Unloaded

by Eric Beetner

  Terry stopped pulling. “That what this is about?” he grimaced. “You one of the guys she’s been with since I been away?”

  Joe reached out and slapped Terry in the face. After the shock wore off, Terry raised his uncuffed hand in an effort to lash back. Joe grabbed the hand and squeezed it between the thumb and the wrist. Terry let out something that with a little more volume might have passed for a scream.

  “That’s your scaphoid bone,” Joe explained as he squeezed a little harder. “If I twist it a bit more, it’ll break. That’ll sound very much like a stepping on a twig, and probably put you in a cast for a good four weeks.” He slapped Terry again, this time on the other cheek so both sides of his face would sting. Joe liked balance. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who has decent health insurance, so that would be quite a burden on you as you wouldn’t be able to work during the recovery time. Unless your boss doesn’t mind having a mechanic who’s only got one good hand.”

  Terry took a couple of deep breaths and shook his head a few times in an attempt to get rid of the ringing in his face.

  “The hell do you want, man?” he asked. “That bitch tell you—”

  Joe slapped him again before he could finish the sentence.

  “There’s the first thing I want,” Joe said. “You’re not supposed to refer to the mother of your child as a bitch, Terry. Unkind language leads to unkind behavior. Now,” he squeezed the bone in Terry’s hand a little harder, “the only reason I’m not breaking your scaphoid bone is because of that little girl of yours. I know you’re a crappy boyfriend—and I’m sure you’re not a great dad—but you have a marketable skill, which does require use of both hands. It’s the same reason you never seem to hit Stephanie in the face. You’re smart enough to know it might cut into the tips she gets from guys who like the way her face lights up when she smiles.”

  “I knew it,” Terry said. “You are one of those guys she’s been with.”

  This time, Joe flattened his hand and drove it into Terry’s left side. Again, not having the proper oxygen supply to make an intelligent statement, Terry just grunted.

  “Now that rib I just broke?” Joe said. “You don’t need that to do your job. You’ll find yourself being real careful leaning into an engine for a month or so, but you can still do your job. Speaking of which…” He reached over and grabbed Terry’s cell phone from his back pocket. He punched in some numbers. “This is your new boss’ number.”

  “I already got a job,” Terry said.

  “You’re moving on to bigger and better things, Terry.” Joe showed the phone’s screen to Terry. “Turns out my friend Gabe is in need of a new mechanic. He’s got a shop up north, about two hundred and fifty miles from here. I just got off the phone with him and you start in two days.”

  Terry thought about that for a few seconds and said, “I can’t just up and leave, mister. I got—”

  “There’s nothing for you down here anymore. Gabe’s expecting you by tomorrow night. He’s got a place behind the garage you can stay in. If you’re not there by tomorrow night, Gabe’s going to call me and I will find you and then I will break your scaphoid. For starters. All that’s going to do is delay the start of your employment with Gabe by a month or so. That’s not going to help anybody.”

  Terry tried to straighten up. With the busted rib, he could only do so much.

  “You can’t make me move, man. My life’s down here.”

  Joe shook his head and smiled. Then he did the same thing to Terry’s right side that he’d just done to his left. Again, balance. Joe waited until Terry was back in a listening mode before speaking again.

  “Past tense, Terry. Your life was down here. What does your boss pay you, by the way? A few hundred a week?”

  Joe took another painful breath. “Three,” he managed to say.

  “See there?” Joe said. “Life is getting better. Gabe’s going to pay you five hundred a week and give you a place to stay. Now, half of that’s going to Stephanie, and just to make sure you don’t forget that, Gabe will take care of sending it for you.”

  He could see Terry’s mind working on that. Hard to think with two broken ribs and one hand cuffed to the hood of a pickup truck, but he was giving it his best.

  “That,” Terry said, “only leaves me with two-fifty a week. How’s that—”

  Joe slapped his face again. “Because that extra money goes to Stephanie and your daughter and reduces the need for Stephanie to pick up extra shifts. She spends more time at home and that’s good for your daughter. And think about all the money you’ll be saving on your commute to work every day.”

