Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  “Fuck, is it done?” Paulie must think this number belongs to one of my attackers. He’s frantic. Maybe he didn’t have a choice after all. “Frankie? Did you finish it? The both of them?”

  I feel a fire rise from my chest to my cheeks. “No, Paulie. I’m guessing Frankie’s either still on his way, or he’s one of the bodies I’ve dropped since everything went to hell.”

  I hear a sharp intake of air on the other side of the line. “Bryan, listen…”

  “Shut up.” I kneel, get eye level with the wall outlet that houses Liam’s robot parts. “I’m gonna give you a choice, Paulie. What you say next determines how bad this gets.”

  He’s silent.

  “I’ll take your fat ass keeping quiet as a yes.” I slide my hand over to a plug. Finger the shape of it. Swear I can feel the electricity running out of the outlet, through the wire, and into the machines that keep Liam alive. “Tell me where Papa is—set up a sit-down and I’ll sort this with him.”

  “What’s the other option?”

  “Call this off. Call it square with me for all the work I’ve done for you, all that good faith, Jesus, Paulie, our friendship, and let me go. Leave Liam be, leave all of it be.”

  There’s a long wait. “We can’t do that. You know that’s not how we do business.”

  My heart sinks. “Yeah, I know the line. Never personal, right?” My hand’s fit to shake right off the wrist.

  “Right.”

  I swallow, close my eyes, and pull the plug. The machines go silent save for an irritating beep, built in as a fail-safe to alert the staff. I lower the phone to my side. Liam will be gone in moments. I stand and plant one last kiss on his cheek. Say an “Our Father” in my head. Go to the last beeping machine and rip it open. Tear the wires out the inside of it until there’s dead silence.

  I bring the phone back to my ear.

  Paulie’s been ranting. “…but no way you’ll get as far as Tony Papa, Bryan. You run and never look back. They’ll find you, though. You know that. And if they don’t, you still got family here. Papa’s a psycho, man; he’s old-school fire and brimstone.”

  My tears flow easy. Can’t remember it happening like this before. “Yeah, well, so the fuck am I.” Disconnect.

  I wait for a few minutes. He has to show up. I want him to show up. No, I’m scared I won’t recognize his voice. A part of me hopes it happens so I can be reminded.

  Five minutes.

  Ten minutes.

  Nothing.

  I place a finger on Liam’s neck. No pulse. He’s already going cold. I’ve beat him there. Feels like a block of ice is sitting dead center of me. All the triggers I’ve pulled, all the times I’ve seen the light fade in a person’s eyes—their blood fly into the air like wet confetti—I never felt this way. Uncle Sean said I had all the makings of a killer. Always saw that none of it bothered me. I was able to walk away and move on to the next big deal. Now my legs are filled with concrete and all I want to do is grind my teeth down to the roots. Make a dash to the bathroom and slide onto my knees in front of the toilet. My stomach spasms. I upchuck stale beer and bile. I hear echoes, my head’s so deep in the bowl. The water grazes the tip of my nose.

  When there’s nothing but air and noise coming from me, I calm. Stand back up and wipe my mouth clean with my sleeve. Burp. I rub my stomach. It cramps, desperate to release something even though it’s emptied.

  “A pathetic, fucking mess…” He’s behind me.

  I go still. Lower my head. I can’t turn around.

  “Baby killer…coward…”

  “Oh God, please, Liam, no.” I try to fight it, but my voice cracks. The tears are already ahead of me.

  Something shifts near me. With actual weight. I turn my head.

  I see the business end of a Colt .45 first, then the slim, feminine hand that owns it.

  Didn’t hear her come in—must be a pro. She’s wearing painter’s overalls over a tank top. Not the same girl I saw in the van outside, but there’s a resemblance beyond the clothes. There’s a name tag on her lapel that says Jim. I have a feeling that isn’t her name. Her black hair is tied back in a bun. Forearms and neck are covered in spider webs of faded scars—the bicep of her free arm sports the flag of a free Palestine. Looks too young to be PLO, but I’ve learned I’m wrong more often than right. I run through my mental rolodex of any Arab enemies I have. Surprised when I realize I shouldn’t have any. This must be Paulie’s trump card.

