Steady Trouble

by Mike McCrary

  2…

  1.

  I stand up, turning and opening fire, screaming my head off like a damn crazy woman. My brother follows my lead. The guy gets tagged over and over before dropping to the floor in a heap of dead M-Son. Skinny Drake smiles at me with a more energetic thumbs-up, then immediately falls to the floor.

  As he does, Malik pops up swiping a big-ass shard of glass at me. I weave, but not in time to avoid catching the edge of the glass across my cheek. My skin rips. Splits. Burns like hell. I bring my gun-toting arm around trying to get a headshot on this fucking guy.

  As I do he jams the glass into my arm. The pain is intense. Beyond anything I’ve known to date. I scream like a baby, but not before I bring my bat around with everything I’ve got.

  Malik’s head cracks.

  His body wilts.

  A single gun blast. Black Nasty puts a bullet in his head execution style.

  “You’re welcome,” White Nasty says. “The sons are gone baby gone.”

  “Go upstairs,” Black Nasty says. “She’s up there. She’s mad.”

  “Again, you’re welcome,” White Nasty says.

  I hold my arm, trying to hold off the bleeding. It’s really flowing now. I bite down hard as I pull the glass out of my arm, letting it shatter to the floor.

  “Can you help my brother?” I say, focused on my arm.

  Nothing.

  “Hey.” I look around. “What the hell?”

  They’re gone.

  “Gordo?” I say into my mic.

  Nothing.

  I look to Skinny Drake. He’s on the floor. His eyes are distant, fluttering, but he’s hanging in there. I sit him up, leaning him against what’s left of the pillar.

  “I’m fine,” he tells me.

  “The hell you are.”

  “Get her. There’s no telling what’s coming next. That house alarm goes to something.”

  “You sure?” I ask him, then into my mic, “Gordo!”

  Skinny Drake gets up to his feet. He looks weak, but he’s holding on. “I’m going to find us a car or something. We still gotta get out of here.” He starts going through the pockets of the dead M-sons, looking for keys.

  “Gordo!” I yell again.

  “He’s gone. I heard them. Your earpiece fell out.”

  I grab my ear. He’s right, it’s gone.

  “Go get her,” he tells me again, this time with a shove.

  With my gun and my bat in hand I run up the stairs. This is the moment I wanted before we started this thing. So why am I terrified?

  As I round the corner upstairs I see Skinny Drake head move toward the back of the house, to what looks like a garage. I think about the layout Gordo and the Nastys went over earlier today. The office is just off the stairs.

  I can’t believe those assholes bailed on us.

  I fling open the door to the office.

  I’m met with a spray of relentless gunfire.

  I drop to the floor as a stream of lead whizzes overhead. Across the office, Mama McCluskey is standing behind a large desk wielding an assault rifle like it’s a flamethrower. Ripping fire in every direction. She’s blasting in a wild, uncontrolled motion, spraying the room as if watering a lawn. Chunks of her home fall down, around and all over me. Dust fills the air. She’s screaming at me again, like she did before. Again with that hate-language she was spewing at the condo. Half-English and half-devil talk. Screaming in tongues, all while laying down firepower like a demon.

  Through the chaos, under the desk I can make out a foot.

  Her foot.

  That bitch is in heels. Does she sleep in them?

  I imagined this showdown with her on the way over. We’d say witty shit back and forth. Cut-downs and so on. Then this death match would end with me using a kill shot to the forehead as an exclamation point on my final zinger.

  That’s not going to happen.

  No talk.

  That bitch just needs to die.

  I don’t hesitate. I open fire on her fancy-ass heels.

  I hear her body flop. There’s a thump to the floor, then her screaming starts. That I can make out. It’s pain and it’s in English. I get up fast, running full force toward the desk. Skidding ass-first across the massive oak desktop, I hit the other side with my bat and gun in hand.

  Mama McCluskey springs up, jams a letter opener deep into my gun-holding shoulder. She twists it, grinding her teeth in a frozen rage-fueled smile. I drop my gun, fighting to bring my bat around to her skull. She blocks the death-swing with one arm, digging her free thumb into the wound her son gave me with the shard. Pain fires up through my body. A new level of pain. A level higher than the last one only mere moments ago.

  I try to headbutt her.

  She pivots an inch left, enough to avoid.

  White globs are coming on fast.

  I fight them. Need to stay here.

  Glancing down, I see the bloody, mangled mess of what’s left of her foot. I kick it. She chomps her teeth down, spit dripping from her lips. She digs harder into my arm with her thumb, burrowing into my skin. She’s near her knuckle. I scream louder. Harder. I kick the shit out of her fucked-up foot over and over and over again.

  Mama McCluskey folds to her knees. The pain beat her down. Shut her down. Her face has gone from blood-red to sheet-white in the blink of an eye. Unable to find her breath, her eyes dance, her marble-mouth unable to find any words. Only a grunt mixed with a whimper of sorts. For a fraction of an instant I see fear in those eyes.

  I smile. I slap her.

  I kick her in the chest putting her down on the ground.

