by Mike McCrary
I decide to stop taking inventory of the yard; that exercise could suck up my whole day. I make my way up the walkway that leads to the front door. The path is lined along either side with forks and spoons that are stuck into the ground handle first, like a runway constructed by the Sizzler.
I check the gun that’s stuck in my jeans behind my back and pull my shirt over it. Left my bat in the car. It’s against my better judgment, but I thought the bat might send the wrong message and somehow get Lizzy and me off on the wrong foot. I decide to move the gun, and tuck it into my jeans in the front and carefully tuck my shirt behind it so it’s in plain view, but yet not all in-your-face. A subtle message, I tell myself. Considering how I came to be here, I hope her seeing the gun will give her the idea I’m not to be fucked with.
There’s a baby doll giving it to a headless teddy bear doggie-style in the flowerbed. There’s even an empty condom wrapper next to them. Mr. Potato Head and a Ronald Reagan bobbleheads are watching them get it on.
What the fuck is this place?
Deep breath.
First day of the rest of your life.
My hand doesn’t even touch the door before it’s flung open and the barrel of a shotgun is planted on my nose.
Chapter 21
“Who are you?” asks the woman holding the shotgun to my snout.
“Teddy. Take it easy, I was told to come here. Would you be Lizzy?”
The woman stares blankly at me, blinks, then rolls up a ball of phlegm in the back of her throat with a rumble of a cough, launching it from her mouth out and into the yard. It lands on the teddy bear’s back.
“Yup. I’m her. You again?”
“I’m Teddy. Gordo, sorry, Gordon and Jonathan McCluskey sent me.”
“Oh yeah, fuck. I fucking forgot that you were coming by. Gordon said something last week. My memory ain’t what it used to be.”
There’s a pause.
She still has the shotgun planted on the middle of my face.
I raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders. “So? What now?”
Lizzy coughs up another good one and spits it over onto Reagan’s bouncing head. Now that I realize she’s probably not going blow my head off, I take a moment to get a better look at her. She’s older than me, but not by much, and she is at least a handful of inches taller than me. She’s got these shoulder muscles that look like large hamburger buns. Arms cut like she’s got coils of twisting, thick snakes under her skin. She’s wearing goggles, big ones, the kind you used to see basketball players wear sometimes. There’s also a good-sized tat on her neck. It’s a pair of bright red lips, as if she got a big smooch on her neck right before she stepped out the door and jammed this damn shotgun on my nose.
It’s still there, by the way.
The shotgun.
Lizzy asks, “What did they say about me, exactly?”
“Say? Didn’t say shit. They only had your name and address in an envelope that said something about you helping me stay alive.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought so.”
“Right.”
“Right?”
“And you’d like to do that I suppose?”
“Do what?”
“Stay alive?”
“If it all possible, yes.”
“Makes sense.”
Lizzy looks at me long and hard.
“I can pay you. I have some money, if that’s the problem we’re having,” I say.
“No. That’s not the issue here. They paid me upfront.”
“Oh, that’s nice of them. Wait, they paid you?”
“Yup.”
“When?”
“Can’t remember.”
“For what exactly?”
“Helping you stay alive, dumbass.”
Regardless of the shotgun, I’m starting to get slightly annoyed with this woman. “Okay,” I say. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but what the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you and, more importantly, can you get that fucking gun out of my fucking face?”
“I can and I will, but first you need to slowly remove that piece from your boy jeans and lay it down over by the baby getting his nut on.” She spits another one, sailing it over Jesus’s tombstone. “You should have just brought the bat, Sugar Tits. Would have been less of an asshole move.”
Chapter 22
Lizzy leads me inside her house while holding the shotgun to her side.
At least it’s pointed toward the floor now and not my nose.
Progress.
The inside is immaculate. Couldn’t be any different from the front yard. It’s like Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel and Restoration Hardware had a threesome and the interior of this house dropped out nine months later. Much warmer than McCluskey’s in New York, but I’m guessing not any less expensive. Lots of polished wood, modern art mixed with personal photos hanging on the walls, and tons of natural light that pours over the room.
One notable exception.
There’s a gorgeous slab of a man here. He’s dusting the entertainment center. I mean, he’s like a young, Latin male model of a dude in a tux and he looks to be doing chores around the house. His cheek bones have cheek bones. I can make out the muscles even under the tux. Thick dark hair and a butt that could crack walnuts.
“Diego! Please, not now,” Lizzy chirps at him.
Diego looks back to her with a hint of hurt, then leaves the room with a broken smile and a slight, wounded bow. I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help it. He’s insanely gorgeous. Hate to see the man go, but I love to watch him leave.
Lizzy takes a seat on the leather couch, placing the shotgun in her lap. “He’s hot as balls, but doesn’t speak any English and my Spanish is for shit so it’s a struggle.”
“Diego? He’s your maid?”