  Behind her, I spy Liam. He’s in his hospital gown; it’s a shade darker than he is. The smile on his face. You’d think he’d tossed back a few. This seems right though, he deserves to see this happen. Even if it is all in my goddamn mess of a brain. He cackles as his face swells and begins bleeding from above his right eye and his lip.

  So be it. I raise my hands. Maybe I can get an open casket out of this. I almost want to laugh.

  The Colt’s barrel is begging to put a hole in between my eyes. “Mr. Walsh, I’m sorry for your loss.” Her finger hovers over the trigger. The safety’s off—this is more than a threat. She’s making a promise. “But my employer would like to speak with you.”

  Where That Love’s Been Gone—2006

  18

  Dinner at Mom’s had a habit of going south about midway through the main course. I couldn’t say if it was the quality of the food—fair to awful—or that my mother, Liam, or I were probably at beer/whiskey three or four by then.

  “Can we hold off with the lectures this week?” I kept my eyes on the plate. I was focused on swallowing the latest wad of overcooked meatloaf.

  Liam was animated, eyes wide. “All I’m saying is I can talk with my manager. It’s a solid job with solid pay. After three months, you can get insurance.”

  I laughed. “How? Do you honestly think I can put myself on the grid again?”

  “You’ve got all the fake documents. Enough to have an apartment and a car. Christ, Bryan, didn’t you just travel by plane?” Liam turned to my mom. “Come on, Ma, tell him something.”

  Mom sucked on a cigarette. Her eyes half closed. “He’s pulling in an income. Tax-free.”

  “Working for that piece of shit mafia wannabe.” Liam threw his hands in the air. “Is that where you’d rather stay?”

  That was a laugh. Here was my little brother lecturing me on career choices. I put my fork down and leaned in. “Weren’t you the one who asked me to pick up your slack?”

  “Not exclusively, man. You’re running around the boroughs like that dude’s errand boy.”

  I stood up. Lit a cigarette. “Look, I’m glad you got yourself a nice job and that shit’s coming back together for you, but you got no right to lecture me on my life. I’ve made my fuck ups, fine, but don’t act like you’re better than me cause your sorting a bunch of letters for suits.”

  “There’s a future there, Bryan.”

  Our mother sat and ate between drags off her cigarette. No “calm down, boys” or “remember this dinner is for me.” Nope. She gave zero fucks. All she wanted was the attention and the opportunity to take either of us aside to ask for the extra cash she’d only waste over in Atlantic City with a sad sack crowd of ladies. Every one of them still single and looking for some pre-senior citizen white knight to swoop in and solve all their problems with cash.

  Mom sighed and continued shifting her food around the plate.

  I leaned on the counter and shook my head. “A future? What, at minimum wage? Fuck that.”

  “See? You act like you’ve been of the only victim, but you like that shit, Bryan. You like being a shit stain on the streets; beating up losers and keeping junkies flush in horse.”

  “I don’t fuck with drugs,” I said.

  “Paulie sure as hell does.”

  That was bullshit. There was never word one about that kind of business. Liam knew that riled me up. My morals may have been compromised as all hell, but he knew I wasn’t a fan of drugs. “Whatever, man. Mind your own
damn business.”

  Liam shoved his plate aside. Turned to Mom. “And you let this shit slide. What kind of mother are you?”

  “Jesus, Liam, leave her out of it.” I moved over and got between the two. I wasn’t worried Liam would do anything. I was more looking out for him. Our mother didn’t have the best of temperaments, especially if someone pushed her.

  She grunted and drained her glass. I could see it in her eyes. She had no patience for this tonight. Mom slid her chair back, stood up, and wandered into our grandfather’s old bedroom. Closed the door behind her.

  Liam and I watched the door close and turned back to each other.

  “Fuck’s sake, man,” I said, “What’s your fucking damage?”

  Liam frowned. ‘I’m sick of this. Sick of the two of you willfully making your lives like this.”

