Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  (when Sam was still alive, had just started chemo)

  with both girls on either side of Aunt Kat, hugging, grinning for the camera,

  (ignorance truly can be bliss)

  the frame reading “Aunt Kat and Her Kittens.”

  And aren’t they still ignorant to a degree, Allan? Much like the dreaded “Talk,” would there not come a time when the realization that their mother was gone for good truly hit home and make “The Talk” a cakewalk in comparison?

  He touched a second square magnet that framed a photo, this one of both his girls and himself, a year after Sam was gone. The message on the frame of the magnet was not unlike his sister’s. “Dad and His Deejays,” it read, the girls grinning and hugging like they did in Kat’s picture. But wasn’t there a difference? The grins not as broad, the hugs not as tight? Certainly it was no slight on their father. Likely,

  (likely? Almost assuredly)

  the acceptance and understanding of their mother’s absence may not have been fully absorbed into the girls then, but the unforgiving process had no doubt begun. And with each passing day, the more they absorbed, the more their ignorance would become diluted, allowing for comprehension and realization and all those super-duper things that would make “The Talk” a cakewalk by comparison. So much to look forward to.

  Allan kissed his first two fingers and touched the magnet a final time before pulling out his cell phone. He scrolled through his contacts on his cell until he arrived at “Kat,” hit send, and waited.

  “Hey, bro.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. Yourself?”

  “Like an addict: one day at a time.”

  She laughed. A raspy voice given to her from birth and not bad habits. “Always hold on to the humor, little brother.”

  “I’m trying. We still good for tonight?”

  “Of course. Me and my Kittens are gonna be on the prowl.”

  “Don’t get too crazy, all right? No hard stuff.”

  “Beer and wine okay?”

  “Yeah, they can have beer and wine.”

  “What did you say?!” Janine called from the den.

  “Nothing. Go back to your show.”

  She did.

  “It’s amazing how selective their hearing is,” Allan said.

  His sister laughed her raspy laugh.

  “Listen, I’m calling because I’m wondering if I can drop them off a little early tonight,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, absolutely. But you know they had that sleepover last night and the place is still a mess. I need time to tidy without them getting in the way.”

  “We won’t get in the way!” Jamie called from the den.

  Kat heard Jamie’s response and started laughing again.

  “Told ya,” Allan said. “It’s downright creepy. Now watch me tell them to go clean their rooms. I’ll bet you a million bucks it takes at least three tries before they even blink.”

  Again the raspy laugh. “Drop them off whenever you want. I’ll be here.”

  “And you’re sure you’re cool with taking them to school in the morning?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Thanks, Kat. I’ll give you a call from the road to let you know we’re on our way.”

  “Sounds good. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Allan hung up. Then, his hypothesis demanding testing, he called into the den: “You guys mind cleaning your rooms?”

  Not even the slightest twitch of acknowledgment.

  He smiled to himself and headed upstairs.

  8

  Montgomery County, Pennsylvania

  The landline in the Lambert house rang. Caleb Lambert, nine years old, answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Who’s this?” A deep male voice.

  “Who’s this?” Caleb replied.

  “Caleb!” Amy Lambert yelled from the kitchen.

  Deep, genuine laughter in Caleb’s ear now. The boy smiled. He knew the laugh well.

  “How’s my man?” Domino Taylor asked Caleb.

  Amy hurried to the phone and snatched it from Caleb’s hand before he could answer. “Hello?”

  “Good evening, madam,” Domino said in playful tones.

  Amy’s shoulders dropped. She sighed and said: “Okay, it’s just you.”

  “Nice to hear from you too.”

  Amy shook her head into the phone. “No, no, I’m sorry. I thought Caleb might have been parroting something he heard me say on the phone earlier.”

  “I don’t follow,” Domino said.

  Amy took a seat at the kitchen table. “Our phone’s been blowing up for over a week now. Apparently the scum at First Peek want to do a story on the ‘five-year anniversary’ of what happened at Crescent Lake. They want an exclusive with me. Having an unlisted number in this day and age doesn’t amount to shit.”

  “Caleb wasn’t parroting you—I asked ‘who’s this?’ first. We were just playing.”

  “I know that now. It’s just—” Amy made a frustrated little strangled noise. “Do you know they caught me coming out of the supermarket this morning?”

  “What?”

  “Yep, assholes shoved a camera right in my face. My arms were tied up with groceries, so I was torn between a headbutt or a kick to the nuts.”

  Domino chuckled, played along. “What did you choose?”

  “Sadly, neither—common sense got the better of me. Still, I thought you’d be proud to know your training still syncs nicely with my instincts.”

  “Indeed I am. How’s my little Carrie doing?”

  “Not so little. She’s getting taller every day. Got her dad’s genes.”

  A pause, as was common between them whenever Patrick was mentioned.

  Amy eventually broke it with: “She’s got my smart mouth, though, that’s for sure. She’s going through this ‘tween’ phase. Everything is ‘lame’—Mom being chief of them. If she rolls her eyes or clucks her tongue at me one more time…”

  Domino laughed. “And I’m sure you were nothing like that at her age.”

