by S. W. Lauden
“Don’t worry about it, Tommy. It isn’t your fight this time around.”
“Why don’t we call the cops?”
Greg was already halfway to the garage, screaming his response as he ran.
“Call them if you want. It never does much good.”
He ran inside, groping for his gun in the dark space. Everything was just as he left it, the wreckage of the past few days strewn across the floor. The sound of Marco’s revving engine rushed through the open door. Greg grabbed a mostly empty bottle of vodka, holding it up to the scant light. One drink might keep his hand from shaking if things got out of control, making his aim a little truer. But he knew there wasn’t such a thing as one drink any more.
Greg was salivating as he tilted the bottle up to his lips. The first belt was barely down his throat when Marco bounded in. He charged across the room, swiping the bottle from out of Greg’s grip.
“If you go, I go.”
Marco jammed the lip of the bottle into his own mouth, draining it dry. He dropped it to the carpet with a hollow thud.
“Let’s go.”
h
It was still early, so the morning traffic was light. They sped along Bay Cities Boulevard in silence. Greg felt strange in the passenger seat, but the El Camino was still parked outside of the Flores Estate. He watched the old neighborhood flickering by out the window, hoping they would make it in time to save JJ. Greg wasn’t sure he could live with another death on his conscience.
There were no police cars in sight when they pulled up outside of the building. It wouldn’t be long before they arrived, but there was no time to waste. They both jumped out, scanning the landscape for any sign of Gabriella or the kid in the blue hat. Marco went over to the security gate, punching in the code to let them inside. The elevator was open in the silent lobby, but they took the stairs up to the third floor. Greg was in the lead, gun raised and back against the stairwell wall.
“Maybe I should go up there alone. You make sure they don’t sneak up on us from behind.”
“No way, bro. We’re doing this together.”
They made slow progress, inching their way up one stair at a time. The fire door was closed when they reached the landing. Greg motioned for Marco to stay still while he listened for any signs of a struggle. The silence that met their ears gave no indication of what awaited them inside.
Greg took up a position a few steps down while Marco eased the door open. The hallway outside of the condo was empty, but the front door was open a crack. They were skulking along the wall when JJ started shrieking in terror. Whatever they were doing to him in there, it didn’t sound like he would survive very long.
There was no time for a plan. Greg exchanged a knowing look with Marco before kicking the door open to tumble inside. He came up with his sights trained on the living room, eyes scanning furniture in the otherwise empty space. Marco bounded in behind him, quickly making his way into the kitchen. He grabbed a carving knife from the butcher’s block before coming back to join Greg near the entrance.
“They must be in one of the bedrooms.”
“Which one?”
Marco stepped over to where the closed bedroom doors stood side-by-side. He put his ear to JJ’s, but didn’t hear any movement or sound. He was about to do the same with his own door when a gunshot splintered the jamb from inside. There was a flurry of motion as Marco dove to the floor, chunks of wood and screams filling the air for a chaotic moment.
Greg took up a position behind the kitchen counter, his barrel trained on Marco’s room.
“You guys are cornered! Let JJ go and come out with your hands up.”
There was a hushed conversation in the bedroom followed by a tense silence. Greg couldn’t understand what they said, but he knew something bad was about to happen. This wasn’t some home invasion robbery gone wrong. The only reason they’d come there was to lure Greg and Marco back, and now it was time to finish what they started.
Marco sensed it, too. He slowly got up, backing around the corner and out of sight in the living room. The seconds dragged by, Greg’s trigger finger tightening with every little sound. He was so on edge that he almost fired when the bedroom door finally swung open. The woman who emerged was a stranger. Her fashionable clothes were replaced with baggy pants and a flannel shirt. She sauntered forward, teasing him with her glare.
“What’s the matter? Don’t recognize me?”
Greg looked past her into the bedroom. He saw his bass player in there, bound to a chair with blood running from both nostrils. The kid in the blue hat stood behind him, the barrel of a gun pressed against JJ’s temple.
Greg’s eyes flicked back to Gabriella.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I do what I want.”
“And you wanted to get your throat cut?”
Marco lunged, grabbing her by the hair and pressing the knife against her neck. She tried to fight back, but he dug the blade deeper. A small line of blood was forming when Greg came out from behind the counter, brushing past her and into Marco’s bedroom.
Greg tried to ignore the pleading look JJ gave him. He focused on the kid in the blue hat instead.
“Drop your gun and you might leave here alive.”
The kid’s voice was flat and emotionless, betraying fear on his face.
“My life’s over either way. I die here or in prison.”
Greg didn’t have a good answer, not so soon after almost checking out himself. His life flashed before him as he swung from the rope that night, and he wasn’t proud of what he saw. Even the good memories were stained by the violence, betrayal, and anger swirling around him like his own personal thunderstorm. There simply wasn’t enough time to make all the apologies he owed, especially not when he made new mistakes every day.
