racked his brain. Nope. Nothing. He vaguely remembered talking to Chet about an "advance." He could even remember offering to do anything to get the "advance," but he didn't remember much beyond that.

  "I don't remember," he finally admitted.

  Crack.

  The sharp unexpected punch to his face rocked his head sideways, rattling his brains.

  "You don't fucking remember?” Chet snarled. “You don't remember saying to me, 'It's in the bag, Chet. All taken care of, Mr. Debussy.' You don't remember that?"

  "Nope...uh...no sir?"

  "Are you asking me or telling me?"

  "No, I don't remember."

  "OK. So I guess you don't remember me giving you a locked gray suitcase and a two way bus ticket to Ashville?" Chet Debussy took out his toothpick and flicked it at Jonah. It bounced off his cheek.

  "No."

  "And you don't remember me giving you two hundred dollars in cash, for expenses? You don't remember me dropping you off at the station?"

  "No, I–"

  Chet grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, wrenching his neck in the process. "Jonah, where the Hell are my pills?"

  "Honest Chet, I don't remember. I don't remember any of it."

  Chet let go of Jonah’s hair with a shove that communicated his disgust. "I blame myself. It's really all my fault. I was stupid, more stupid than I've been in years."

  He turned to face the other men, still seated at the table. "You see, gentlemen, I paid my mule in pills. Worse yet, I paid him in advance."

  "Chet, I'm sorry, but–"

  Chet spun back to Jonah and grabbed his throat with both hands. "You monumental fuck up! You chugged down all of those pills I gave you, the minute I was out of sight, didn't you? You don't remember anything because you were too damned blitzed. You fucking idiot. Where are my pills?"

  Words tumbled out of him in a panic stricken stream, "I don't know. I don't know, I swear! I'm sorry! I’m sorry!"

  "Well, fuck me."

  Chet let go and stepped back to sit on the table. "See Jonah? See what happens when you let your baser urges take control of you? I hope you understand now, why we have a problem here. I have to make good to these fine people, and if it comes out of my pocket, I'll have to take my share out of your worthless carcass. You owe me fifty thousand dollars."

  One of the men came up behind Chet. He was a bull of a man, just as bald as
Chet, but with alabaster skin, whereas Chet's was a pasty white. Chet smiled and gave a little nod.

  "Yes, yes, I forgot. Please excuse me." He pointed at Jonah. "You owe me fifty thousand, and you owe this fine gentleman fifty thousand, as well. That's one hundred grand Joney-boy. You got a hundred large or do we need to start cutting you up right now?"

  Jonah squirmed in his seat.

  He was truly and thoroughly fucked this time. He didn't have a hundred dollars to his name, much less a hundred thousand. There was no way he was going to make Chet happy, much less that large, angry black man behind him.

  Visions of bags full of pieces of his body being dumped into some swamp swam through his head. Jonah wondered just how much it would hurt and if they were going to kill him quick or let him linger on a bit.

  Unfortunately, he suspected the latter.

  He couldn't run, not with God only knows how many men Chet had standing behind him. Pleading would be useless—they wouldn't listen. Jonah knew he had no way out. He'd likely die blubbering like a woman. That would be just awful.

  Then he had an idea. "I can get it," he said.

  Chet appeared stunned. "You can what?"

  "The money, I can get the money."

  "How the Hell are you going to get a hundred thousand dollars? A hundred thousand, Jonah, not a hundred. Not food stamps, not Monopoly money. Cold, hard cash."

  "I can get it. My old lady—well, my ex, she just came into some money. A lot of money."

  Chet looked unsure. "Where in the world does anyone you know have that kind of scratch?"

  Jonah was thinking fast and talking even faster. "After me, she hooked up with some Navy dude. He got his ass shot off in Iraq or somewhere. I read about it. Those military guys have kick-ass insurance. She's got to have almost three hundred grand from that alone."

  "You sure she's got it?"

  "Sure, I'm sure. It's all over the news these days. Widow's benefits and shit. They got no kids and I've been watching her—no big spending sprees, she's got to still have it."

  "But that begs the even bigger question." Chet stepped forward and tapped Jonah on the chest. "I remember this girl, blonde? Pretty?”

  Jonah nodded vigorously.

  “She doesn't like to help you out none. What makes you think she'll give you shit?"

  Jonah smiled, thinking of his backpack, the duct tape and the ball gag. "Oh, she will."

  Chapter 19.

  Loud voices outside drew Laura to her window. She pushed it up, drew the thin curtain and looked out. Nothing.

  A van drove up the deserted street and turned at the light, but apart from that the night was as empty as it ever was. She sighed and closed the window again.

  She'd kept the window locked ever since the incident with Jonah, a few weeks back. Ron Phillips from 2C installed a second deadbolt for her, but she still didn't feel entirely safe.

  Laura still had Ron's gun, of course. The kind old man refused to take it back, even after he'd put the new lock in.

  She knew how to use it, in theory. Once, when she was a child, one of her mother's drunk friends thought it'd be a hoot to watch a little girl try to shoot cans off the back fence with a powerful revolver.

  That had been a .357 too, if she remembered correctly.

  The man said that it was so powerful it would shoot clear through an engine block. Laura didn't believe him on that. Engine blocks were pretty damned big and those bullets looked very small, but it had kicked enough.

  Laura hadn't let herself cry when the pistol slammed back and smacked her on the nose. She knew if she cried, her mom and the man would even laugh harder at her. So she braced herself better, aware of the gun's power, knuckled down and shot it again.

