ON Edge

by John W. Mefford

  A new thought zipped across my mind, and I quickly felt like an idiot for not even considering it. For her to change this much, maybe she was going through something she hadn’t been able to share. Something that had shattered her core to the point where she just couldn’t open up to me about it.

  I convinced myself not to worry about her not texting me. I’d catch up with her later at the house, pour her a glass of wine—actually, both of us a glass of wine—and give her my undivided attention. Now that I thought about it, I’d been selfish the last couple of months. A couple of difficult clients, new family pressure to have kids. It had been all about me, right? I’d jumped to the sarcastic conclusion of repeatedly being kicked in the nuts. But why go there? Why play the victim? I hated people like that. Not that we didn’t all have our moments of self-pity.

  Right then and there, I gave myself an edict: stop being so self-absorbed and be thankful for what you do have. Remember the heart emojis from Nicole, not all the perceived blowoffs. Dad was alive. He’d probably be just fine, as long as he focused on his rehab. And the firm? Well, maybe this would be my chance to finally take the reins and lead us out of this storm of controversy.

  “Of course not. It’s still on my calendar,” Dad said about the Italy trip.

  I quickly felt sorry for Mom. Yes, she took plenty of trips, but they were with her friends. Never with Dad. He was always too busy. “Next year, when things die down,” I’d heard him say countless times.

  I felt my phone buzz. I peeked at the screen. A text from Tobin.

  Can’t stop her. Will be there in less than 1 minute.

  Dammit! I had to act fast. “Bianca, do you still drive that, uh…”

  “What about my Mercedes?”

  I tried not to choke on my own spit. “It’s white, right?”

  “What happened to it?”

  The color had been a logical guess. White paint, tan interior seemed to match the theme of her platinum hair and leopard-print attire.

  She shuffled over next to me, trying to look at my phone. I shoved it in my pocket. “Tobin said he saw a tow truck hooking up a white Mercedes in the parking lot.”

  “Those two-bit, good-for-nothing…” She bit her lip, then raised her fists to the ceiling. “If they put one scratch on it, I’ll have Nathaniel sue them for every penny they’ve got.”

  The three of us looked at each other. I wasn’t sure who started it, but it was beyond awkward. We all knew that Dad suing anyone was not only a low priority but also difficult to picture, given his uncertain future.

  She grabbed her black fur, gave Dad another kiss on the cheek, and said she’d send him a special picture later tonight. I rolled my eyes on that one and ushered her down the hall opposite where Mom and Tobin would likely come up. As I scooted back into the room, I could see Mom and Tobin step out of the elevator. I had maybe thirty seconds. I handed Dad a tissue and motioned for him to clean off his face.

  “You know this has to stop.”

  “What?”

  Again with the clueless response.

  “You know what. Tobin and I have been covering for you for too many years. Dad, you need to accept responsibility for your own behavior.”

  He wiped his cheek, then handed me the tissue. “I know, son.”

  Did I just hear him right? He didn’t push back. It was a miracle. So, I took one more leap. “Dad, I’m worried about you and the firm, all the people who depend on us for a paycheck.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. I’m sorry if I let you down.”

  That sounded like an admission of guilt. “Just start by telling me the charges.”

  He looked at me with sad eyes. “Obstruction of justice, extortion, assault and battery—but only a misdemeanor on that one.”

  I felt the air leave me. “Assault and battery?”

  “I said it was a misdemeanor. They said I only threatened someone. You know the law.”

  Right now, all knowledge and experience was a foreign object. “Did you do it? Did you do everything they said?”

  “Two things, Ozzie. First, if you plan on assisting Arie in defending me, then you know to never ask a client if he is guilty. Second, like a lot of the work we do on behalf of our clients, it’s gray. We get as close to that thin line as possible. Some might say we cross it; others say we’re okay. I guess we’ll find out.”

  He tried to smile, but he never made it there.