  “Like what?” I straightened up. Where the hell did this attitude come from?

  “You can look me in the eye and say you’re happy?”

  “Does it matter?” I blew smoke at him. “Just because you’re ‘legit’ doesn’t reserve you the goddamn right of judging anyone. I mean, yeah, we got our problems with Mom and with our upbringings, but the past few weeks you’ve been a bitter asshole.”

  “Bullshit. You’re upset that I’m telling the truth, that I’m making you confront reality.”

  I almost bust a gut right there. “Reality? Liam, how many kills you tally out in Afghan land?”

  “What the fuck does that matter?”

  “How many times you see the life drain from someone’s eyes, or see a friend bleed out on the concrete while you had to run like a coward because the police were a breath behind you?”

  “You’re fucked up life has nothing to do with it.”

  I jabbed a finger at him. “I’ve seen reality, Liam.”

  “No, you’ve put yourself in fucked up places for money. Just like Ma. You’re this close to being another fucking street whore.”

  A fire rushed through my veins. I held off. This wasn’t some idiot in a bar. I checked the door—prayed she hadn’t heard. Turned back to my brother. “I sincerely hope it’s the fucking beer, kid, but that’s out of bounds—well out of bounds.”

  Liam’s jaw drooped. “You’ve said almost the same thing.”

  “In private and in anger. We’re in the woman’s fucking house.”

  “Oh, like you’re the fucking hero. What good have you done in all this time, Bryan? When have you found the time to make up for all the crazy shit you’ve pulled?”

  “At least I know what I am.”

  Liam laughed. “Yeah, a pathetic mess, terrorist, baby killer, coward.” He smirked. “I miss anything?”

  I never told anyone about that dead boy. Not Sean, not Danny or my mother. Only Liam. In confidence and in tears. He let me grieve for the only time in nearly two decades and here he was shoving it in my face for reasons utterly alien to me. I couldn’t understand where all this self-righteousness came from. I was happy for him, but this change, this shift in how he saw me—how he saw his family—this was too much. I took a long breath, but it did nothing. I was furious.

  Obviously, I threw the first punch.

  This wasn’t the first time Liam and I came to blows. This happened when you came from a family of alcoholics who were only interested in keeping their emotions in bottles. Every so often, that bottle would explode, and we’d make a bloody mess of each other. This, though, this was different. It stung. There was a betrayal here—that Liam would use Al Busayyah as ammo to take me down a peg. I don’t think I can remember a hurt that bad.

  Before I knew it, I was on top of him, raining down the punches. Somewhere between my outburst and our trip to the floor, I’d given him a gash above his eyebrow and split his lip. Normally, first blood would end it, but this wasn’t a family scrap. I wanted more. I wanted the judgement to end, wanted more than anything to teach this asshole that I was better than he saw me. I wouldn’t stop until that message was literally hammered through.

  It wasn’t until I felt the pan my mother used to whack me upside the head that any semblance of sanity gripped me.

  I turned and saw her. Her face a twisted mess. Eye shadow making a Pollock painting of her cheeks.

  “Get off him, you crazy piece of shit.” There was hate in the back of her throat. Here she was defending the one who moments ago called her a whore and a failure.

  I looked down at Liam; he was a mess. His eyes were crossed. Probably gave the kid a severe concussion, but for the life of me, it only felt as if I’d hit him maybe two or three times.

  Mom hit me again. This time I stood up. Lifted my arms in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

  Mom collapsed over Liam and wiped his face with her sleeve. She whispered to him and he whispered back. Her eyes lifted to me. “Get out. You get the fuck out of here.” The last of it was screamed. Rage, anger—all justified—in her voice.

  I backed away clumsily. That anger was still there, now only stoked from my shame. I turned and walked down the hallway. Near the entrance, I spotted my grandfather’s fish tank, a project of his. Took him months to work out how to install it inside the wall that separated the living room and the entrance hallway. I spun on a heel and drove my foot through the glass. A signature on a complete shit show of a night. Then I swung the front door open and ran outside.