  White globs are winning. I’m a second from checking out.

  I fight them back. I want to experience this. I’ve earned this moment, dammit. Do not take it from me.

  My moment of a lifetime.

  I stand over her with my bat over my head. I can almost feel my bat caving in her skull. This woman. What she’s taken from me. White globs have almost completely taken over my vision. Can feel myself peeling away from the here and now.

  “No!” I scream out. “Do not do this.”

  The white globs separate, parting like the Red Sea. I take in a deep breath and refocus my aim on her head. She’s defenseless, almost passed out from the high levels of pain she’s going through. She can’t even grunt or whimper now. Only offering spits of breath with coughs of blood.

  This woman.

  Mama McCluskey.

  All that she’s done to me. All that she’s taken from me. I so badly want to drive this bat into her head over and over again, but I…

  I can’t.

  Looking at her like this. Defenseless. Rendered a non-threat. I wish she’d spring up again, give me something to work with, but I can’t kill her in cold blood.

  Not like this.

  I can’t make that turn. I won’t become that person.

  I lower my bat and lean on the desk, starting to feel my body tingle and ache. My exhaustion and my own pain is taking hold. Looking down on the desk, near my hand, something catches my eye. There’s this crudely made blue vase of sorts sitting on the desk. Something made by a child.

  I’ve seen this before.

  I know this thing.

  Somewhere. I’ve seen it somewhere.

  My mind snaps in place.

  I made this.

  I’ve seen the picture. There’s a picture of me back at the house. I’m in kindergarten smiling big, my parents on either side of me smiling just as big.

  I pick up the vase, turning it around. The side reads, DADDY.

  Turning it over, the bottom has a name carved—TEDDY.

  These people stole this from the house that night. The McCluskeys took it during the home invasion and now they keep it here in their house.

  I was mistaken.

  I can make that turn.

  I grab my bat. White globs return.

  What happens, happens.

  I feel the bat rise up over my head and come down.

>   Over and over and over and over again.

  Chapter 59

  I forgot how quiet my parents’ house is at night.

  Out in the country, there are few manmade sounds to crowd out the silence. Crickets, sometimes cicadas, but no cars or sirens or helicopters buzzing overhead. A lot of time the only thing you hear is yourself breathing.

  Right now I’m listening to Skinny Drake snore like a son of a bitch.

  He’s out cold in the guest room. He’s still healing, but better. The covers are up to his chin, but I pull them up tighter. I keep checking on him like he’s a child, an infant. He is my younger brother, but he is nonetheless a grown-ass man and I’ve seen him do some fairly grown-up things. Some things no one his age, or any other, should ever have to do.

  I’m tired as hell, but sleep hasn’t taken a shine to me. It hasn’t as far back as I can remember, so I doubt sleep will start hanging out with me now.

  At the McCluskeys’ house, Skinny Drake pulled me out of the office and dumped me in a Cadillac he stole from their garage. He drove deep into the night and found a town with a late-night clinic that would look at us without asking a lot of questions. It was a 24-hour vet, to be exact, but they got us patched up good enough.

  Can’t believe he did it, considering how bad off he was with the gunshot and all. He’s a tough one. Might not look it, but he is.

  When I came out of my spell, that’s what Skinny Drake calls them, I was on the doc’s table with my arm bandaged up. It’s sad, but I’ve gotten so used to that state of being that I didn’t question any of it. We paid off the vet and his nice wife to keep quiet, then my brother and I took our asses on down the road. Skinny Drake drifted in and out most of the way, but we managed to torch the McCluskeys’ Caddy in an alley somewhere in Wyoming and bought a used car using cash.

  That was about a day ago. There are probably better choices than coming back to this house, but I don’t care. This is my home and this is where I’m staying.

  If trouble comes knocking, we’re ready to answer.

  I quietly close the door to Skinny Drake’s new room and move out into the dark living room. Only shards of moonlight cut through the room, lighting my way. Love the stillness. I think of firing up the laptop, but think better of it. Think I’d like to leave the silence alone.

  Let it breathe.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, I can’t help but think about how my life changed right here. Perhaps in this very spot. Not sure if it’s full circle or not, but if you start at the night Jonathan and Mama McCluskey came in here and then end with tonight, I’d say there’s a journey in there.

  A lot of changes.

  A lot of pain dished out.

  A lot of it on me, but I feel I dished out some of my own.

  The blue vase that I made as child sits on the counter. I don’t remember making it, but it’s clear I did. Can’t understand the psychology behind Jonathan and/or Mama McCluskey for taking it in the first place, but I have it now and it’s where it should be. Never should have left. Picking it up I let my fingers feel the rough edges, the imperfections, the beauty that can only come from a child.

  White blobs form.

  I fight it, but this feels different. Not like the other times. The times triggered by rage or fear or whatever-the-hell does it to me. Setting down the vase, I crumble to the floor. Balled up with my knees pulled to my chest. My mind is speeding, fumbling through something ever so faint and grainy.

  Something distant.

  Holy shit.

  A memory.

  That was it. I had a memory from childhood.