“That’s up to you. The only thing I care about right now is my friend. Put the gun down and let him go.”
“Screw you, pig!”
The kid lifted his gun from JJ’s head, but didn’t get far. Greg fired three rounds without hesitation. Two of them caught the kid in the chest, the third shattering the window behind him. The sounds of the outside world rushed in, mixing with JJ’s whimpers. The kid stumbled backward, collapsing to the floor. His head came to rest at an odd angle against the baseboard, the blue hat on the carpet at his side. Greg didn’t have to check his pulse to know he was dead.
October 1998—8:00 p.m.
Tim was behind the counter when two young girls shuffled over. Both sported ratty, bleached-blonde hair dyed pink at the tips. He couldn’t tell if their Catholic-schoolgirl uniforms were a fashion statement, or if they’d been wandering the streets since classes let out earlier that afternoon. They watched him clean scratches from used CDs until he looked up.
“Can I help you with something?”
The girl on the right produced a 7-inch from behind her back. Tim recognized the cover immediately, since he was the designer. It featured a photocopied picture of him and his brother skateboarding in an empty pool near their dad’s house. They’d taken it shortly before the band formed, back in junior high. The four tracks on that single were the first songs Bad Citizen Corporation ever recorded. Only two hundred and fifty of them were ever pressed. Tim didn’t even own one himself any more.
She set it on the counter, along with a Sharpie.
“Can we have your autograph?”
Tim picked it up carefully, as though it were made of glass. He was disappointed they weren’t there to sell the rare artifact. Not that he had the money to buy it.
“Where’d do you guys find this?”
“At a garage sale, down by the beach. We’ve listened to it like a thousand times.”
He flipped it over, reading the hand-written liner notes. The studio where they recorded those songs was a restaurant now. His guitar from that session had long ago been
hocked for dope.
The girl on the right blew a bubble, covering her lips when it popped. Tim grabbed the marker, removing the cap with his teeth before getting to work. His signature was an unrecognizable squiggle, so small it was hard to see.
The two girls squealed as they ran from the store. Tim waited until they were gone before he let himself smile. It was erased a few seconds later when a familiar face came through the front door. Tim watched with dread as BCC’s sleazy new manager, Mikey Fitzgerald, approached. He slammed his briefcase down on the counter, snapping the locks open with his thumbs.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tim.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know…passed out in a gutter somewhere? But that’s none of my business anymore. Or at least it won’t be once you sign these documents.”
Tim guessed Mikey was the only twenty-something wearing a sport coat within ten miles of his record store. The new wardrobe didn’t change Tim’s opinion that he was nothing more than a weasel with slicked back hair and bright white teeth. He hated everything Mikey tried to be; and everything he forced BCC to become.
“I already told you, I’m not signing shit. You want to play Malcolm McLaren? Leave me out of it.”
Mikey pulled out a folder, flipping it open to reveal a stapled contract. He spun it around on the counter to face Tim, setting a ballpoint pen on top of it.
“Like it or not, Bad Citizen Corporation is a business partnership. We have to finalize your departure before your brother can move on with his career.”
Tim pushed the documents back at Mikey, sending the pen and folder to the floor.
“There weren’t any contracts when I started the band, so we don’t need one now.”
Mikey bent down to pick them up, straightening his sleeves when he stood again. He set the folder and pen back on the counter, a flush of red building up on his cheeks. Tim couldn’t decide what was more fun—signing an autograph for those two girls, or watching this asshole lose his cool. It was too early to tell, but Tim decided to celebrate with a speedball either way. He just had to get rid of this asshole first.
“If you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
Mikey made a show of looking around the empty store.
“How rude of me. I should come back when you aren’t so busy.”
“Or don’t come back at all.”
Tim stepped out from behind the counter, heading for the office. He walked down a short hallway plastered with gig flyers featuring the names all of his favorite bands. Tim took a seat behind the desk. Mikey entered the room seconds after him.
“You’re only putting off the inevitable. BCC is going on without you, whether you like it or not.”
Tim leaned back, trying not to think about the syringe in the top drawer. He wouldn’t give Mikey the satisfaction of watching him fix.
“Where’s Greg?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, my so-called brother. Why isn’t he here if this is so important?”
Mikey put his hands down on the desk, shoulders sagging. It was as close to human as Tim had ever seen him.
“Listen. I don’t want to get involved in any family matters, but it’s hard not to make this situation personal. The truth is, your brother doesn’t want to see you. He’s the one who sent me down here to get these papers signed.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it!”
Mikey brought his hands up in a defensive posture.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t kill the messenger. You and Greg haven’t spoken in—what—weeks? Whatever’s going on between you two, it has nothing to do with me. This is strictly business as far as I’m concerned.”
Tim jumped up, pacing the room. Everything Mikey said made sense, but he didn’t want to believe it. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. The angrier he got, the more he wanted to get rid of Mikey so he could get high.
“You guys can’t have the name unless Greg comes down here to ask me himself.”