  The thought of that must have somehow amused Terry because a small smirk crossed his face. Joe couldn’t help but be a little impressed: handcuffed with two broken ribs and this guy could do some basic math and find a bit humor in the situation.

  “Anything else?” Terry asked. “I mean, since you got my attention and all.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Joe said. “That gun you got at home? My guess is a Glock semi, and you keep it loaded next to the bed. You’re gonna give that to Gabe, too.”

  The smirk left Terry’s face. “How do you know ’bout my gun? Stephanie running her mouth again. I got a right to—”

  Joe grabbed the hand again and squeezed. “The bruise behind her ear, asshole. Ask your parole officer what having a firearm in your possession is worth. If I wanted to, I could jam you up big time right now, but that’s not in your family’s best interest. You’re still worth more out of jail than in. So tomorrow night, when you’re unpacking at Gabe’s, you’re going to hand over your gun and forget all about any Second Amendment rights you think you have coming to you.”

  Terry did his best to straighten up. When he got as far he was going to get, he asked, “How’d you know it was a Glock?”

  Joe allowed himself a smile and lifted his pant leg, right where he had scratched a few moments ago. He could see a wave of fear cross Terry’s face. But there was nothing there.

  “Carried one myself for a while.”

  “And?”

  “And I found it did a little too much of my thinking for me,” Joe said. “Guns make you feel bigger than you are. Like the kid whose lunch money you used to take in high school who now realizes he can afford a Hummer. Trust me, Terry. As soon as you give it to Gabe, you’ll feel better about yourself.”

  “I ain’t feeling too good right now.”

  “This, too, shall pass.” He was about to head inside, when he turned back, realizing he’d left Terry cuffed to the truck. As he let his wrist free, Joe said, “And no goodbyes. You finish up with this job, get what’s due you from the boss inside, go home and gather your stuff, and leave.”

  Terry rubbed his wrist. “I can’t see my little girl? What’s Stephanie gonna think?”

  “That you’re one more asshole who found something better and hit the road. If you really cared what she thought, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You can call your daughter from Gabe’s. Tomorrow. Do I have to mention that I’ll be checking up on you, Terry?”

  Terry fingered his ribs and winced. “No.”

  “Good.”

  Back inside, Joe had just sat back down as Stephanie was coming out of the kitchen with his burrito plate. He took a long sip of water.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, sliding his meal in front of him. Her smile seemed a bit brighter than before, but he knew that was probably just his imagination. “You get that phone call made? Smoke that cancer stick? All good?”

  He reached down and scratched above his ankle again. A cop friend of his told him a while ago that he’d be doing that for a few months. Kind of like when you lose a leg or something. “Far as I can tell.”

  “Good.” She looked down at the table. “Anything else I can get you?”

  He gave that some thought and said, “How about some hot sauce?”

  “Oooh,” she teased. “Deciding to live a little dangerously
?”

  “Not this guy.” Joe laughed. “Just looking for a little change.”

  Back to TOC

  THE FINAL ENCORE OF MOODY JOE SHAW

  A Denny the Dent Tale

  Thomas Pluck

  Early in the morning, before the people come out, sometimes I’m happy. The black car’s tail lights look like the eyes of a dragon in the fog, or something big and old and evil. I’d kill a monster like that with my two hands, if it would make people stop staring with their cruel little eyes.

  I used to hate them for it. Put some mean ones in the ground. But now I just stay out their way. They don’t mess with me, I don’t mess with them. Before dawn, hunting scrap metal in my truck, they can’t see who’s inside.

  The car pulls away, and I get out. The fog rolls around my work boots. They’re so worn I walk bowlegged, but my size is hard to find.

  There’s a water heater out by the curb, the old kind. I heave it over my shoulder, then lay it down easy in the bed of my old green Ford with hardly a sound.

  Up the street, someone pulls a curtain aside.

  I know better than to smile. Learned that the hard way.

