by Glen Kenner
THE FIRST
a John Smith thriller
Glen Kenner
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE FIRST, Copyright © 2018 by Glen Kenner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the author at GlenKenner.com.
Dedications
I couldn’t have written a word of this book without the never-ending love, support, patience, and encouragement from my wife, Lesa. She is absolutely everything to me and is the reason I haven’t jumped off this rollercoaster.
I also owe a great deal of gratitude to Susan Englund, whose understanding and encouragement made it possible for me to believe I could write this story and the many more I have still in my imagination. I’m forever grateful.
Thanks also to my sister-in-law, Vicki Little, for the kind words, encouragement, and editing suggestions, though I still have no idea how to spell procecphy (?) or the difference between its and it’s.
1 – This Is Me Fighting
I don’t step back.
I don’t turn or duck my head or cry out or beg.
I never fucking ever show fear.
I do catch the pipe in my left hand without my eyes leaving the eyes of the guy swinging it. His eyes go wide. I love when this happens. And this is always what happens. The asshole, he is always an asshole, the asshole will slowly get a beautifully bewildered look on his face that shows he just realized his day went from fun to fucked in one second flat. And then I punch him square in the nose. Nine out of ten times I can blacken both of his eyes this way.
One punch, two black eyes.
It's my signature move: catch their punch or pipe or baseball bat or pool stick or golf club or wrist if they've got a knife or broken bottle or whatever. And punch them perfectly square in the nose with a little rabbit punch. Nothing dramatic. Nobody dies. Just bop! A short rabbit punch and down they always go.
This particular guy, this asshole with red and purple veins on his nose, gray stubble on his cheeks, something nasty on his breath, goes right into the What The Fuck look on cue because I've caught his pipe in my bare hand and my right hand comes up in a clenched fist but I hesitate a split second because this asshole has just the slightest beginnings of a smile on his lips. And then I hear it. A whistling coming at the back of my head. And then I don't see a goddamn thing.
Fuck. I'm eating like shit and just a little buzzed from a twelve pack of Bud Select I finished off ten minutes ago and my reaction time is way, way off.
Another one of the assholes had gotten behind me and hit me on the back of the head with another piece of pipe. Now I'm on my back. Only a few seconds have passed and my vision is returning but I have to focus to keep it from being fully blurred. I see that there are four of them. I only saw three of them in the empty lot arguing with Precious, calling her names, laughing at her as they tore up the garden that she and her neighbors were growing. The fourth guy must have been in the van parked on the other side of the street. So there were three and now there’s four.
The more the merrier.
Four of them, one of me, they all seem to have two or three foot lengths of pipe in their hands and I'm on my back in the dirt. I like the odds. A Charlie Daniels song comes to mind and I reach out and kick the biggest of the four right in the knee. There's a pretty good crunch and the top of his fibula and the bottom of his femur are now sticking out of the back of his leg. Over he falls.
-This is how it's going to be, I ask, still lying on my back.
I think I’m in the cucumber patch.
-Four, well now three, fucktards against one?
I realize that I just implied that I too am a fucktard. I smile to acknowledge the joke. They don't smile. Not even a polite smile. I didn't really expect them to. They do start kicking me. That I expected. I reach out and grab a random foot and yank hard. Pop! Someone screams like a girl and keeps screaming as I hold on and use that asshole's body to sweep the asshole next to him off his feet. That guy falls down too and before he can get up, I grab his foot and yank. Pop! Now two of them are screaming like girls. Ever had your leg disconnected from your hip? Apparently it hurts like a bitch. So three assholes down, one asshole to go. But the one left, the one that appeared out of nowhere and hit me over the head, he's the smart one. He drops his pipe, turns, and runs. He gets across the empty lot and onto James Abram Avenue when a car comes out of nowhere and nails him. He bounces off the grill, up onto the hood and against the windshield as the car screeches to a stop. The driver shifts gears, peels out in reverse, the guy slides off, and the car disappears down the street.
-Precious, you ok? Did they hit you?
She shakes her head while surveying the garden and ignoring the three men moaning on the ground.
-Nah, Johnny. They knew better.
Precious is a big woman. Seriously big. But assholes hit big women everyday. She got lucky.
-Lucky for them, right?
I try to laugh. It sounds forced. Precious just shakes her head.
-You boys done wrecked our butternut squash.
-I’m sure we’re all sorry about that.
I ask her if the police come around could she leave my name out of it? She says she knows how it goes. Johnny was never here.
-Thank you, Precious.
-Uh huh. That ain’t gonna help that squash none.
I tell Precious that I’m heading home. I tell her that even though they don’t deserve it, she ought to call 911 for the men in the lot and the one in the street. I don’t tell her that when she called me 15 minutes ago, I was just pulling out another 12 pack of Bud Select from the fridge. But she called, half panicked half pissed off, telling me to get down here, there’s white men tearing up our garden and yelling at her and getting up in her face. So I ran down two blocks and jumped right in to save the day. It’s what I do. And so I did. But chances are, those men work for whoever bought the lot. Four white construction guys don’t just drive around this neighborhood tearing up gardens without a reason. I don’t think we’re that far gone as a country. But shit, maybe. I don’t know.
