Steady Trouble

by Mike McCrary

  “Something wrong, Steady Teddy?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “He won’t bite you.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “You’re right. I’m only fairly certain he won’t bite you.” He smirks.

  I catch him off guard by squeezing his cheeks like he was five. “Super-cute, Gordo,” I say, strolling past him, heading down the hall.

  False courage has become a valued skill of mine.

  Turning back to him I say, “Only wish I’d brought my bat. That’s all.”

  Chapter 9

  I step into what seems like a hospital room on the top floor of the Four Seasons.

  Machines, tubes, blinking lights. The stink of disinfectant fills my nostrils. There are bottles of pills lined up like an army on an antique table whose animal paw legs seem stuck into the hardwood floor. It’s quiet except for a slight layer of mechanical white noise from the medical machinery and the occasional horn or siren from the streets below.

  This is what I’ve walked into.

  There’s also a man lying down in a king-sized, or bigger, bed. He looks like what I imagine death looks like right before it becomes actual death.

  A man deep in the throes of pre-death.

  His eyes are sunken into his skull. His face the color of ash. Skin has the appearance of paper, the thin kind of paper found in a Bible, almost transparent. His blankets are pulled up to his chin and they move up and down ever so slightly as he strains to breathe. Strange thing is he doesn’t look that old. Hair is all there, full and dark with slight signs of gray peeking around the edges. While his face has seen better days for sure, it doesn’t seem to be the face of an old man.

  I step closer.

  I actually gasp, placing my hand over my mouth. Couldn’t help it. I simply couldn’t control my reaction. My acting cool has been snapped by what I see.

  Holy shit.

  I know this guy.

  I’ve met this guy.

  He’s the kind dude from the bar. The only one who didn’t pay much attention to Sandy. The one who came into the bar about six months ago and just talked to me. Can’t remember his name, but he’s one who gave me hope that men are not complete shit.

  Now he’s dying.

  I grab Gordo’s arm, pulling him aside. “What happened to him?”

  “He’s sick. Been fighting it for years, all kinds of treatments, in and out of hospitals, clinics around the world. Some good, some not. Some helpful, some not. Things really started turning bad a few months ago. It’s been a steep decline.”

  “He was fine when I met him.”

  “You recognize him. That’ll make him happy. He was hoping you would.”

  I look to Gordo’s face, wanting to get a read on him. A hint of what the hell is going on. He gives me nothing. He’s better at this than I am.

  “I’m just the nice girl that served him booze in Texas. He sent you to find me and bring me here to… what? Watch him die? I don’t even remember his name.”

  A voice from the bed says, “Rather not die in front of you. I do have some pride left. That okay with you, Steady Teddy?”

  I spin around, find the dying man with Bible-paper skin sitting up in his bed looking directly at me. His eyes are bright now, as if he’d been saving his energy for this conversation. He simply needed to power down for a bit, and now he’s ready to chat. He picks up a glass of water with a shaky hand, takes a sip through a straw while motioning for me to come over to him.

  Gordo nods, letting me know it’s okay.

  Carefully I step forward. “Not to be a bitch about this, but you’re not contagious or anything?”

  He cracks a smiles and chuckles. “No. This mess you see before you is the product of poor decisions over the course of a lifetime mixed with bad DNA. So I’m told.”

  “Oh. Okay. Poor decisions. Already caught that. I’m sorry for your troubles, but it is nice to see you again, sir,” I say, stepping even closer.

  “Thank you, good to see you as well. My name is Jonathan McCluskey, for the record.”

  “I’m horrible with names.”

  “Not a problem. I’m sure in your line, or lines, of work you meet a lot of people.”

  Not sure if that was a shot at me, lines of work, but I smile regardless.

  “That one over there,” he says, motioning to Gordo. “He treating you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

  “Good.”

  His eyes seem distant. He’s looking right at me, but at the same time it’s like he’s not looking at me at all. When he talks he looks to the ceiling or to the side and then back to match my eyes. As if focusing on me for too long is straining.

  “The other ones over there?” he asks.

  “Which ones?” asks Gordo.

  “Are the demons here?”

  “No, all clear. I made sure.”

  What? The what? Don’t show it on your face. Do not show it on your face.

  Jonathan looks back to me. “I like to make sure they’re away. They’re always around sneaking, taking, tearing, peeling away at what’s left of me. Waiting for my death to pick at the bones. Rip at my flesh with their teeth and claws.”

  I can only stare at him.

  Gordo cringes.

  “I’m talking about the rest of my family of course, not actual demonic creatures, though you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference.”

  “Oh,” I say with an odd laugh. “Of course. Family can be tough.”

  “Enough about my issues. I remembered you from the bar and the time I spent in Austin. I like that town. You talked about your life a bit. Didn’t open up at first, left little breadcrumbs about your own struggles, but eventually you told me enough. Enough for me to know that you’ve not had an easy go of things.”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “The fuck you couldn’t, woman,” he says with a chuckle. His tone and verbiage changed in the blink of an eye. In a blur the man went from kindly gentlemen to a character on The Wire. A personality shift in no time flat. Maybe it’s the drugs or his sickness or all of the above, but I’m thinking this guy might be slightly touched.

