Kim gives me a smile that is taken away by the jokes of Ron. “Why are you so chipper?” says Ron. “We’re in imagination land right now. Please continue, my good man.”
“Steve, your job will to make money, and business skills are very valuable. You will be in lower Manhattan, and you will work as a personal assistant for a highly respected stockbroker named Arthur McColluck. He has an insatiable appetite for fornication, even though he’s happily married to a very beautiful yet aging and naive woman. His infidelity and your ability to get things that people want will help you obtain insider tracks on stock exchanges, data transfers, and account transactions. Treat him like royalty, answer to his every beckoning, feed his sins, and everything will be yours. Your code name will be Mako.”
Steve sits back in his seat with a smirk on his face, unbothered by the importance of my tone. I then look at Ron.
“Uh-oh, it’s my turn to be tickled,” Ron says, rubbing his hands together.
“Ron, your competitive nature and thrill of the hunt along with your athleticism and silver tongue are the most essential set of skills among the four of us. Your code name will be Hammerhead.”
“Ha!” Ron says to Steve with a smile on his face. “I’m a hammerhead and you’re a stupid mako shark. I bet my make-believe job will be better than yours, too.”
“You, my friend, will be a librarian.”
The guys laugh again.
“Wait, a librarian?” Ron says, standing up and throwing a fit, pointing as he speaks. “He’s a police officer in Vegas. He’s going to be in Manhattan, and I’m a librarian? Where exactly will this librarian be? It better be in Cancun,” he says, folding his arms.
“It’s in Colorado,” I reply in a sympathetic tone.
“Colorado? Unbelievable. And how athletic does a librarian have to be? What will I be doing, juggling books and leaping from shelf to shelf? Even though this entire meeting is the most massive prank I’ve ever been a part of, being called a librarian is a huge punch in the balls. This isn’t even funny anymore, man.”
“You’ll be a librarian by day, but it will be justified, as you will be an agent collecting information by night—a thief, a spy, and a technician. There are important military bases in Colorado, and you, sir, will need to infiltrate a base that has data transfer equipment. That base is called NORAD.
“Finally, we’ll need someone who will back us financially through this mission and who has a special high-priority classification, which we will need to get into those banks. Someone who actually knows a banker.”
“Okay great,” George says. “That must be me, then. But who is the other high-priority person you’re talking about? I don’t know any important people.”
Four knocks sound on the door. “Come in,” I yell.
“Who in the hell else have you invited to this circus, Santa Claus?” Ron says.
Then, out of the darkness, high heels, stockings, a skirt, and a blazer appear. The guys are now at a panic.
“Mrs. Biel, I swear I didn’t want to ditch. This wasn’t my idea,” George cowardly screams. “It was all Dwight’s fault. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to this idiot.”
She stands there silently with the scowl she always wears on her face, looking at the five of us like a warden counting inmates at chow, taking relaxed steps toward where I’m standing. She then stops in front of me and hugs me. I take her in my arms and kiss her gently on the lips.
The room falls so silent that I can hear the mice scrambling about the room. “Hold on,” Ron says, stating each word with a pause and a finger-point. “What, the hell, was, that? Wait, do that again.”
“D, you’ve been banging Mrs. Biel?” says Steve.
“D?” says Kim.
“Wait till I tell this story. No one will believe me,” George says.
“George, do you know a kid by the name of David?” I ask.
“David?” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, David. Yeah, I’ve seen him from time to time. But I don’t know him.”
“Well, just asking. He’s a good friend of mine, and he told me he was having some trouble. Just wanted to know if you knew anything about it, that’s all. So, George,” I say, changing my tone, “you have that money that you owe me?”
“Money? Oh, yeah, I don’t have it. I’m dry.” George shrugs, then pats his pockets.
“Remember what I said the next time I asked and you didn’t have it?”
“Yeah, I remember,” he says, laughing. “You said that you would kill me.”