  “I was an angel.”

  “So was Satan.”

  They laughed together now. Good laughter.

  “How’s the counseling going?” Domino asked. “You still doing the support group thing?”

  “Yeah. Got one tonight.”

  “Where at?”

  “Not far.”

  “Where at?” Domino insisted.

  Amy sighed at his overprotectiveness, stood, grabbed the address from her countertop, and read it to him.

  “Okay, got it,” he said. “Who’s watching the kids?”

  “Mrs. Flannigan from across the street. You’ve met her. Nice old Irish lady? Still has a bit of an accent?”

  “I remember.”

  Another brief pause.

  “You still telling them Patrick died of cancer?” Domino eventually asked.

  “I am, yes. It’s a support group for the loss of a loved one. I didn’t think the cause was too relevant. I’ve been able to maintain a decent amount of anonymity these past few years, and I’d like to hold on to it. Although, if the assholes at First Peek had their say, my streak would come to an abrupt end.”

  “It’ll die down. Just keep doing your thing.”

  “I’m trying. When are we going to see you again? Caleb misses his idol.”

  “Ah hell…”

  Amy smiled into the phone. She knew he was blushing. Though the black skin God gave him would have hidden the fact, she knew that, if they were together, she need only press her hand to his cheek and feel its warmth.

  “Well?” she said.

  “You tell my little man that next weekend we’re gonna tear it up at—what’s that bowling place y’all go to?”

  “Landmark Lanes.”

  “You tell my little man that next weekend we’re gonna tear it up at Landmark Lanes. Carrie too if it’s not too ‘lame’
for her.”

  “Oh, she loves it there. She pretends she doesn’t, but she does.”

  “Well, then, it’s on. I’ll be in touch soon. Love you, Ames.”

  “Love you too.”

  • • •

  Domino hung up and stuffed the address Amy had given him into his pocket. He then went into his kitchen and immediately smiled at the photo stuck high and firm to one of his refrigerator doors with a Semper Fi magnet. The photo was a shot of him and Caleb at Dorney Park two summers ago. Caleb perched high on Domino’s massive shoulders, grinning, an orange Popsicle dangling in his little hand, Domino’s head turned towards the Popsicle, pretending to sneak a huge bite out of it. He remembered right after the shot when Caleb squeaked out a “Hey!” and yanked the Popsicle away, and Domino laughing hard enough to shake Caleb on his shoulders, which in turn made Caleb clamp onto Domino’s neck for dear life, giggling all the while.

  Domino loved Amy and Carrie, would die for them (and very nearly had). But damn if he didn’t have a special bond with Caleb, the little bugger.

  Domino opened the freezer door and withdrew a frosty bottle of Belvedere. Today was Sunday. Sunday was his drinking day (excluding special occasions like watching crazy Kelly Blaine on The Joan Parsons Show, of course). He touched not a drop the remaining six days of the week, but ever since retirement, his routine on Sundays was ironclad. Church. Then the liquor store in neighboring Camden. Then to the sofa where he would plop himself down with a good bottle of vodka, throw on some of his favorite old-school films, start drinking, and then, when he was drunk enough, start talking to Patrick.

  9

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Half the bottle of Belvedere was gone. He was buzzed hard, but not drunk. A man Domino’s size was not easy to topple with booze. He filled his glass with more vodka and turned off The Deer Hunter, one of the current old-school favs of his he’d been watching. He’d clicked it off during the classic Russian roulette scene where the Viet Cong are forcing the captured De Niro and Walken and other U.S. soldiers to play the deadly game against one another. A scene that Domino believed was easily one of the greatest and most intense scenes in cinematic history.

  But Patrick deserved his complete attention.

  “Spoke to Amy today,” Domino said to his empty den. “She’s doing good, brother. Healing.”

  Domino took a healthy sip.

  “She’s still doing the support group thing. Still telling everyone you died of cancer.” He chuckled dryly. “Can’t blame her, I guess. She’s had decent solitude since moving your brood out there to Montgomery County. I’m sure you’ve been out that way before. Beautiful in spots. Rural. You’d have loved it, man.”

  Domino immediately thought of Patrick’s love for the rustic outdoors—the very reason Patrick had brought his family to Crescent Lake some five years ago—and grimaced, taking down the remainder of his vodka in a single gulp. Alcohol allowed him to talk to Patrick, but it also loosened the cap on his tank of guilt. His talks with Patrick were meant to be cathartic, to let him remember the good, not to drown him in fault and sorrow.

  He went to his freezer and poured himself another glass. Most Sundays he never finished the whole bottle. Now it was seeming likely.

  He flopped back onto the sofa, spilling some vodka on his lap and not caring. “Spoke to Caleb today. Amy called me his idol. I all but cried, man. A good cry, but a bad one, you know? Good because I can be there for him as a male role model throughout his life, but…you know…bad because…” Tears started. His throat began to tighten. He cleared it loudly and wiped his eyes. “Bad because that role model should be you.”

  His landline rang. Very few had this number. Amy again?

  He stood, swayed a little, and made it to the kitchen. Caller ID said it was an unknown number. His drunkenness egged on his curiosity.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Monica there?” An odd, sexless voice. As if they were using a voice changer.