  I’m north of six and a half feet tall. Near four hundred pounds. Got hands that can bend rebar like a clown does balloons. Did that once, for the kids walking past a construction site, before their parents took them away.

  I squeeze into my truck. The springs creak. Remy, my pit bull, butts her head against me and disappears into my hand as I scruff her ears.

  The kids called me Denny the Dent. Beneath my do-rag, my head’s got a cut, like you took a scoop of peanut butter out the jar with your finger. Been there since I was born, when the doctor pulled me out. Mama said it’s ’cause a sweet peach bruises easy.

  I ain’t been sweet for a long time.

  It’s a good morning. I get a couple old air conditioners, some black pipe. I strike gold behind a Dumpster at an apartment building and find the rusty exhaust from some tuner’s car. I take it all to Newark Salvage, a scrap yard down by Port Newark. Matos pays me fair. He’s a good man, and his little girl smiles at me from behind the counter. People are afraid of a big man, but they like to cheat a slow one. I ain’t slow, though. Not really. I’m not smart, but I listen good. And I ain’t never laid a hand on no woman, or hurt no one who didn’t have it coming. Anyone who says I did will answer to these two hands.

  I like kids before they learn to be mean. To be afraid. The young ones don’t whisper nasty things like I can’t hear, or I’m too dumb to understand.

  Simple. Slow. Retard.

  I park by the lake, where Ike sits watching the fishermen and the ducks. He’s on the good bench sucking a bag of wine, holding two takeaway bags from Sandy. She’s got a shack off the highway, covered in white siding, where all the truckers go.

  I give Ike a ten dollar bill, and dig in with my plastic fork. There’s a tin plate of big rib bones and greens for Remy, and I set it down for her. I shovel in red beans and rice and chicken and her country meatloaf too.

  “What’s the good word, Big Man?” Ike’s real old. He won’t say how old. Got leathery skin over long bones, still got some muscle, but not like me. We watch the sun drop over the lake and turn it into a big mirror.

  I ask him how Sandy’s doing.

  “Just fine. She asked for you. Says the police still coming round.”

  There was some trouble at her place. And the probation man, back when I used to see him, said one more strike and I go away for good. I sure miss Sandy, though.

  “Deacon’s got a job for you, you want it.” He knows I do. Ike can hold a conversation all by himself, and that suits me fine. “Old lady in Forest Hills, big old mansion, other side this park? She got a wrought iron fence needs scrapping. Deacon Bennett says some joyriders crashed right through her yard, tore it all up.” He scratches the gray fuzz on his chin. “She can’t pay, but that iron’s got to be worth your while.”

  I nod, and scrape my plate clean. Say it’s gonna be cold tonight.

  “Thanks, Big Man, but I need the sky over my head. When it gets too cold, I got a church lady lets me sleep in the basement.” Ike sleeps under the stone bridges in the park in the summer. I told him he can stay with me and the dogs at the junkyard, but he’s like me, he likes being alone most of the time. He pets Remy’s ears, plays with her.

  I get up, stretch. Some boys riding in a low-sitting car hoot and yell “Frankenstein!”

  I glare and they show fingers and drive away. I let them go. Won’t be the first car I put in that lake.

  But Mama says I can’t think like that. She talks to me, when I’m quiet, and let the world go by. Telling me to be good. To let evil be.

  I killed the man who hurt her. Horace, her boyfriend. He was lifting weights, showing me how, and I stomped his thing. Weights fell on him and crushed his head. But his boys, they took it out on Mama. Burned her up. Nearly got me too.

  I hear her voice when I look at the scars on my arms. Sometimes I listen, sometimes I don’t.

  After Mama died, I lived with lots of different people. Some good, some bad.

  There was this good couple I remember well. They fed us good and never raised a hand. I remember their names but if I think on them too hard I’ll get angry that I was taken away from them. So I just call them The Good Ones. They taught me never to lay a hand on a girl in anger. Even if she hits you, or calls you retard. This big mean girl was trying to hit my dent with a stick to see if she could knock it back out and I pushed her away. She fell down and told on me.