  Only a flash, a sliver, but it robbed the air straight from my lungs.

  My busted mind just gave me a gift. I saw myself pulling that blue vase from my backpack and handing it to my mother. The smile on her face. The look in her eyes. It was only a fraction of a memory, but oh my God there was a memory. This is not something I compiled from evidence or constructed from imagination. No, this is different. The feeling is so much different.

  The tears pour down my face.

  My body shakes.

  I can’t help but smile.

  Not going to overthink it. For now, I’m just so damn happy to have it. As the smile grows I can taste the salt from my tears. Glancing back to the vase, I can’t help but think what else is out there that can unlock my head. Does this house hold the key for me?

  For my memory?

  I get up and pour myself a glass of wine—it’s this cheap red something they had at the store—then pick up a gun as I step outside as quietly as I can. Taking a seat on the swing, I sip my wine and watch the night. The stars. The clouds are rolling at a pretty good clip, covering and clearing the moon as if they were a background on a school stage play.

  Mama McCluskey and her boys are dead, but I’ll probably never completely relax. No idea where Gordo and the Nastys are. One of the reasons I brought a gun out here with me. The wine is helping me come down some. Feel my shoulders coming down too. A therapist told me once that when I feel anxious or uncertain about things, I should take inventory of the good things I have and not what I don’t. A true “glass half-full” exercise. Always marked that down as bullshit, but I’m open to new ideas at the moment. So, okay…

  I’m alive.

  I have a brother.

  Got a butt-load of money now.

  Got the house.

  I may not remember shit, but I know what happened to me and as of a few minutes ago, I have hope that my head can unlock more.

  All things considered, not bad, kid. Not bad at all. I sip my wine and rock back and forth in the swing. A cool night breeze blows gently across my face. My eyes are getting heavy. Surprisingly heavy. I feel a fade washing over me. This feels like sleep, but I’ve haven’t slept in—I can’t remember when was the last time. I’ve blacked out, but not real, honest-to-God sleep.

  I don’t want to let my shock snap me out of this, so I try to forget that I haven’t slept since I was eighteen. Not easy, but I want to try. I close my eyes and let the warm wave wash over me. Is that “glass half-full” shit working? Is it the combo of the wine, the swing and the night air? Who cares? Can’t help but think the closure of my situation can’t hurt. Closing the door on your past can be relaxing in and of itself, I suppose.

  I set my wine glass down on the porch.

  I shut my eyes as I lie down on the swing.

  This little piggy came home.

  Chapter 60

  I’m jolted awake.

  It’s not morning, not quite, but I can make out the beginning of light along the horizon, with shades of purple and orange peeking through. No idea how long I was out, but I was asleep. No question. That was actual sleep. I laugh to myself. I just slept, for Christ’s sake.

  “Something funny, Teddy?”

  I fire straight up in the swing, fighting to get my eyes right.

  I know that voice.

  My eyes come into focus.

  Jonathan is sitting in a wheelchair in front of the porch, along with two big boys. One of them I remember: Gordo’s driver, Bear Boy. I grab my gun off the swing, whipping it around with dead aim on Jonathan. His boys pull guns on me. Even Bear Boy. Thought we were tight.

  “Teddy, we need to talk,” Jonathan says.

  “Not sure we do.”

  “Can you put that down?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Haven’t you had enough gunplay? I heard about the house.”

  “Always room for a little more.”

  Jonathan’s eyes bore through me. Hard to get a read on the emotion. Rather not know. He looks better than when I last saw him. Not great, but better than the near-death man I left in NYC. If he in any way refers to me as his daughter I’m going to put a bullet in his brain. His boys can wipe me off the face of the Earth. I don’t care, but I swear to God and all that is holy in this world I will kill this fucking asshole if the word daughter spills out of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Teddy. For all
of this. There’s a lot to unpack.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry about your wife and, oh yeah, your sons.”

  “Sorry about your mom.”

  I cock my gun. His boys do the same.

  Silence.

  The wind blows.

  The leaves rustle in the trees.

  “What the hell?” Skinny Drake steps out from the house with his arm hanging in a sling made for a dog.

  One of Jonathan’s men puts a gun on my brother.

  “Stop,” Jonathan says. “We can take turns slapping each other around or we can talk like adults. There are some things you both need to know.”

  Skinny Drake joins me on the swing. Jonathan motions for his boys to lower their guns. He eyes me, wanting me to do the same. I lower mine, but keep it ready to rock.

  “Good. This is progress. Now. Let’s talk about Gordon. Gordo you call him.”

  “You mean Uncle Gordo? You failed to outline the family tree when we visited you in New York.”

  “His name isn’t Gordon, or Gordo for that matter.”

  I stop cold.

  “Not your uncle either. His name is Marcus. He’s my son, and also one of the final surviving trust beneficiaries. Just like you two.”

  I look to Skinny Drake. He closes his eyes, shaking his head.

  Jonathan lights up a cigar. “Like I said before… there’s a lot to unpack.”

  THE END

  COMING SOON

  Steady Teddy returns in STEADY MADNESS

  Early 2018

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