I laugh with him. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
A shade was pulled over my eyes, and when the darkness subsided and the dim light that filled the room came back to me, my finger was still squeezing the trigger. Click-Click-Click. The gun’s hammer was falling on the backs of spent shells as the cylinder turned. All I saw was George laying there, face up, with his eyes open and his face frozen in a state of shock. The gun was smoking and pointing at his lifeless, twitching body, lying in a growing pool of blood. Everyone else in the room was holding their breath as they looked down at him, then slowly they looked at me. Breathing deeply, I attempted to swallow the massive lump in my throat, but my mouth was dry and my tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of my mouth. There was no more laughing, no more jokes. The doubt and immaturity that filled my friends’ eyes was quickly drained away and then replaced with fear and respect. Everything that I had told them before I drew down on George—before I pulled the trigger—they now believed.
“He—he’s dead,” Steve says as I lower the gun.
“Oh my God, Dwight. What have you done?” Mrs. Biel says with her hands over her mouth.
What they didn’t know, what George didn’t know, was that I’d been planning this for two years. Contemplating, measuring, and plotting for this very moment. I just didn’t know if I had it in me to pull the trigger.
Old Man Bill was right. After it was over, I felt nothing. No remorse, no sorrow. Just nothing.
“I know exactly what I did,” I say, putting the gun away in the small of my back, feeling the hot muzzle bite into my skin. “His death gives birth to our new lives. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
I tell them about our alibi, who’s going to take the fall, and what to do for the rest of the school year. Something else died along with George in that pepper mill. I killed despair in the minds of my friends. They now thought that something else was possible other than what their lives were at this moment. After I saw the body lying there, I felt nothing. It had felt as if this were not my first time killing someone, even though it was, and I felt that it wouldn’t be my last.
The next morning as we’re getting onto the bus, we see the police cars outside and officers talking to the staff. Things are going as planned. They haven’t found the body yet, but the word is out that George is missing. Even at school, there were police officers talking with teachers and students about the disappearance of George.
“Young man,” an officer says, holding up a photo, “have you seen this kid recently?”
“I saw him at school yesterday at lunchtime, but after that, no,” I answer.
“Well, keep an eye out and notify any of your teachers if you do,” he says.
I meet the guys at lunch and I reassure them that everything is going to be okay. I can feel their tension and paranoia as we eat. Ron was unusually quiet, and Steve didn’t look like himself, constantly fidgeting with his plastic fork. Kim was as calm as he’d ever been. I tell them to stick with what was said yesterday, that everything will blow over, and that nothing will happen to us. Of course, I wasn’t 100 percent sure that was true.
That night I lay in my bed, still weary from what had transpired from the past few days. But as soon as my eyes get heavy, they are pried open by a flicker of red and blue lights shining through my window.
I take a look and see three police cars poking out from the corner of the building across from the dorms. I hear doors closing and then a thunderous roar of boo
ts going up the dorm stairs and up the hall, coming our way. My eyes are wide open, unwavering from the gaze at the door as I clench my bedsheets. The boots slow down, and I can see shadows cross underneath the small bit of light that crawls through the bottom doorjamb.
“Is this the room, sir?” a man’s voice behind my door says.
“Yeah, this is it. What’s this all about, anyway?” the familiar voice of Joppy says. Are they coming for Kim and me? My heart starts thumping so hard I think my ribs are going to crack.
Boom-boom-boom! “Police!” It’s the door next to us. I exhale and smile. Our worries are over.
The next day at school, I inform the guys that they have taken the two brothers of the Dead End to jail. They probably got the cousins last night, too.
The pepper mill wasn’t just a random place; it was one of the Dead End’s hideouts. I knew it, law enforcement knew it, George knew it, but the naïve four people who were my friends and my lover did not know it. After I shot George, I planted the gun in the room of the brothers that night, right after supper, using the key that I swiped from Joppy. I don’t know why I was paranoid. Maybe because I thought I may have made some mistakes in my scheme or overlooked a detail and that those officers weren’t officers at all, but angels coming to punish me for my sins or demons coming to thank me.