  I flipped around and could see Mom set her clutch in the crook of her arm and inch her chin a bit higher, as if she were preparing for battle. She was just about to walk into the room.

  Back to Dad. “You said I’d never find any records of this client. Is that really true?”

  He opened his lips but never got the words out.

  “Nathaniel, dear, what did you get yourself into this time?” Mom entered the room, followed by Tobin.

  I was forced to retreat from the bed as Mom barely gave me a passing nod. Dad just shrugged.

  “Come on, Nathaniel, speak up. You’ve gone off and had this medical episode, and now I’ve been pulled out of my quarterly retreat with the ladies. This better be good.”

  Standing behind her, Tobin and I traded a glance. We weren’t surprised at her lack of compassion. To say she wasn’t exactly warm and affectionate was an understatement. But she seemed to almost be reveling in her more dominant—i.e., healthy—position.

  “Juliet, dear, it’s really nothing for you to worry about. I had a little fainting spell.”

  Tobin apparently couldn’t help himself. “Fainting spell?”

  Like a good lawyer, Dad chose not to answer the question. “Now that the doctors have completed their tests, they realize it was only a minor thing. I just need to eat a little better, walk a bit more. I’ll be back in action in no time.”

  I just stood there and stared at him. In action? He didn’t mention the blockages or the increased probability of another heart attack. Nothing. Unbelievable.

  “So if this is nothing, then you’re okay with me driving back up to my retreat?”

  Mom was baiting him, almost daring him to change his story.

  “Feel free, Juliet. The boys and I have everything under control.”

  Mom and Dad had been playing this passive-aggressive game for longer than I could recall. Years ago, I found it tense; now I felt like telling them both to grow up.

  Mom turned on a heel and began heading for the door. “Boys, please let me know if your father has a turn for the worse. Until then, I’ll—”

  She stopped in her tracks. Agent Bowser was walking by again, giving all of us the death stare. Once he disappeared around the corner, she flipped around, her eyes momentarily focused on the ceiling. “I saw three cars in the parking lot that most likely belong to federal agents. Now one of those agents—who knows which department—is stalking your room, Nathaniel. Tell me why, this instant.”

  My phone buzzed, and, welcoming the respite, I turned my back to what might be a verbal bloodbath. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a text from Nicole. I couldn’t open it fast enough.

  Ozzie, she started. I felt a click in my breathing. She said my name only when she was introducing me, pissed as hell at me, and recently, giving me the cold shoulder. I read onward.

  I’m sorry to hear about your father. I called up the hospital and learned that he was doing okay.

  I paused and looked up. She had avoided me to the point of calling the hospital? I blinked twice and forged ahead.

  I know the timing of what I’m sharing is not good. But is there ever a good time to break up?

  My stomach swirled into an acidic tornado. I swallowed back some bile and forced myself to read the entire note.

  I have filed for divorce. I know you’ve seen it coming, but you chose not to say anything. I assume you wanted the same thing. If not, I’m sorry. I can’t read your mind.

  I have gone ahead and divided up our money. You are a lawyer, so you can’t blame me for getting a head start. There might be some interim roug
h spots as credit and debit cards are reissued. Until then, I’m sure you’ll be okay. To make a clean break, I’ve also changed the locks on the house. I’ll put your stuff in the garage by this weekend and let you know when you can pick it up.

  I know you’re going through a lot right now. But I can’t control my feelings.

  Best of luck,

  N

  On this one, it felt like I’d just been racked by a Venus Williams serve.

  I couldn’t take any more.

  With echoes of Mom and Dad bickering over nothing and thirty years of marriage at the same time, I left the room and headed to my favorite bar. It was time for me to be very self-absorbed.

  6

  Alfonso knew this feeling all too well. His pulse peppered the side of his neck. His leg couldn’t stop bouncing. He could even hear his own panting. As he stared out of his Monte Carlo, he hardly noticed the light mist coating the windshield or the soft yellow glow of a distant street light. It was as if he were a caged bull, waiting for the gate to open, to unleash all of the pent-up anger he’d kept in check since the day he’d walked out of the state prison in Huntsville.