  That would be the last time I’d speak with my brother.

  Go Mad on the Other Side—Now

  19

  The back of the painter’s van is bare. I sit on a small outcropping of smooth metal near the driver’s rear tire well. Hold the wall near a window to keep my balance whenever the car makes a turn. Keep my eyes on a single spot of rust opposite me that runs up to the roof of the van in a jagged line. Reminds me of a cigarette burn. If there was ever a time this truck was used for painting, there are no signs of it. There’s a tinge of exhaust in the air and I guess there’s a hole somewhere that’s letting it back in. The odor isn’t strong enough to be a danger—or a help—but it’s noticeable.

  The girl with the PLO tattoo and the gun is driving. In the back with me is the girl I saw earlier with the comic. She’s wearing a baggy, green jacket. The sleeves cover her hands. Absolutely all her focus is on the comic in her hands. There’s a small pile of other anthologies: Ant-Man, Avengers, and more Spider-Man.

  I reach over and pick up the Ant-Man anthology. Flip through a few dog-eared and yellowed pages. “You mind?” I ask her.

  She looks up from the comic. Stares holes through me.

  I put the book back down. “Never mind, then.” No need to poke at that tiger. I stand and look out one of the rear door windows. Get a glimpse of where we are. Looks like we’re headed up the Hutchinson River Parkway. Can’t see the fronts of any road signs, but the area is familiar enough to me.

  “We headed north?” I call out without turning.

  No answer.

  In most situations, I’d be able to get myself out of this, but I don’t have a single weapon with me—smart move leaving those in the hospital trash. Should be a real treat if someone finds them. The other drawback is that Spider-Girl over there is packing heat. There’s an M1911 in her waistband and under her jacket—she’s making little effort to hide it. I also spy something what looks like a leather belt on her shoulder. Must be a knife strap or another piece. Not a time to take chances.

  These ladies are pros and I’m crazy screwed.

  I close my eyes and enjoy the ride. If there’s a bullet with an appointment for the back of my head, may as well not stress. This has been a long time coming. Sure, I can make a move and let them take me now, but if the bullet was intended to be delivered without a message, the driver would have ended me at the hospital. No, someone wants to see me before it happens and frankly, I’d love to find out who that is.

  My brain is beginning to catch up with my body. I’m exhausted. Feel like someone stuffed cotton balls into my ears, nos
e, and eyes. Hands and feet feel heavy—like the blood inside has got the consistency of gelatin. I sit back down and cradle my head in my hands.

  “Coward.” Liam’s standing next to me. He looks out the window and watches a school bus next to us. In normal light, his skin is almost transparent. I can see jagged, black veins beneath. Swear his musculature seems fit to burst right through the flesh and into the open. It makes it look as if he’s moving even when he’s not.

  I jerk my head up and stare at him. I want to tell him that I love him, that I’m sorry for being the absolute worst person anyone could have for a brother. I want to tell him that I learned my lesson; that all these years were for him. My mind races over a million explanations and possibilities, but I can’t find the right words. I don’t have a clue as to how I can start.

  “Baby killer.” Liam hisses as he saunters on over to my keeper. Leans in.

  I can see why he’d say that. The girls look Arabic. I wonder if they were from anywhere near Iraq. Part of me wants to ask. What would be the worst to happen—I’d offend them, and they’d pop me between the eyes with a slug? Right about now, that’d be a welcome and deserved experience.

  I’m at a loss. There was a part of me that expected this time to come, but I always felt like I didn’t deserve it. That if Liam left me, it would be for good. It was a dumb thought. I was as guilty—if not more—for Liam’s condition at the very end. Sure, I didn’t give the guy a diabetic stroke, but I kept him around—tried to find some way to make up that last moment we shared space when he was conscious. I deserve this, but I can’t say I wanted it. I think.

  I remember hearing that if you question your sanity, then you can’t be crazy. Though, to be fair, I think I heard that on TV—not the most trustworthy dispenser of life lessons. Still, maybe this is all a good sign. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I believed.