“Something like that. He cleans up around here, spars with me in the gym out back, and every other Friday I watch him masturbate while I rub myself like I’m trying to get a stain out. We usually listen to Coldplay…” She drifts, she comes back. “It was tricky shit getting the original contract negotiated, you know, language challenges, but it’s a pretty smooth-running machine now.”
I have nothing to say.
Alarmed? Disgusted? Confused? Jealous? Perhaps all of the above.
She pats the cushion next to her, signaling for me to have a seat. “I won’t bite. Let’s talk this through. Hungry?” Before I can answer she screams, “Diego!”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Diego races in.
“No, I’m good.” I turn to Diego. “No, no thank you.”
He looks at me like a lost puppy. A hot, Latin puppy who masturbates under contract. He looks to his master.
She waves him off, turning back to me. “Okay. This… this ‘keeping you alive’ bit of business. You said they didn’t tell you much, that’s so McCluskey by the way, but here’s the shot. I’m going to train you for a few days in some things that’ll help you stay alive. Whether you do or not is really up to you. I cannot guarantee a damn thing. Hence the help part of what I just said.”
No idea what the expression on my face is, but it must’ve questioned what she said because she feels the need to go on.
“These people who are after you? Now I don’t know who they are, exactly. I could guess, but I know the McCluskeys, and those people don’t play. So if you’ve got that sort of element on you, you’re gonna need Lady Lizzy’s help.”
“What does train me in some things mean?”
“Weapons, hand-to-hand stuff. How to kill or disrupt with some simple household items. Can’t do the whole show, time constraints, but I can get you up and running with some pretty fundamental defensive, ass-whipping techniques.”
“I may have killed one of them. One of the sons.” I say it with no pride whatsoever.
Needed to let it out. Wanted to say it out loud, I guess. I haven’t even had time to think about that M-son back at the condo. The one I laid a
beatdown on. He might be dead, not sure. He didn’t look good and wasn’t moving when I left. It’s fuzzy. I only remember getting the hell out of there.
She picks up the sadness in my voice, the regret that must be on my face. “First thing you need to do is leave that shit behind,” she says, tapping the shotgun barrel on my knee.
“What shit?” I say, very concerned with the shotgun.
“Feelings.”
“I like my feelings.”
“You shouldn’t. Not all of them. Sorry, but you need to peel off any feelings you have about the lives of these people who are after you. Because believe me, they have none for you. You’re a good kid. I got a file on you from McCluskey.”
“A file?”
“I know about your life. What happened when you were a kid, all of it, and sister, let me tell you, I’m on your side. You’re young, look to be in pretty okay shape, and you’ve got some childhood anger running wild under the surface just itchin’ to come out and play. So, you’ve got shit to work with. Some fire inside to tap into. Unleash when need be. Right, you little whackjob?”
I nod, can’t help but smile.
“Of course. Now, let’s get you settled in a room. Diego!”
He comes flying in again, this time holding a spatula.
“Grab my girl’s bags and let’s get her set up in the back room.”
He stares at her.
Lizzy rolls her eyes. “Get her shit from her car. Get her shit from her damn car.”
More blank staring.
“Dammit. Get her shit from her damn car and bring it the fuck inside.”
He smiles and nods in fast, quick jerks and then looks to me making some hand signs.
I look to Lizzy. What?
“He needs your keys. Don’t worry. He’s thick as a brick, but he’s cool.”
I toss him the keys to the Porsche. We both watch him bounce out of the room.
Lizzy sighs. “Friday, I’m gonna watch that man pull his dick off.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Might have snorted.
Chapter 23
Lizzy, along with Diego, show me to my room.
It’s small but nice, with a bed, a small dresser, no TV and no window. Diego sets my bags down—sorry, my shit, as Lizzy called it—and then he leaves without needing to be told.
Lizzy waves her hand around the room as if on a game show. “Not much to explain here, but there’s the closet and your bathroom is down the hall. Take a second or two, but no more. We need to get this started. Meet me out back. Good?”
She’s out of the room before I can even form an answer. I sit on the bed, and it feels nice to sit alone for a second. This is the first time I’ve been able to stop and take a breath since Lady McCluskey visited the condo. My head twirls round and round, flipping through more and more questions.
Where am I? Who or what is Lizzy? What is going to happen to me?
Is this what the rest of my life will be? An endless series of questions?
Seems like that’s what it’s been recently anyway. A lot of questions and not a lot of answers. Bright side? It’s not like I had a lot of answers about my life prior to this. At least now I’ve got some jingle in my pocket. Never been overly materialistic, but now that I have some, I’ve got to say: money is certainly a comfort to have.
I get up from the bed and bring my bags over, unzipping them and taking an inventory as I go. The cash, the weapons, the cells, the prepaid cards and, of course, the envelopes. Didn’t get a chance to look over the actual trust docs at the condo. Pulling them from the envelope, I scan down the names of the beneficiaries.
Something catches my eye.
A name.
A name I didn’t see on the other list. A name that wasn’t on the list in the staying alive envelope.