  Ready for the kick that time, it didn't jump back, so she shot it again. By the time the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, she'd shot three of the six bottles off the top fence rail.

  "A natural," he'd called her as he mussed up her hair.

  How old had she been? Ten? Eleven? It was before her breasts began to develop and her mom's "friends" still treated her like a kid. If she’d known how different they would start to look at her in a few years, she would’ve figured out a way to steal that gun and hide it in her bedroom.

  As it was, she had been just a little kid, and she’d only been angry at them making fun of her for being a little kid.

  Now, she had a gun of her own—well, not hers technically, it was still a loaner, but for the time being it was indeed hers. It sat on her end table, all silver and shiny looking.

  Laura had checked it several times and she knew that it was loaded with six copper-jacketed hollow point bullets. A girl couldn't grow up in the sticks without knowing exactly what a hollow point did to a deer. She imagined it would tear up a man just the same.

  Laura thought about what she might do if Jonah managed to get himself inside her apartment. He'd been in a really nasty mood when he'd last confronted her in the hall. Now she was afraid for her safety.

  Sure, he'd been rough in the past and he'd get all crazy when he was either jonesing for a fix or in the middle of a high, but that last time he had been truly messed up. She didn't doubt she could pull the trigger on him—well, she didn't think she would be afraid to anyway.

  Right then she wasn't so sure. She'd never killed anything before—except for wasps and cockroaches, but they didn’t count. Could she kill someone?

  Regardless, she hoped she never would have to find out.

  Shit.

  It was all getting a bit too much for her. Just when she thought she'd had a chance for a normal life—a life that didn't involve looking over her shoulder or having to pick up and leave out of a bad situation—things just fell apart.

  Her husband had been a sweet kid, even if he was a bit naive. He was one of those guys who believed that people were all good inside. He thought that bad people, like Jonah, were brought up wrong and just needed a little guidance and patience.

  It could be true, she guessed.

  Laura thought his optimism very endearing, even if misguided. In her opinion, some people seemed to be born “bad” or they gravitate toward badness as a natural state.

  She knew first-hand, what drug addiction did to people.

  Drugs crushed any good within them, causing bad to grow and come to the forefront, drowning out who they were. Drug addiction made people selfish, stupid, cruel and evil. She'd seen it in her own mother, as well as in Jonah.

  Now look at her, cowering in her apartment, locked up and hiding with a gun.

  She wished Bob were around for her now. She might feel a bit safer knowing he was there to protect her, although she'd probably be scared for his safety, as well. Something about his sweet, wholesome innocence made him seem extra vulnerable to evil.

  I’d probably be all worried and protective of Bob too, if he were here with me.

  She thought back to how things started with her husband.

  Bob came into Clancy's one night, fresh haircut and a silly grin, his face scrubbed so hard that his skin was pink and shiny. He announced that he'd just graduated from Corpsman School, “that's a Navy medic, ma'am,” and he was buying his first legal drink.

  Ma'am. It was embarrassing, sweet and amusing all at the same time. Coming from his sincere, lovely innocence, it was endearing.

  Sure, she'd heard it a lot from the Marines and sailors that wandered in and out of town. Yet the way Bob said it was just so full of damned optimism and happiness and looking-forward-to-whatever-was-around-the-corner that Laura couldn't help but buy that drink for him.

  Bob talked and talked and talked and filled Laura's ears with his travels, and his excitement about his first real assignment. All the way to California and back—for free!

  She should have known by the way his eyes lit up every time she smiled at him, or laughed at his jokes. Bob was getting in way over his head.

  But she had to admit, she’d enjoyed his company, too.

  It felt so good to have someo
ne look at her with such genuine affection. Occasionally, she could almost catch a glimpse of herself through his eyes. He made her feel pretty, valued and even sweet. Bob made her feel hopeful about the future.

  It was refreshing to have someone who wasn’t depressing or cynical around. Someone who had nice things to say and who faced life with optimism and enthusiasm, right from his heart.

  The next night she came into work to find him waiting for her, and the night after that, and the night after that.

  Laura would open the back door, drop her things in the hall closet, and walk out into the bar and there Bob would be, sitting on the last stool at the far end of the bar, with his clean shaven and freshly scrubbed face beaming at her.

  He’d barely looked old enough to shave.

  It was obvious to Laura that the boy was falling for her, but she wasn't sure why. At twenty-nine, she was at least eight years older than he was. Besides, she wasn't exactly glamorous with hands chapped from washing glass after glass, wearing thrift shop bargains and sporting a sore back from walking up and down that bar for ten hours a day.

  But there he was, every night. He was so easy to read—always eager and excited to see her.

  If it was slow, she'd talk to him. If it was busy, he seemed content to just sit there, nursing his single beer of the night and watching her as she worked.

  Bob was fun and decent and trusting. His sincerity made Laura warm up to him—not romantically, but more like a big sister to a little brother, who was likely to run out into the street or get beat up if she didn't keep an eye on him.

  Sometimes it was all she could do to keep herself from tousling his hair.

  One night though, when he looked at her with his blue eyes full of love and longing, Laura knew then that she was in over her head. It wasn't the look of a crush or simple infatuation Bob gave her, it was the look of pure adoration.

  It was something she’d never had—that kind of pure and loving attention. Bob wanted her, she was sure of that. He was an open book.

  The fact that he needed her made it better.

  Bob sat there until the last patron staggered out into the night and Laura locked the door behind him. She pulled out a bottle, Scotch—the good stuff—and poured them both a stiff drink.