13
As big as the bag of heroin was, Winston wanted no part of this game. He was a transient, a survivor. He hadn’t lasted this long on the streets by courting danger. He ran from it. As he did now.
Winston spun, went for the door, jerked it open, and the chain caught, Kelly having quietly slid it home when Winston’s attention was on Jennifer, Tim, and Michael.
Winston cried out and fumbled with the chain, eventually having to close the door first in order to provide the slack he needed to slide the chain free.
Kelly looked over at Jennifer, Tim, and Michael. “He’s going to get away.”
Michael lunged first, snatching Winston around the neck and dragging him away from the door. Winston fought back. Not with his fists, no; Winston’s fighting ability was more akin to that of a feral animal’s. He clawed, bit, gouged, spat. The savagery of his attack deterred Michael’s own assault, and he backed off as if he had provoked a wild animal.
“Fucking crazy!” Michael yelled.
Winston went for the door again. Michael changed tactics and dove for Winston’s legs, wrapping them up at the knee. Tim immediately dove at Winston’s torso, Michael’s grip on Winston’s legs allowing both men to topple Winston like a plank. All three men hit the floor together. Winston continued to fight like an animal, looking to bite any nose, any digit that came near his mouth, gouge any eyes that came near his thumbs.
Jennifer appeared with the heavy wooden chair raised high overhead, thick veins bulging from her malnourished neck. “Hold him still! Fucking hold him!”
Michael kept a firm hold on Winston’s legs. Tim managed to pin both arms but was clearly struggling from the effort.
“HIT HIM!” Tim yelled.
Jennifer brought the wooden chair down onto Winston’s head. There was a thick crack, like kindling over one’s knee.
Winston barely flinched. Fought harder still.
“Jesus Chr—AGAIN!” Tim yelled. “Hit him again!”
Jennifer did. Seven times total. The only thing stopping her was the chair giving before Winston’s skull. She stood panting over Winston’s body with only a solitary chair leg in her hand, the remainder of the chair spread around them, looking not unlike the aforementioned kindling.
Winston’s face was a mess.
Michael slowly rolled off of Winston’s knees and lay on his back, gasping. Tim let go of Winston’s arms and scooted backward before doing the same as Michael, flopping onto his back, desperate to find air.
Jennifer, no less panting than the others, still appeared to have something left in the tank. A more astute eye might have even suggested she was stimulated by the effort, that her labored breathing was more the result of excitement than exertion.
“Is he dead?” Michael asked from his sprawled position on the floor.
Kelly bent and checked Winston’s pulse. Stood and wiped her hands on her coat. “Nope.”
Tim sat up. “What?”
“He’s still got a pulse,” Kelly said.
Now Michael sat up. “Christ, look at him. He’s as good as dead. Just give it a minute.”
Kelly shook her head, disappointed. “You see, this is just the kind of thing I was talking about when it came to going that extra mile. You seem content with mediocrity, Michael. I can’t have that.”
Winston suddenly screamed, eyes popping to life, shockingly white and enormous in his bloodied face. His body seemed to defy physics, springing from the floor in one convulsive jerk without the use of his limbs, as though jolted with electricity.
Even Kelly appeared stunned.
A mad scramble and Winston was on his feet and at the door again. This time he ripped it open with frenzied strength, popping the chain, reaching the stairwell and taking the steps two, three at a time as he descended levels.
Jennifer brandished the dense chair leg and went to go after him, but Kelly placed a firm arm in front of her and shook her head. She looked at Tim and Michael. “You two go,” she said.
Tim sprinted toward the open door and was gone. Michael stayed behind.
Kelly tilted her head. “Something wrong, Michael?”
“There’s no point,” Michael said. “Guy’s got too much of a head start. Knows the area too well. We’d never find him.”
“And if he goes to the police?” Kelly said.
Michael laughed. “Guy like that isn’t going to the police.”