I hold the trust doc in one hand and remove the papers from the other envelope with the other. I scan the list under the heading of PEOPLE WHO ARE COMING TO KILL YOU. Patty is there along with her sons, but this new name, David Drake, is not listed. Maybe David is an attorney. Maybe his name was left off in error. Or maybe he simply isn’t someone who’s coming to kill me.
Could it be that this David is not an asshole?
Diego sticks his pretty little head in through the door. He raises his eyebrows and nods quickly while smiling at me, attempting to solicit a response.
“Sorry. I’m not ready yet. Can I have a second?”
His face deflates as he spins his finger round and round in the air letting me know to hurry the hell up.
“I’ll hurry. Promise.”
His head pulls back and the door shuts. Pretty sure I hear him cuss at me in Spanish. From the corner of my eye I see the cash stuffed in the bag. Folded, rubber band-bound banks of life-altering cash money. I touch it. Stroke it. I need to feel it and know it’s real. Because right or wrong, the money?
It’s all I’ve got right now.
Chapter 24
At the back of the house are sliding glass doors that lead out to the large backyard.
The yard is like one big putting green. Lush, perfect shade of green that looks soft to the touch. I can’t help but bend down and run my hand along the top of it. Like petting the softest green dog ever. Diego must spend hours out here tending to the yard. Sweating. Shirt off…
Sorry.
There’s a pool shaped like the state of Texas. On the other side of the pool is a long portable building. One of those you used to see at school when they ran out of room for all the kids and had to create makeshift classrooms outside of the building. Metal walls and roof with a large AC unit humming to the left side of it. There’s a low thump of bass coming from inside. Some serious jam being laid down in there. I can almost make out the sound of Lizzy screaming inside there somewhere as well.
Walking in the building, it’s like I’m walking onto the set of Rocky.
There’s a boxing ring in the middle, with various free weights and mats scattered around. Two heavy bags hang from the ceiling not far from a treadmill and an elliptical machine. The music booms Silversun Pickups, with flat screens hung on each end of the place, ESPN playing on one and CNBC on the other.
In the ring, Lizzy and Diego are sparring. Diego wears longs shorts, no shirt—yes, it’s spectacular—along with red headgear, matching red gloves and whatever that thing is called that protects his balls. Lizzy is in a sports bra, boxing shorts, her now signature goggles and nothing else. No gloves. Her hands aren’t even wrapped with tape or anything. I’m not eye-fucking Lizzy in the same manner as Diego, but her impressive physique isn’t lost on me either. These are two people carved out of stone and they are beating the piss out of each other in front of me. The sounds of thick flaps of skin hammering away at skin can be barely heard over the music. These people are highly trained and clearly know what they are doing. Their skill is apparent. Lightning moves whipping around the ring like blurts of aggression.
Diego throws a right. It’s blocked and met with a quick elbow from Lizzy. She leaps up off the mat, spinning mid-air a heartbeat before landing a foot to the side of his face. Diego turns round and round before he drops, as if being screwed into the mat. Lizzy’s feet hit the mat the same time as Diego’s face bounces. It’s pretty fucking awesome.
But I hope she didn’t hurt his face.
She turns and gives me a little motion to come over. Stepping over Diego, she picks up a small remote that was resting just under the ropes. With a hard jab of her finger she turns off “Lazy Eye” that’s started playing.
“You ready?” she asks me.
“Not for that.”
“What?” Lizzy thumbs at the pile of Diego. “Oh that? Yeah, probably can’t get you to that level during the short time we’ve got, but I can get you in a good place. You ever fight before?”
“Not professionally.”
“Not what I meant.”
I think, then say, “There was one fight in high school at a keg party, mostly hair pulling, slapping, don’t
remember what it was about, and then the little thing at the condo earlier today. So? Twice, I guess. Oh yeah, three times. There was a thing at a card game.”
“Heard you can work a bat.”
“Didn’t really consider those fights.”
“But you beat some ass?”
“I did.”
“Then those count.” She smirks.
Diego groans and pushes himself up with his elbow, then uses his arms to push himself up. He doesn’t make it far, only halfway sitting up. Lizzy hands him a water bottle while never taking her eyes off of me.
“Get in here.”
“What?”
She holds open the ropes. “Come on. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
“Can I get my bat?”
She smirks. “No. No security blankets in here. Empty hands. I’ll take it easy, at first, only turn it up to about a five.”
I stare at Diego. If she went at her little helper slash sex show slave like that, what the hell is she going to do to me? I swallow big, say a small prayer, and climb up into the ring. As I swing my leg over the ropes, I notice Lizzy has a gun in some sort of holster that sits in the small of her back.
Does she need to be armed constantly?
“Diego! Out. We need the full ring.”
As he works to get to his feet I notice he has a gun tucked in his back as well. Same setup as his master. Lizzy and I stare at him and his struggles. Seconds crawl watching his snail-like moves. Seems like it takes forever. Can’t help but think of what brand of ass-beating is about to come my way.
“Do I need the headgear and stuff?”
“No, I think you’re good.”
“Great.”
Diego is now out of the ring, moving like a drunk crab.