  They made me sit in the corner and told me why it was wrong. That I was gonna be big, real big, and that meant I had to watch my temper, and protect the little ones from the big ones.

  Girl was big as me, but that didn’t matter. They said I didn’t know better then, but that I do now.

  They saw I was upset so they hugged me and I’ve tried to know better ever since.

  “I hope that junkyard ain’t getting to you,” Ike says. “Once a man owns land, he changes.”

  I don’t own the junkyard. Not really. Anyone owns it, it’s the dogs.

  The dogs are all fighters, or used to be. Some missing a leg, or an eye, or both. Faces scarred like melted candles. Man who used to fight them died here. All they left was the soles of his boots.

  After I feed the dogs from a barrel of food, I get in my van. It’s got a clean mattress and thick wool blankets taped over the windows. It’s just a shell, but when the city shut off the electricity and padlocked the front gate, I moved out the front office, to back here.

  I lay awake thinking what this old lady will be like. Some old people are mean.

  The old lady’s house is surrounded by trees that are old and twisted, like hands coming out the ground to feed some giant living down deep. The paint’s all peeling, unlike the neighbors. Theirs stand straight and clean. Got new cars in front. Her driveway’s empty. I back in, park in the shade. Music comes out her open windows. Horn music with no words, with some sadness to it, but some jump, too.

  I leash Remy in the truck, windows down. She’s the friendliest thing in the world, but she scares people. Just like her daddy.

  The iron fence is rusted and twisted. Some car hit it hard enough to tear one post out the ground, big chunk of concrete and all. Some sections are too long to fit in the truck, but I figure I can bend them in half easy enough, and take one piece at a time.

  My knock sends paint flakes off her door like dandruff. I wait a long time, knock louder. The curtain moves on the house next door, and I’m about to leave before they call the police, when I hear a ragged voice over the music.

  “Help!”

  One sound I know is fear.

  The door jamb cracks apart with one shove. The house is big and dusty, black cobwebs in the corners, and smells like Ike does up close. The rug’s so thin it might be painted on the floor. The walls are covered in shelves, lined with books and little things I know better
than to touch.

  But no old lady.

  “Did you hock your saxophone?” a voice says. I look up and see a blush red ghost. She’s bent over the staircase, got her leg caught in the railings. I climb up the stairs and they creak like the whole house is gonna come down.

  “Be gentle, bear. I’ve been up here a while.” Her voice makes me want to do what she says. Like a kind schoolteacher.

  I pick her up by her bony hips and lift her over the railing, slow. She leans into me with a gasp. “Oh, you’re not…” She looks me up and down, squinting like I’m a ghost. “My, you’re the size of Mount Fuji.”

  She’s tiny and hunched, white as a fish’s belly, spotted all over with marks of age. Her skin hangs like the crepe paper we used to make things in kindergarten. But her eyes are clear and sharp, two cups of black coffee.

  I carry her down the stairs, set her on the landing. “All the blood rushed to my head,” she says. “You must be from the church. What’s your name?”

  I tell her.

  “Denny, I’m Mrs. Kolb.” She rubs her ankle. Spreads her wrinkled old toes. “Thank you. I twisted it, nearly went over the bannister.”

  The carpet at the top of the stairs is peeled away. She must have tripped over it. I tell her the deacon said she needs her fence scrapped.

  “Yes, someone stole my car and crashed it. I’m afraid I can’t pay you much,” she says. “You can have whatever scrap value the metal brings.”

  I help her to her feet, and she limps to the kitchen like a ballerina on twisted toes, steadying herself against the wall. I get a hammer and tools from the truck to put her door jamb back together.

  “I’ll make lunch,” she calls from the kitchen “Do you like tunafish?”

  Before I can answer, two police cars roll up.

  The cellar is cool and dark. The windows have bars. They remind me where I’ll go, if the police see me.

  Bang bang bang. Only police knock like that.