  As in crazy.

  As in fucking nuts.

  Can’t help but be taken aback. This guy, this Jonathan McCluskey, he’s really got me off balance here. I’m much better behind a bar with my bat. In the comfort of my own zip code.

  He leans in closer to me and continues. “You’ve had a very rough go of things, no reason to bury it, not with me. You could use my help. My wealth, the wealth of a soon-to-be dead man, could do wonders for you. Could kick the piss out of that little number of yours.”

  Chapter 10

  My number.

  This guy, this McCluskey, knows about my number. How in the hell does he know about my number? I never talk about my number. He also knew about the people coming for me. Knew enough to send Gordo to find me. Calls him That One for some reason. What else does this pre-death dude know?

  Enough to bring me here.

  “Enough,” I say. “Who in the hell are you people?”

  I turn to Gordo. He says nothing, but doesn’t look away either. I turn back to Jonathan, who does the same as Gordo. Stone faces all around. Neither offers anything but silence. There’s a dense, thick, sticky feeling to the room. I can almost feel the silence crawling on my skin.

  “Gonna need a little more than creepy, vague bullshit here. Gonna need quite a bit more than what you guys are giving me.”

  Still quiet.

  “I almost got killed last night. My life is turned upside down and I’m brought to New York, by you, and you are offering to do, what? Throw the poor girl a few dollars? Pity pay? Put me in your will?”

  “You’re not completely wrong,” Jonathan says, “but this is in no way done out of pity.”

  Gordo removes a stack of papers from a desk drawer by the door. The thick stack is bound by a large black clip straining to hold it all together—much like me. Gordo walks o
ver to the bed by Jonathan, handing him the papers along with a pen.

  “I’ve funded a trust. A survivor’s trust. Me and my demons are listed as beneficiaries. I can initial this tiny amendment to the trust I had my attorney kindly draw up. It will have you added, if you like.”

  “Added?”

  “To the trust, as a beneficiary,” Jonathan says.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s fairly straightforward paperwork,” Gordo says.

  “Wait. What? Everybody stop. You’re a lawyer?” I ask Gordon.

  “Yes. Full disclosure,” he says.

  “Again, what the hell?” I ask.

  Gordo flips the pages, searching for a particular page.

  Jonathan coughs violently as he eyes Gordo, then says, “My family is trash and they don’t deserve the money I’ve earned, money I’ve earned over a lifetime of hard work. They are horrible, nasty people and the idea of them being comfortable for the rest of their horrible, nasty lives is an unsettling idea for me to die on. Like ending a fine meal with the last bite being raw onions. Only in this case that bad taste would last for an eternity.”

  After finding the page he was looking for, Gordo lays the document next to McCluskey, holding the pen out for him. They both look at me. Waiting.

  “Why me?”

  Jonathan coughs again, even harder, takes a sip from his straw and looks me dead in the eye. “Luck. Fate. Whatever you’d like to call it, but I met you right before my health took a nosedive. You stuck in my head for whatever reason. I read once Howard Hughes tried to give away a large sum of his money to a casual acquaintance who was kind to him, someone Mr. Hughes just simply liked.” He pauses to cough, takes another sip. “Your story. Your life. What you’ve been through, it moved me. Not to mention, I like your style. The way you work your operation with the bar and your games, you got real grit and guts. Things I used to have. Things my family does not possess. With that said, your grit and guts will more than likely end up killing you. Say, last night for example. You keep doing what you’re doing, there is a greater than zero chance you will die trying to get what you want. Simply because you are what you are and you will never, ever give up.”

  Now I’m silent.

  He grins. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “But even with me on the trust this horrible family—your words—they still get the money, right? I’m no lawyer, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

  Gordo’s turn. “There are certain legal matters that prohibit Jonathan from simply leaving the entire trust to you.”

  “That’s bullshit. That One’s covering for me.”

  “Please don’t—”

  “You don’t get to tell me when to speak.”

  There’s that thick, sticky silence again.

  I’ve just witnessed a spat between attorney and client. This might be the strangest conversation I’ve ever been involved in, and that’s a statement to be sure. I’ve had a large number of strange conversations over the years. I notice the cross above the bed, the Bible on the table, odd considering these men have more than likely killed or have had many people killed.

  Just a guess.

  Jonathan says, “Teddy, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. You can walk away from everything at the bar. Leave, escape, pay off that house, travel, do whatever you want for the rest of your life. All you have to do is sign this paper and you will have access to more money than you can imagine. Access to more of a life than you ever dared to imagine.”

  “Tell her,” Gordo says.

  “Not necessary.”

  “Tell. Her.” Gordo says it harder this time.

  “You tell her. I need my pills and some rest.” Jonathan signs the page Gordo found for him. “Here. My part is done. That One can witness your signature. Sign it, don’t sign it, it’s your decision. You only really need to decide what life you want. It’s that simple.”