The dominoes quickly began to fall each week after that. I had David tell the police about the two security guards and the priest who were raping him. The guards and the priest were detained, and the Rose was put under review by the city. Things also started to improve, like our food selection, supplies for school, sanitary and living conditions, and even Steve’s grades.
Graduation day
The few dozen or so students who have met the criteria to earn a high school diploma are in crimson robes and hats. Their parents are in the small crowd, taking pictures and waving. The only family we had was each other. No smiles here, just relief.
After the ceremonies, the guys, Mrs. Biel, and I head back inside Shady Oaks to her room while the other kids go out for lunch with their families. It’s been a long road for all of us, some longer than others. We go through the basics again of what’s to happen in the next few days. We all will be shipped to basic training. I had Father Mire pull some strings to get all of us in the same camp. Freedom—I never knew the day would come, but it’s here. Almost feels surreal. I can remember the first day I stepped foot in this place.
I’ll definitely miss Bill, Mire, and especially Lara.
The guys left, and Lara and I got to spend a few moments together that evening before I returned to the Rose. I guess it would be the last detention for a while.
Morning came too fast. Kim and Steve are waiting downstairs in the yard of the Rose with knapsacks and a few bags of all their belongings, ready to never come back to this place. I only have one bag, and it has the most important things: my father’s chessboard, his memoirs, underwear, a few bottles of magic pills, and the two family photos. The clothes on my back will do.
A white multi-passenger van pulls up in a plume of dust. A man in uniform steps out and takes a look at us. “I’m Officer Derff, here to take you to your destination. Welcome aboard, cadets,” he says with a salute. We all look at each other in confusion—to salute back or not—and then we do a subpar salute in courtesy.
A cab pulls up and out steps Ron. “You chaps didn’t think you were going to go on this goose chase without me, did you?” Ron smiles and holds up his bag, then walks up and shoves it into officer Derff’s chest. “Thank you. And don’t expect a tip,” he says to Derff.
Derff opens the doors, and we hop in the back with our belongings.
I never look back at the Rose from that point—too many harsh memories. I do enjoy the trees, though, and seeing that wrought iron gate open for the last time gives me a joyful feeling inside.
The military—
I’m not looking forward to it, but I see it as a paid vacation.
“Our trip will be over twelve hours, cadets, so hunker down,” Officer Derff says.
Good, just enough time for me to get some much-needed sleep.
Chapter 21: The Junket
“Rise and shine, you no good pieces of shit!”
I hear from a bullhorn.
“You sleeping sacks of mule vomit!” the drill sergeant yells. “You sleep when I tell you! You awake when I tell you! You piss, shit, and eat when I tell you! If you so much as fart without my command, I’ll rip your marble-size balls off and feed ‘em to pigeons on my lunch break! Do I make myself clear?”
The entire squadron of teenagers and young men replies with a thunderous synchronized roar: “Sir, yes sir!”
The Marines, or should I say contract killers. If I ever had a crazy idea, it would be to join the Marine Corps and follow some plans on some papers that I found in some dirt. Ron reminds me of how much of a bad idea this is every chance he gets.
“You know,” Ron says as we run our daily trail, “I hate the day that I met you. I should have just kicked you, Tinkle Man, and Kim’s ass on the court that day and have been done with you. But here we are three years later, puking our guts out every day from being run into the ground, and I wake up to you and your smug face each morning. Have I ever said thank you?”
We wake up at five thirty every day and get yelled at. We eat and shower on a stopwatch, and then get yelled at. We run miles, do push-ups, obstacle courses, combat training, and then get yelled at. We do something wrong, we get yelled at. We do something right, we get yelled at. Our first name is Dumb, and our last name is Ass. Even though it’s yelling and training until you pass out and lie in your own puke, it’s heaven for me: three meals a day, a clean bed, fresh air, and freedom.