  They say you’re never the same once you serve time. No greater truth had ever been stated; that much he knew with certainty. When he went in, he was a wide-eyed nineteen-year-old with a cocky attitude and a chip on his shoulder toward just about everyone. Two days in, he was taught the lesson of his life. A lesson of survival. His mind refused to replay the exact nature of the beating he took—they’d violated him in ways he would never repeat to anyone. It had been his wake-up call. The specific time when he’d flipped from boy to man.

  Society outside of those prison walls, though, was so vastly different. It was less about surviving day to day, hour to hour, at least in a physical sense. It was instead the whisper of expectations that, over time, became a weight that crushed his chest. He literally had moments when his airflow was restricted to choppy breaths. There was the burden of being defined by the job you hold, the responsibility attached to that, and yes, the paycheck you brought home. Every time he thought he’d reached a goal, the line of success had magically shifted. Over time, he came to see it as a moving target, something unachievable.

  What about the American dream? Fuck that. It was nothing more than a marketing slogan, pure propaganda, meant to make people feel like this entity known as a country actually gave real opportunity to someone like him. A convicted felon. No one gave a rat’s ass about him. No one cared if he rotted away in a sewer. Not really. They cared about his job, his fucking title, his paycheck. Meanwhile, his self-respect had been whittled back so far that he hardly recognized himself.

  But now that he felt the familiar fire burning in his belly, he was ready to inflict his will on another human.

  The passenger door swung open. He felt a jolt in his chest, and his hand went straight for his waistband.

  “Hey, bato, it’s only me.” Tomas slipped into the seat, shut the door. “You’re really pumped for this job, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, man. Once you got me thinking about what my life’s all about, I knew I had to do something about it. So here I am. Ready to take control of my own life.”

  “Fuck yeah, bro.”

  Tomas, wearing the familiar blue do-rag over his head, handed Alfonso a sack with a bottle of tequila in it. “Drink, dude. It’ll help calm those nerves.”

  Alfonso unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. He swirled the alcohol in his mouth, let it seep into his gums, and then he swallowed. His eyes closed momentarily as he felt the heat light up his chest.

  “You think we’re going to get any sleet tonight? They say it’s a possibility.” Tomas was trying to make small talk.

  “I don’t know. As long as it doesn’t stop our job, I don’t give a shit.”

  Tomas chuckled, smacked him on the arm. “You’re hardcore, dude. And you’re cracking me up. The real Alfonso has returned from the dead. What’s it feel like, dude?”

  Alfonso tried to match Tomas’s smile. It wasn’t possible. Tomas had a grill that he could only dream of, full of platinum. It was dope. He could only hope to one day make enough cash to afford something like that. When Tomas walked into your space, you knew he’d earned his stripes. His grill said it. His tats said it. His clothes said it. And his swagger said it.

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything. Just changed my outlook a bit, I guess. But I need to earn back my respect.”

  “Hell yeah, man. That’s what tonight is all about. You do this, and you’re back in the game.”

  For a quick second, Alfonso thought about the implications of being back in the game. What it might mean to Lupita, to his daughters. He glanced up at his visor and saw the photograph of the only two people in the world who could make him cry. His two baby girls had melted his heart when they came into the world. He knew that, when they got older, they’d probably have Pops wrapped around their fingers. He didn’t mind. He wanted to spoil them…with love, yes, but more than that. With everything their hearts desired.

  Tomas flipped his gold watch around and checked the time, then leaned forward in his seat so he had a better angle to view the top of the building off to their left. They sat on a quiet side street in south Austin, just on the edge of where people had hope and where no hope existed at all. The corner building was four stories, a dark brick. It butted up against another one just like it and blended in with the rest of the area that had been erected long before he was born.