  “What?” Domino’s tone was not polite.

  “Is Monica there?”

  “Who is this?” Like Amy in Montgomery County, Domino had decent solitude in Philadelphia after retirement. Still, what was it Amy had said earlier? Having an unlisted number in this day and age didn’t mean shit? Sad but true. But then that would mean this person calling his home knew exactly whom they were calling and, more unsettling, whom they were asking for.

  Monica.

  Had to be a wrong number.

  “I think I’ve got the wrong number,” the caller said.

  Domino forced a civil tone. “It’s all right.”

  The caller hung up.

  Now his cell phone rang in the den.

  Though not as private as his landline, only a small handful of people had his cell number. When it rang, he only expected the odd telemarketer (who rarely phoned back after Domino told them exactly what they could do with whatever they were selling) or someone he knew and trusted.

  He went to his den. Like the caller ID for his landline, the one for his cell read it was an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Monica there?” Same odd voice again.

  Domino believed in coincidence as much as he did Bigfoot. “What kind of fucking game are you playing?”

  They hung up.

  His landline rang again. He rushed for it, banging his shin on the coffee table in the process, edging his mood into powder keg territory.

  He did not bother to check the caller ID this time. Just snatched the phone from its receiver. “Who is this?”

  “Is Patrick there?”

  Domino’s rage nearly flew off its leash at the mere mention of Patrick’s name. He found it impossible to reply right away; could only breathe into the phone as he tried to steady himself.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” the voice asked.

  “Tell me who you are first,” he managed.

  “Guess.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “We can make it fun. Ever play hot and cold?”

  Domino took a single deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly, still struggling to control his rage. “I guess who you are, and you say ‘hot’ or ‘cold’ depending on how close I am,” he eventually said.

  “Exactly. Only I don’t want you to guess who I am, I want you to guess where I am, Mr. Belvedere.”

  An instant surge of adrenaline raised the flesh on Domino’s arms. He hung up, hurried back to his den, and opened his wall safe. Withdrew his Glock 9mm, popped the clip, checked the ammo, then slammed the clip back home. He then unlocked his sliding glass door and stepped outside onto the back porch.

  His cell rang again. He hit answer but said nothing.

  “Cold,” the voice said.

  Domino inched towards the edge of his porch. Leaned over the railing and scanned his backyard in all directions.

  “Colder.”

  “You can see me, huh?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately. You haven’t aged well.”

  Something started to gel. He might have gotten there sooner after the mere mention of Patrick’s name, but alcohol and rage had blurred his reasoning.

  He stepped back inside and locked the sliding glass door.

  “Warmer.”

  Domino tossed some bait. “Playing a kid’s game like the amateur you are. Why am I not surprised?”

  A pause, and then: “This ‘amateur’ is going to pull off what your ‘professional’ never could.”

  Domino could not help but smile. More bait: “Oh, that Joan Parsons really got to you last year, didn’t she, Kelly?”

  No reply.

  Domino started down his hallway towards the front door to double-check the locks. “I don’t know how the hell you did it, but simply locating one’s phone number is hardly cause for a pat on the back.” Then, saving the best bait for last: “Monica Kemp, you are NOT.”

  Kelly Blaine responded without the voice changer. “You’re right. I’m not Monica. I’m better. And you’
re red hot.”

  Domino’s front door burst open, the impact splintering the frame, catching Domino in the chest and knocking him clean off his feet, head ricocheting back against the hardwood floor, gun and phone flying.

  Two enormous men came through his doorway, one bald, one not. Both ugly and scarred. The one with hair wielded an aluminum baseball bat, the bald one a weighted battering ram that hung in both his hands like a small cannon with handles.

  The bald one set the battering ram to the floor and closed the door behind them. He then pulled a thick length of pipe from his waistband and tested its weight with a solid whack into his palm.

  Both men loomed over a dazed Domino.

  “This is the Negro who kill Ivan?” the one with the hair asked in a thick Russian accent.

  “That’s what the girl said,” the bald one replied, his accent no less thick and Russian.

  “I thought he was supposed to be sick.”

  Sick? Domino managed to process. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  The bald one shrugged. “That’s what she tell me.”

  “He look drunk, not sick.”

  Slowly, and with no sudden movements, Domino began scooting back along his hardwood floor, trying to buy himself time until his head cleared. If he had to guess, he’d wager “Ivan” was one of the three Russian men he was forced to kill when Monica had hold of him back in the Pine Barrens, and these lumps standing over him now were somehow related, seeking vengeance.

  As for “the girl” the lumps mentioned? Well, that had to be Kelly, didn’t it? Amateur indeed. If she was looking to one-up Monica, she was not only on the wrong track by trying the same exact thing Monica had, but she was only sending two men to the party instead of three.

  “You’re right, I am drunk,” Domino began, still casually scooting backwards, still looking to buy time. “Why do you think she told you I was sick?”

  Neither man replied. And they were not ignorant of Domino’s movement; they followed him, step for scoot, unnervingly patient, as though they were in no rush to do the job.