Kim is fairing very well. I think he’s best suited for this heavy dose of discipline. Ron’s athleticism and competitive spirit are pulling him along nicely, for the most part. Steve, however, isn’t doing so great. I think his lack of order is screwing with his head, but he needs it. Steve has always been a rebel, always on his own time. It’s a wonder if he’s really our friend or he’s just in it for himself. He got out of line with the drill sergeant the second day we were here and got punched in the stomach so hard he pissed himself. Of course, Ron gave him shit for it, calling him the Tinkle Man. Every time he sees Steve he says something sarcastic like, “Steven Tinkleman here, reporting for duty.”
Me, I seem to be doing remarkably well, for some reason. I have top marks in all of the PT tests, even though I’ve never lifted a weight or trained in long-distance running a day in my life. Maybe those late-night runs when I escaped outside of the Rose were good for my physical condition.
Each day continues with something new added onto our plate of learning: new ways to kill, weapons training, anatomy, kinesiology, physics, and close quarters combat, or CQC.
After a few weeks of the basics, we finally receive our rifles. Sitting inside of a meeting hall on a few rows of bleachers, the drill sergeant explains.
“I bet half you pussies never even seen a gun before up close,” the drill sergeant says, panning the room with his arms folded. “Hell, I bet my wife’s faithfulness that none of you have ever fired a gun before, and if you did, it was in shithole backwoods and your target was a harmless squirrel, coon, or flock of ducks.”
Raising my hand just above my head, I get the sergeant’s attention.
Ron nudges me with his elbow. “What in the hell are you doing?” he whispers from the side of his mouth.
“So, Private Jones, you’ve fired a weapon before, huh?” the drill sergeant asks, looking down his nose at me, pissed that I had the audacity to interrupt his rant.
“Sir, yes sir. I have sir,” I say, standing at attention.
“Well, Private Jones, this is a standard Marine Corps issue M16 assault rifle that I’m holding in my hands. Whatever piece of shit boomstick you’ve fired wasn’t as complicated as this weapon system. What do you know about an M16, Private Jones?”
“Sir, t
he first M16 rifle was issued to Marines during the Vietnam War, where it encountered problems that our late model M16 has conquered. With forward assist, which helps lock a jammed receiver, the piston system has been redesigned for the new feature of three-round burst to eliminate inaccuracy, overheating, and lengthens the life of the barrel. It fires the NATO standard five-five-six by forty-five millimeter round at over two thousand feet per second with an effective range of eight hundred meters. Weighs six and a half pounds fully loaded and fires eight hundred to one thousand rounds per minute in full auto, sir!”
I salute and sit.
“Dick,” mumbles Ron under his breath.
The rest of the guys look at the drill sergeant to see if he would try and shoot me for what they thought was an upstaging. His scolding frown that he wore each day like the medals on his shirt slowly crept into a level-eye gaze, which is the equivalent of a smile for him.
“Private Jones,” he calmly says, increasing his volume with each word. “I promote you from the rank of dumb piece of shit, to piece of shit because you’re the only one here that’s not dumb! Everyone else here from now until the end of their days, when we are out on that field, in the mess hall, or in the bunks, will listen to you because everyone else is a dumb piece of shit! Do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes sir!” scream the guys.
As the weeks stack up, the guys’ bodies and minds got stronger. Our soft, boyish appearances began to harden. Our muscles turned to stone, and our bones turned to iron, with our hearts turning into cold sacks of beating flesh.
I write Biel, Bill, and Father Mire regularly. They give me nothing but encouragement. I play chess with Bill through my letters. I still haven’t beaten him yet. The old man is as sharp as a bayonet. When I receive letters from Lara, they smell of the perfume she wore on that terrific day, and it always reminds me of what happened—all two minutes of it. Why she loves me I may never understand, and, as of now, I don’t care. She’d do anything for me for whatever reason in her head, and that’s okay with me.
Chess Players: Atlantis and the Mockingbird Page 14