Tim appeared a moment later, panting and dejected. “He’s fucking gone.” He glanced over at Kelly and dropped his head. “I’m sorry. I tried to catch him, I really did.”
Kelly gave an accepting nod and then gestured towards Michael. “Michael here thought you were wasting your time,” she said.
The realization that Michael had not followed Tim in the chase for Winston obviously hit Tim for the first time. His dejected face became a furious one. “Yeah…where the fuck were you, man?!”
“He had too much of a head start, man,” Michael said. “He knows these streets better than us. We were never gonna catch him.”
“Maybe if you’d helped, we would have!” Jennifer said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Tim said. “His head was all bashed in—he could have dropped after the first flight of stairs, and we could have dragged him back up.”
“Did he?” Michael asked, a trifle smugly.
Tim got in his face. “Man, fuck you, you pussy. ‘He’s as good as dead, just give it a minute,’” he said, mocking Michael’s earlier words. “And then you don’t even give chase when the fucker isn’t dead?!” He spun toward Kelly, splayed his arms, and let them flop hopelessly against his legs, an exasperated gesture of apology for Michael’s behavior.
Kelly lit another cigarette. “What to do, what to do…”
Jennifer stepped forward. “I say no way Michael gets equal shares after tonight.”
“What?” Michael blurted. “Why the fuck not?”
“Are you kidding me?” Jennifer said.
Michael threw up his hands. “What? Because I didn’t chase after the fucking guy? I held him down just the same as Tim while you beat on him. If anything, it was your shit job beating on him that allowed him to get away.”
“And yet she was ready to go right after him the moment he popped up,” Tim said. “Only reason she didn’t was because Kelly stopped her.”
All eyes fell on Kelly.
“Why did you stop her?” Tim asked.
Kelly dragged on her cigarette and smirked back at them. “It was beginning to look like three was a crowd.”
Michael frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re the crowd, dipshit,” Jennifer said.
Kelly smiled.
Michael threw up his hands again. “Oh, so I’m out? Just like that? You know what? Fuck this. And fuck you, you crazy little bitch—I’m getting what’s mine.” Michael lunged for Kelly, began tearing at her overcoat for the heroin within.
Tim immediately punched Michael on the side of the jaw, dropping him to his knees. Jennifer followed it up with three solid whacks from the chair leg, the final whack pitching Michael onto his side into a fetal, protective ball. Tim snatched the chair leg from Jennifer and continued the attack, the first few cracks uncurling Michael’s fetal ball as he went rigid, the final few cracks sending those rigid legs into convulsion as he seized.
When the chair leg eventually split from impact, Jennifer rushed towards the mattress-side table, snatched one of the syringes, and rushed back with a battle cry, seemingly keen on plunging the needle into Michael, and with none too much prejudice as to where it landed.
Of all people, it was Kelly who stopped her.
Jennifer, wide eyed, nearly frothing, stared hard into Kelly’s eyes as though being woken from a nightmare. “What?” she panted out.
Kelly dropped her cigarette next to Michael’s head, stubbed it out, then bent and checked his pulse. She rose and said: “This one is very dead.”
Tim and Jennifer, both wheezing from the ass
ault, exchanged a glance.
“This is excellent,” Kelly said. “Truly, I couldn’t have asked for a greater demonstration of going that extra mile. I now have every bit of confidence that tonight will be a great success.”
Kelly withdrew the bag of heroin from her coat and tossed it on the mattress.
“Go do your thing,” she told them.
14
Amy cinched up her jeans, pulled her gray Penn State sweatshirt over her head, and then snapped her long brown hair into a ponytail. Boom—ready for therapy.
She made her way downstairs and into the kitchen. Thought about pouring herself a glass of wine before leaving (desert dry, these things always were), and then remembered the last time Allan Brown had hosted a session. How the two had happened upon one another in his kitchen during a break. Or more appropriately, how Amy had been caught snooping in Allan Brown’s fridge during a break.