I get to the edge of the lot and notice a newer sedan sitting half a block down. I’ve seen this car before around my house. Two or three times I know. This time I realize that the guy inside, a young white guy with a chubby face, has his phone up pointing at me. Damnit. Must be recording me. Maybe the whole fight. That’s not good. He must have realized that I just realized something because down comes the phone. He looks away as he pops the car into gear and shoots forward and makes a hard right onto North Spring Avenue.
And I thought it was going to be another nice and easy beer-drinking night.
I half jog down the block toward the intersection and once I’m behind a house and out of sight of Precious, I open up a bit and take off. He’s two blocks ahead of me, barely slowing down as he runs the four way stop signs. Well, now I’m really pissed. He could kill a kid driving like that. I open up more and close the gap. I hear an old rock song coming from his car. He must have turned it up for the chase. It’s Sammy Hagar. I Can’t Drive 55. Perfect. Just then he must see me, see how close I am, because he floors it. Block after block we go, more than a dozen, past Dr Martin Luther King Dr, past the Contemporary Art Museum, and then he takes another hard squealing right at Lindell and another at North Grand Blvd. Ah, fuck. He’s heading to 40. If he goes west, I’ll never catch him. West heads through the wealthiest neighborho
ods of St Louis County and then into the wide open stretches heading all the way to Wentzville 50 miles away then on to Columbia and Kansas City. If he goes east, I’ve got a chance. Instead of following him on North Grand, I cut through the heart of the SLU campus and make a nearly perfect diagonal path through sports field after sports field, past campus buildings, across sidewalks and small streets, and come out in the parking lot for Chaifetz Arena. Shit. Lots of cars, though I don’t see anyone. Then a Mini backs out in front of me and I land one foot on the hood and go right over without breaking my stride. Out of the parking lot is the eastbound on-ramp to 40 and I pour it on and head up on the shoulder and look back over my shoulder to see if I got lucky.
I didn’t. No sedan. No cars at all. Shit.
I start slowing down on the shoulder of 40 as the eastbound traffic flies by, the setting sun at my back. I haven’t run this hard in a long time but it feels good to really open up. The air is cooling off and just under the smell of gasoline and hot rubber and diesel fumes I can smell barbecue. Other than losing the chubby fucker that’s been spying on me, I feel alright. I saved the neighborhood garden, at least for another day. That feels good. I put the hurt on three assholes. That always feels good. Times like this I think, just for a few moments, what’s the rush to finally die? And then I hear a wet crack and realize it came from my body as I’m flying through the air, across a lane of highway and heading for an empty patch of concrete. Crack! Aw, fuck, that’s my back as another car hits me. I’m in the air again but I come down on the shoulder of the highway and roll into the tall grass. Fuck me. The second car was surely an accident but not the first. Someone swerved and hit me on purpose. Damnit, my back. I think it was a pickup truck. Fuck.
Probably half an hour goes by. No one stops but mostly, I hope, because I don’t think anyone can see me. I roll further into the grass and down a slight slope. I don’t want a cop involved. I don’t need to be poked in a hospital by a well-meaning ER nurse. Nobody needs to see my blood or take my pulse or put me in their system. I get up and stay on the grass and start walking back. I don’t think my back’s actually broken but my left arm is hanging down unnaturally. I use my right hand to jerk it back and then let go, letting it pop back into place. My left leg is definitely broken. No bones are sticking out of my jeans or anything, but I recognize the feeling. Must be a major fracture right above my knee, probably from the second car’s bumper. I think my face is one big skid mark and I realize that I’m only seeing out of my left eye. And fuck if I didn’t lose my shoes. Those were brand new Vans. Well hell. I keep walking, limping mostly, barefoot, but moving at a steady pace. Can’t take the chance of having a cop slow down and shine his spot light on me. I get back down onto the neighborhood streets and slow down. Twenty blocks, probably more, and I’ll be home. At least it’s cool out. My phone in my front jeans pocket rings. It survived better than I did.
-Hey baby.
-John, hey, I mentioned coming by tonight but I… I can’t make it.
-That’s alright, Angie. Another night.
-Well, that’s the thing, John. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I sorta met a guy and, uh, I think it’s best me and you stop seeing each other. I’m sorry, John. I should have said something sooner. And I shouldn’t be doing this over the phone, I’ve just been so busy with work and, you know. Everything. Life. You know.
-Angie, it’s ok. I could tell something was up. Listen, tell your new guy that he’s going to want to get a four foot ¾ inch pipe for your basement water line. Just use pvc. Or I can still come over and do it, if you want. Either way you need to get that fixed before the next heavy rain and your basement floods.
-John, I swear I must be an idiot letting you go like this. Right? Anyway, I already bought the pipe and hooked it up. You taught me well.
We both laugh, politely at first and then for real.
-Ok, Angie. You take care.
-You too, John. Bye.
And just like that, another woman, in a long line of women, has come and gone from my life. I know where my mind wants to go right now. Somewhere painful. But I don’t let it. I push down hard with my broken left leg on the next step and a bolt of pain shoots right up my hip. Fuck me that hurts. I keep doing it with every other step as I look for broken glass to step on.