“Come on, Tim. You know that isn’t going to happen. Why stand in his way?”
“He wouldn’t even be playing in a band if it weren’t for me.”
“Which is why he wants to keep the name alive. You’ve already said you’re done with music, so it’s worthless to you. Unless…”
Tim stepped right up to Mikey, until the tips of their noses were practically touching. It felt unnatural for him to be so aggressive. That was always more Greg’s style.
“Unless what?”
“Maybe there’s a part of you that doesn’t want Greg to succeed. It would make sense for you to be jealous.”
“Jealous my ass. I just want to hear it from him.”
In the end, it was Mikey who backed down. He wandered over to the office door, leaning against the jamb.
“I’ll tell him, but it won’t make a difference. My guess is he’d rather start a whole new band than have to deal with any of this.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look around. You’re killing yourself, but all you can think about is ruining Greg’s future before you check out. Why don’t you do him a favor—do us all a huge fucking favor—and get it over with. Maybe then you’re brother can have the music career he deserves, without any interference from you.”
Tim slumped down into his chair again, completely exhausted and dope sick. He just wanted to be alone so he could shoot up. Nothing else mattered any more.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Bring me the papers. I’ll sign them.”
Chapter 22
Greg paddled with both arms, letting the momentum of the wave catch his board. He pushed himself up in a practiced motion, maintaining his balance as the Pacific slid away beneath him. The folding wall of water chased him down the line, but he managed to stay ahead of it; carving and cutting his way across a momentary ripple on the ocean. And when his perfect ride was over, he tumbled and spun in the aftermath until the water finally freed him.
He emerged in the whitewash, gasping for air. It wasn’t getting harder to hold his breath, but Greg was more aware of his breathing these days. The wetsuit chafed at the rope burns around his neck as the leash pulled him a few feet closer to shore. Marco and Chris were still behind him, looking to catch perfect rides of their own. Greg stood up, tucked the board under one arm, and plodded his way to dry sand.
Junior held up a towel when he arrived. Greg unzipped his wetsuit, shimmying out of his rubbery skin.
“My dad was here a second ago.”
Greg set his eyes on the horizon, where a group of paddle boarders formed a circle. Their silhouettes looked small and blurry in the distance.
“I’m glad the Sober SUP group’s working out for him.”
“You could go join them, you know.”
He slipped a T-shirt on, wrapping the towel around the outside of his board shorts.
“I think I’m done for today.”
“They’ll be there tomorrow, too.”
“Thanks for the surf report, Junior.”
He sat down beside her, watching the sets roll in. Afternoon sunlight sparkled on the water, reflecting blue skies overhead. Junior elbowed him, nodding to a sunbathing woman a few yards away. She was laying on her stomach and reading Among the Grizzlies.
Junior shaded her eyes, laughing out loud.
“You’re never going to escape that book.”
“No shit. I just hope Tommy doesn’t write another one after everything that happened this month.”
“At least he wasn’t around to take notes this time.”
“Something tells me that won’t stop him.”
She reached out, putting a hand on his.
“Do you still think BCC will record an album, now that the murders ha
ve been solved? Chris wanted to ask, but didn’t know how.”
“Probably not any time soon.”
Chris and Marco charged up, dropping their boards on the sand to get changed. Greg noticed Chris was almost a foot taller than Marco now. He wondered if his own son would sprout up in his teens, and if he’d be around to see it. Or if Timmy would end up dead, like the kid in the blue hat. Those were the dark possibilities dancing around his head now that things had finally calmed down. That didn’t mean he was ready to deal with any of it.
Greg stood, slapping Marco on the shoulder.
“You ready to head back up to the house? I still need to clean up the office before we start looking for more work.”
Marco smiled, shaking the sand from his wet hair.
“You’re a slave driver, bro.”
They said goodbye to Junior and Chris, making plans to barbecue on Sunday afternoon. The sand was hot, but their soles were thick and calloused from a lifetime spent on the beach. Neither of them said much until they reached the house.
Greg leaned his board against the garage and disappeared inside. He emerged moments later with a full bottle of vodka in his hand. Marco went into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses of ice and a carton of orange juice. They met at the table on the back deck, mixing up cocktails in silence.
They never talked about their drinking. It was just a fact again, like the scars and tattoos covering their bodies. They could try to hide it, but sooner or later somebody would notice. Greg decided he’d done enough hiding.
Marco lifted his glass in a toast.
“To running away from our problems.”
Greg could drink to that.
“You write that one?”
“Hell no. An old-school surfer said it in some interview I read.”
Greg could drink to that, too. And when his glass was empty, he mixed himself another one. This was the first time in a long time he didn’t have anywhere to be—unless he counted looking for his wife and son. He took a swig, deciding to give it a few more days. Kristen and Timmy were safe where they were, and Greg wasn’t feeling much like a husband or father. They’ll either come home on their own, or we’ll all agree it’s better for them to stay away for good.