She’d muttered a quick apology, only to have Allan smile, take a quick peek into the den to make sure no one was around, and then pull a bottle of good whiskey from the cupboard. They each took a long pull straight from the bottle, ending with Allan smiling and holding an index finger up to his shushed lips, as if to say, our secret.
It had been a thoughtful gesture, and though the whiskey had burned going down, it did the trick of giving her a quick shot of the mellows. Shame he didn’t drink white wine. But then did most men drink white wine? She didn’t know. Patrick certainly didn’t. Patrick loved beer. One of the reasons Amy still struggled to keep beer in the house. Perhaps Allan Brown’s wife had liked white wine as Amy did. One of the possible reasons she’d spotted none in his fridge when she went snooping.
Amy derailed her depressive train of thought before it descended further. Plenty of time for that later tonight. She would try to catch Allan in the kitchen like last time and be grateful if he offered the whiskey again.
• • •
Amy went into the den. Caleb was sprawled out on the sofa in boxer shorts and a white undershirt, watching television. If Amy had convinced herself that the depressive train had been successfully derailed in the kitchen, she was woefully mistaken. Tack on thirty years to her son and she was looking at Patrick. The boxers, the white tee, the precise way they sat slumped on the sofa, lost in the haze of the television. Even the occasional dig in the ear with the pinky finger followed by a close inspection for anything good before absently wiping the finger on the sofa.
A few years ago, Amy would have rushed from the room in tears. But she could cope now. Constantly reminding herself to celebrate Patrick’s life as opposed to constantly mourning his death. And slumped before her on the sofa, watching TV with his little finger in his ear, was the perfect example of that practice.
She bent over the back of the sofa, gripped Caleb’s head with both hands, and planted a big smooch on the side of his face.
Caleb wriggled out of his mother’s grip. An eternal mama’s boy, he nevertheless didn’t like being caught off guard.
“What?” he said, leaning his head back against the sofa, looking up at her.
“Go get ready,” she said. “I told Mrs. Flannigan we’d be there early.”
Caleb rolled off the sofa and headed upstairs.
“And don’t think I didn’t see you wipe your ear gunk on the sofa either, Mr. Gross,” she called after him.
She heard him giggle as he went into his room.
Ah, screw it, she thought. I’m having a glass of wine.
• • •
As far as Amy Lambert was concerned, the old axiom that taxes and death were the only two certainties in life everyone must abide by applied to 99.9 percent of the population. The remaining 0.01—Amy—abided by an equally potent third: Her daughter, Carrie Lambert, would never ever be ready on time. Ever. It had been true on her first day in nursery school, when Carrie had decided she did not like her new shoes and locked herself in the closet, thus forcing Amy to break the lock and drag her daughter to her first day fifteen minutes late; and it was true right now, when, having been told she needed to be ready in twenty minutes, Carrie was still in the precise spot Amy had left her those twenty minutes ago, doing precisely the same thing—yapping away on the telephone.
“Are you kidding me?”
Carrie, belly down on her bed and still wearing the same pajama bottoms and T-shirt she’d woken in, looked up at her mother with that mild look of annoyance only an eleven-year-old daughter can give her mother. “What?”
Amy marched into the room and snatched the phone from her daughter. “Goodbye, Carly,” she said into the receiver, and hung up.
“Mom!”
Amy got in her daughter’s face. “No—no ‘Mom.’ I told you to be ready in twenty minutes. You haven’t done anything yet.”
“I am ready.”
“You are not going over to Mrs. Flannigan’s looking like that.”
“Why not? It’s not like we’re going out or anything. What does she care how I look?”
“Carrie, get up, get dressed, and be downstairs in five minutes. If you’re not ready by then, I am going to show up at school tomorrow and embarrass the living hell out of you in front of all your friends.”
This was no idle threat. Amy had done it before.
“Fine,” Carrie groaned and started getting ready.
• • •
“You don’t have to always walk us over,” Carrie told her mother at the front door. “She lives like two feet away.”
“And what if I want to come in and say hello?” Amy asked.