  Alfonso strummed his fingers on the steering wheel. That nervous anxiety had returned. “When’s this Walter White scientist dude showing his face, Tomas?” He tipped back the bottle of tequila and swallowed another mouthful.

  “Walter White. Listen to you talking about Breaking Bad and shit.” Tomas snickered. “You just got to show a little patience, man.” He paused and looked up at the building. “Okay, that’s what I was told. Fourth floor, third window in. The light’s still on.”

  “I thought you said this guy would be in his car by nine. It’s nine thirty. Someone screwing with you?”

  Tomas slowly turned his head toward Alfonso. Red lines splintered across his eyes.

  “You should know, dude—no one screws with me.”

  “Yeah, well…” Alfonso shifted in his seat, turned to look out his window, and saw a dog with its head buried in a trash bag just at the edge of the alley behind the building. “I know you’re smart, but maybe someone tipped the guy off. Maybe this whole thing’s a setup, just to catch two thugs doing their thing.”

  “Prison made you paranoid, man.” Tomas smacked his arm again. “But I get it. I’d be acting the same way. It’s cool. Let’s just give it—” He stopped short. “Hold on. The light just went out. Let’s get in position.”

  Alfonso dropped the bottle to the floor of the car. It was about to be showtime.

  7

  The two men quietly exited the car and slipped into the alley, immediately covered by the cloak of darkness. As expected, they saw two cars and a delivery truck. One of the cars and the delivery truck were associated with the bakery. The back door to the bakery was about fifty yards from where they huddled behind a trash bin. Tomas had told Alfonso earlier that the two people working at the bakery played loud music all night long and stayed inside during their overnight shift, making pies, cakes, and donuts for the next day’s customers. The rest of the buildings around them were empty, aside from the man who was hopefully making his way down the back stairs to the third vehicle in the alley—a nondescript Buick.

  “What’s taking him so long?” Alfonso whispered. He spotted a thin dog sniffing the polluted ground.

  “Damn, you’re antsy. He’ll be here when he gets here. Then you can do your thing, man.”

  Seconds ticked by as Alfonso rested his head against the metal bin. The stench of sour milk and rotten eggs lingered in the air. It made his stomach queasy, yet he still craved more tequila. He blinked twice, and images of his daughters came to m
ind. Their first birthday party when they both played in their cake. They had to share a cake because he couldn’t afford to buy one for each of them. Their presents were nothing more than stuffed animals, a puzzle, and some building blocks picked up at the thrift shop.

  He could feel his jaw tighten. He just wasn’t able to continue the charade, thinking everything would be okay, when he knew deep down that the cycle of poverty and “no opportunity” would repeat itself. The worst thing he could possibly imagine would be to wake up twenty years from now and see his daughters hook up with losers who were content to be day laborers, or even short-order cooks, demoralized to the point of not being human. He had to take the chance to alter their fate. If he succeeded, then his girls would be on their way to moving into a new house in a nice neighborhood. They wouldn’t have to live in fear, and more importantly, they could see examples of people who aspired to make something of their lives.

  His perception at a young age had been shaped by two uncles who were busted twice for selling drugs. When they finally got out of prison, one just wandered off and was never heard from again. The other tried robbing his drug dealer and was found dead behind a gas station, his hands tied behind his back. Alfonso had tried to steer away from drugs, but there had been too many other obstacles and temptations to take the traditional path to success.

  Just then, he heard a metal bang and the creak of a door opening. Tomas nudged his arm. “Get ready to move,” he whispered.

  Alfonso moved to his knees and peeked around the corner of the bin, just over Tomas’s shoulder. The man was standing just outside the door, at the top of a small flight of steps, under a little cone of light. Clutching his leather briefcase like it was a child, the man swung his head left and right.

  “He knows we’re coming,” Alfonso whispered.

  Tomas twisted his head around to look at him. “He only knows he’s at risk. I’ve been assured there are no leaks. No one will know. Don’t get cold feet.”