It’s plenty dark now. The garden lot looks empty. I can hear Precious singing in her house through her open front door as I pass by. Roberta Flack’s Feel Like Makin’ Love. Damn if Precious doesn’t have the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. She’s frying up pork chops. I can smell them. I’m so tempted to walk up and ask how she is and let her invite me in for dinner. Pork chops, black-eyed peas with chunks of pork fat, buttered greens, and lots of white buttered bread. That would be perfect right now. And beer. But I’d have to explain my dirty clothes and missing shoes that clearly show I’ve been in some trouble worse than a fight with a few rednecks. And who knows what my face looks like. So I keep walking. Before heading up my walkway, I look back and scan the street. Cars are parked from intersection to intersection, but none of them are the light blue sedan with the chubby young guy behind the wheel. I’ll have to be smarter next time I see this guy. And I will.
Inside I change into shorts and a t-shirt and wash up. I’ve got dirt and grease on my face and I scrub hard to clean up. I check both sides of my face and neck. All clean. I can see out of both eyes now, so that’s a plus. I start to leave the bathroom to get that 12 pack from the fridge and settle in for some tv but lean back into the bathroom to check my hair. Fucking perfect.
2 - Hurt & More Hurt
The next morning I wake with a start. It's because of the fight. And getting run over. And the uneasy feeling that something is wrong. The other side of the bed is empty and cool to the touch and it takes me a second to realize that the reason Angie is on my mind is because she’s never going to be in my bed again. And then the phone rings. Looks like she misses her Johnny already.
-Hey sweet baby.
-Always the smooth talker with the ladies.
Kingsley? Fuck. Kingsley. I haven't talked to Kingsley since I left New York. But his voice is the same: a bit nasal, a bit bored, a bit sarcastic. Questions sound like statements. Statements sound like insults. Insults sound like the last thing you hear before you lose your head. Because they always were. At least when I was back in New York. Kingsley took his share of heads and I was right there next to him taking my fair share. I’m sure I’m the only one of us to change.
-You're calling me? After almost a hundred years you're calling me? Why?
-Right to the point, Jonathan. Still direct, still to the point. Still rude. How can someone live as long as you have and not have picked up some manners?
Questions are statements with Kingsley. A true Manhattan blueblood. Bluer than any other.
-I asked why are you calling me?
-Jonathan, I'll be in St Louis next week. It's for business and I want for us to get together.
-It's a bad time for me, Kingsley. I don't think-
-That you've got time? I know. You're busy. Your neighbor needs her gas line fixed. Or some brick work done. Or is a gangbanger coming by, terrorizing the teenage daughter of the single mother next door? You’re busy saving your neighborhood until you’ve been there too long and then you have to pack up and move a few miles away into another shithole starter home and do it all over again. Right? And that keeps you busy. Too busy for an old friend.
I want to get angry. I want to scream who the fuck do you think you are? I want to be right there in New York with him, in his face, my hands on his throat, my voice like thunder in his brain. But that was the old me. That was New York me and before that London me and before that definitely Rome me and too many other places to remember me.
-Thanks for calling Kingsley. Don't forget to visit the Arch while you're in town.
-Jonathan, wait. I'm sorry.
He's lying. He's full of shit and he's lying. He's never been sorry for anything in his life.
<
br /> -Honestly, I'm sorry. Yes, I've kept tabs on you. But we're old friends. You saved my life, Jonathan. Not just in that alley, but lots of other times. I know that. And that's why I want to get together. I want to repay the debt. Honest to God.
-There's no debt. But you can call off your chubby-assed spy. And you don’t believe in God.
-There is a debt. And I owe it. And I don’t know anything about a chubby-ass or any other sized spy. And you don’t believe in any gods either. None that I or anyone else has ever heard of.
The line is quiet and for a second I think he’s hung up on me. He better the fuck not-
-Look, think it over, Jonathan. Fair enough? I'll be having dinner every night next week at Luca's. You know Luca's?
-Everybody knows Luca’s.
-Great. Don't forget. Luca's. Eight o'clock. Almost a hundred years have passed but I bet you still remember that I always eat dinner at eight. Right? I know you still remember that.
-Actually I'd forgotten. Eight o'clock central or eight o'clock eastern?
-Central. When in Rome, you know.
-You were never in Rome.
-No. But you were. And I hear they still talk about you.
Trying to butter me up. Fucking bastard. No way in hell am I having dinner with Kingsley.
3 - Sarah Smiles
University City. U City. The Loop. University City is one of these small cities within a city that St Louis is famous for. Near some of the top ranked schools in the Midwest, a shit ton of ethnic diversity, and hip venues that serve local IPAs and host indie bands and genuine blues geniuses right out of no name towns throughout the South. Socially they lean left in U City. Not Portland left but two guys holding hands won't turn heads. Two girls holding hands, two attractive college girls especially, will get appreciative nods from the college guys sitting in the outside cafes drinking a Schlafly or smoking a hookah. But the locals won’t pay any attention. Live and let live.