Carrie rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Yes, the glass of wine had definitely been a good idea. Blunted her urges to drop-kick her daughter onto Mrs. Flannigan’s front step.
“Can we FaceTime you tonight?” Caleb asked.
“I’m only going to be gone a few hours.”
“So?”
“So Mrs. Flannigan uses her FaceTime to talk to her family back in Ireland.”
“She’s not going to be talking to them while we’re there,” Carrie said.
“I don’t care. You don’t need to FaceTime me.”
“Can we FaceTime Domino?” Caleb asked.
“No,” Amy said quickly, even though she knew Domino would have never answered her kids’ call while drunk.
“Why not?” Carrie said. “We’ve done it before.”
Because he’s probably flat on his back right about now. “Because I spoke to him earlier and he said he didn’t feel well.”
Caleb looked suddenly concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, honey, he’s just got a little cold is all. Can we go, please?”
• • •
Irene Flannigan opened the door just as Amy was prepared to knock. Though Amy knew it meant she was waiting on their arrival, likely watching from the window, she did the whole surprise thing anyway.
“Oh!” Amy said. “Perfect timing.”
Irene Flannigan displayed every characteristic of the classic old Irish woman she was, right down to the red hair, the pale and freckled skin, and of course the accent that had never waned since her arrival in this country many years ago.
With a cautious, melodramatic face, Irene placed an index finger below one of her green eyes, bent to look at Carrie and Caleb, and said: “I’m always watchin’.”
They all laughed, even Carrie.
Irene invited them in. The kids immediately went for Irene’s computer in the den. It contained one and only one video game: Tetris. And while Irene proclaimed she’d downloaded the game solely for Carrie and Caleb, many a night had passed with her clacking away on her keyboard in a bid to organize the little colored shapes floating downward on the screen, cup after cup of tea at her side, cursing in her thick brogue when the colored pieces grew increasingly jumbled and piled up too fast.
Amy went to reprimand her kids—darting for the computer as quickly as they had without first asking permission—but Irene smiled and waved a hand. “It’s all right, love.” She the
n leaned in and whispered: “Have you played the game? Like a drug, the bastard is.”
Amy laughed.
“Cup of tea?” Irene offered.
“No thanks, Irene, I really have to get going. Their homework’s all done—all you have to do is tolerate them for a few hours.”
Irene gave a playful gasp and slapped a hand over her chest. “Such a thing to say about two adorable babies as these!”
“Shall I let you keep these babies for the week then?”
Switchblade quick, Irene changed characters. This time to one who had just heard the most absurd question ever posed. “I should think not. I’ve done my time, I’ll have you know.”
Amy laughed again. “How are they doing?”
“Ah, they’re doing just fine. Tommy came round to see me not long ago. Caitlin is expecting her fifth.”
“Fifth?”
“We’re Irish Catholic, love.”
Amy laughed again. It was tough to remember a time they were together when Irene didn’t make her laugh. “Okay, well, you have my number and everything, and you have the address of where I’ll be, yes?”
Irene smiled, closed her eyes, and gave one reassuring nod.
“Great.” Amy then called to her children in the den: “I’m leaving, guys. I love you.”
Carrie and Caleb, eyes stuck on the computer screen, mumbled something simultaneously over their shoulders that sounded like “love you too.”
Amy turned to Irene. “Such sincerity.”
Irene smiled.
Amy turned back to the den. “Password, please,” she said to them.
Carrie elbowed Caleb and yelled at him for missing an important piece in the game. Caleb elbowed back and told her to shut up.
“Password, please,” Amy reiterated firmly.
Both kids spun in their seats, faced their mother, and said “unicorn,” then quickly spun back and resumed playing.
“Thank you. Be good for Mrs. Flannigan now.”
“Oh, they’re always good,” Irene said.
“Yeah? My offer for the week still stands,” Amy said.
Irene put a hand on Amy’s shoulder and gestured toward the front door. “You’re going to be late, love.”
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 80