  Gordo picks up the papers and walks back over to me.

  “I hope you sign, Steady Teddy, I truly do. I’d like to die knowing someone decent got a shot at a life worth living.”

  Jonathan McCluskey closes his eyes.

  Can’t help but think I’ll never see him again.

  Gordo leads me away, back down the hall.

  Chapter 11

  “What the hell was that?” I ask.

  Gordo stands at the bar, staring at me while holding open the signature page for me to sign, that damn pen in his hand.

  “Gordon, talk to me.”

  He sets down the pen and pours himself a drink. “Pretty simple actually. He met you, likes you and wants you to have some money.”

  “You’re right. That doesn’t sound like horseshit at all.”

  “Why are you fighting this so hard?”

  “Why? Why am I questioning any of this? You really just asked me that? Let’s start with: I barely know the guy, then jump to the fact your people were able to kill a couple of guys and clean it all up as if a cat pissed on a rug.”

  Gordo puts his hands on my shoulders. I slap them away, but I don’t step back. He puts his hands up as a sign for me to calm down, then offers me a seat on the couch.

  I decline, giving him a middle finger.

  Gordo nods, taking a seat with his drink. “Is this any crazier than someone who unknowingly buys a Picasso at a garage sale? Who finds Mickey Mantle’s rookie card in the attic? Any more skill involved than winning the lottery? It’s luck. It’s all a matter of chance, right? Right place, right time. Some people die as infants during a tidal wave in a third world country while some grow up to be DiCaprio.” He takes a drink and resets. “Look. You met a dying, wealthy man at a bar and after talking and getting to know you a bit, he ended up liking you. That so strange? He hates his family and the man wants to help you. That’s it.”

  I snatch his drink from his hand and gulp it down, then I pour myself another.

  “How long have you been his lawyer?” I ask.

  “A few years. Been his brother for longer.”

  I smirk. Of course he’s related.

  “Younger brother. Much younger, to be clear.” He smiles.

  “And you’re cool with him calling you That One?”

  “I’ve called him worse.”

  “And you’re also cool with all this trust stuff? Some of the family money going to me and all that?”

  “I have my own money, but thank you for your concern.”

  I start looking over the papers. It’s all legal blah blah, but the numbers look large. Not even sure how much applies to me, but all the dollar signs are next to two commas’ worth of numbers. Many with three commas. Can’t help but think of the money. What it could do for me. Jonathan is right. I could pay off the mortgage and live the rest of my days in my parents’ house and do whatever I want. Fix the place up. Maybe like they would want me to. I don’t know, but it sounds pretty good. Considering my other jobs are in a state of flux, to say the least, this all sounds pretty damn good.

  Too good to be true, and what do we know about too good to be true?

  “What happens if I sign?” I ask.

  He stares at me blankly. “You get the money.”

  “No shit. What I mean is with the other family members? Do I meet with them? Does this turn in to a thing with them? How is the money divided up?”

  “They’ll be in contact with you.”

  “They can’t sue me or anything, right? Once I sign I get a share, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Once you sign that part of the money is yours.” He hands me the pen. “This is a chance not many people get, Teddy. Most people grind away at life. Day after day after day, fighting for scraps, making the best of things, telling themselves they’re doing great. They are not.”

  I think of Sandy.

  Think of my tiny apartment.

  “Maybe they have enough to retire their shit jobs at sixty-five, maybe seventy, maybe never.”

  Think of my number.

  My parents’ house.


  Dead bodies in the hotel kitchen.

  “Most will never get remotely close to the life this stack of paper can provide, and if they do, it certainly won’t be at your age. Young, smart, tough kid, money and good looks—hard to fuck up that hand.”

  I think of my parents and wonder what they would do or, better still, what they would want me to do. I realize I have no idea. I don’t know them. I did at one time, but now, I do not. That’s been removed from me. Anything I knew about their sensibilities, their moral compass, it’s gone. Money can’t bring them back or bring back the memories of them I’ve lost, I know that, but maybe some cash could buy me some peace.

  I hope so.

  I take the pen.

  I sign my name on the line that is dotted.

  Part 2

  “I've been rich and I've been poor. Rich is better.” -- Beatrice Kaufman

  Chapter 12

  I’ve landed at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport.

  There’s a car waiting for me. The driver knows where to take me.

  It was a strange trip to New York, to put it mildly. Roughly seven hours in the air and about three in the city, with most of that going back and forth to the airport. After I signed the trust papers, Gordo had a few items to talk to me about. Said the plane would return me to Austin, but I wasn’t to go to my apartment, there’s nothing there anyway, and I wasn’t to go to the hotel or contact Sandy or anybody else.

  He gave me an address to a new place to stay and said all my stuff would be waiting for me there along with some other things he thought I would need. Then he handed me two hundred in twenties, called it folding money, shook my hand and wished me luck. He did also say the first wire transfer from the trust should hit my account before I touched ground in Austin.

  I tried to press him for more details, but he didn’t offer up much of anything, only saying that everything I need will be at the apartment and for me not to worry.