Suspenseful Tales (2011)

by Brandon Massey

  Someone tapped on Michael's window.

  Michael stifled a scream. He'd been so entranced with thoughts of what was happening up there that he hadn't seen anyone approach.

  A lean, rangy black man waited beside the jeep. Dressed in a dark suit with a loosely knotted tie, the guy smoked a cigarette, puffing wispy rings into the night air. In his other hand, he held a brown paper back that, in the timeless manner of drunks, undoubtedly concealed a flask of whisky.

  But his black, beady eyes focused intently on Michael.

  Michael didn't lower the window. Although it was dark outdoors and he couldn't see every detail of the guy's face, he knew this man— people around town called him "Peanut." Peanut, a veteran gambler, had lost a few grand to Michael, back in the day.

  Peanut bent and peered closer.

  "Don't I know you, brother?" He spoke in a raspy, smoker's voice.

  "Uh, no. I don't think so. I'm not from here."

  "I never forget a man's eyes." Rising, Peanut took a swig of whisky. "You got eyes just like a brother I used to know. Name was Mike B."

  After faking his death, Michael had drastically changed his appearance. He'd lost thirty pounds. (It was easy to lose weight when your life, literally, depended on it.) He'd grown a goatee, wearing facial hair for the first time. He wore contact lenses, instead of glasses. He'd cut his hair short, ditching the wild, Michael Evans from Good Times Afro. He didn't look like the same person.

  But he knew—and Peanut knew—that you never forgot someone you played cards with; especially if you'd lost money to the man. You remembered the eyes. The eyes never changed.

  Big Daddy Jay's eyes haunted Michael's dreams.

  "You've mistaken me for someone else," Michael said. He slid his hand to the gearshift. It was time to get out of here.

  Michael's gaze flicked across the upper window of the building. A tall, broad silhouette had moved to the glass.

  Michael's heartbeat accelerated.

  "No, I ain't mistaken you for someone else," Peanut said. A smile twisted his face, and it registered with Michael that something was wrong with Peanut's face; it seemed bloodless, like dead skin.

  "Naw," Peanut continued. "You know better, Mike B." Michael couldn't afford to stay around here another minute. He slammed the gears into Drive. He mashed the gas pedal and ripped across the gravel.

  Behind him, Peanut shouted: "Wait till Big Daddy finds out!" Big Daddy Jay's dead, Michael thought, as cold sweat ran down his back.

  But as he drove back to the hotel, he couldn't get the image of that tall, broad silhouette out of his mind.

  * * *

  Kisha was awake, watching Jay Leno, when Michael returned to the hotel room.

  "Where was you?" She sat up. "I almost fell asleep waiting on your butt."

  "I wanted to do a little sightseeing." "This late?"

  He stood at the foot of the king-size bed. Kisha had pulled up the bed sheets to cover herself. He yanked the sheets away; she was nude underneath, and the sight of her voluptuous body sent desire crackling through his muscles.

  "I need you," he said. "Badly."

  "Then come on, baby. I been waiting."

  He stripped out of his clothes and climbed onto the bed.

  He made love to Kisha with a fierce—almost desperate-energy that he'd never known. Propped on his arms above her, thrusting wildly, he climaxed, shouting and sweating.

  Kisha pulled him down on top of her. She massaged his back.

  "Feel better now?" she asked.

  "Yeah." His heart still pounded from the aftereffects of the orgasm.

  "Something's been heavy on your mind. I see right through you, you know."

  He paused. "It'll be okay."

  He made the statement to calm Kisha, but he found that he felt more composed, too. More clear-headed. He saw his ridiculous fears that Big Daddy Jay had returned as just that—ridiculous. That shadow he'd spotted in the window had to have been someone else.

  Wait till Big Daddy finds out!

  And Peanut, his pallor showing that he was clearly ill, had been drunk and talking nonsense. Even when Michael had known him, back in the day, the guy had been prone to swigging whisky like an athlete drinking Gatorade. He'd been only trying to scare Michael with his drunken gibberish.

  Big Daddy Jay was dead. For real.

  Kisha squeezed his butt, drawing his attention. "Will you take me to Chi-town tomorrow, Ricky?"

  How could he turn down a woman who'd just given him a brain- busting orgasm? Besides, he'd like to hang out in Chicago, too. Get away from his shitty hometown and all its ghosts.

  "Sure," he said, "that'll be cool."

  "I wanna see Navy Pier. And go shopping on Minnesota Avenue."

  "That's Michigan Avenue." He yawned. "And yeah, we can check out Navy Pier, too."

  "Can I get one of them Chicago-style hot dogs? And some deep- dish pizza?"

  "That's a lotta eating, girl . . . don't want you to get too wide . . ."

  Kisha continued to prattle on about places she wanted to see, things she wanted to do, food she wanted to eat. Michael eventually tuned her out. He fell asleep.

  He awoke at seven-fifteen, according to the digital clock on the nightstand. Kisha lay beside him, slumbering quietly.

  He rose out of bed and padded to the bathroom to take a piss. And stopped short of the doorway.

  Something lay on the carpet, near the front door, as if it had been slipped underneath.

  A playing card. The red back faced up.

  Coldness drenched him. He knew what he was going to see before he looked; his gut tightened with a certain, terrible knowledge. Nevertheless, he bent and flipped the card over. It was a Joker.

  That was the moment when he realized two things, irrefutably.

  Big Daddy Jay was alive.

  And he was planning to kill Michael.

  Michael carried the card into the bathroom. He laid it near the sink. As he did his business at the toilet, his gaze remained riveted to the card. The Joker's grinning face mocked him.

  The wild card had a special meaning for Big Daddy Jay. Michael had once sat in on a poker game with Big Daddy Jay, Peanut, and a handful of other regulars. Peanut, drunk as usual, made a comment that Big Daddy didn't appreciate—something about the man's daughter and how she was so cute. Big Daddy, who had warned all of them about so much as looking at his daughter, cocked his head and asked Peanut, "I told you once before never to talk about my daughter, Peanut. You think I'm a joker?"

  Suddenly quite sober, Peanut began to apologize, stuttering like a schoolboy.

  But it was too late. Big Daddy whacked him upside the head with his pearl-handled cane. Peanut had required seventeen stitches to repair the gash.

  You think I'm a joker?

  Big Daddy Jay asked that question only when he was being deadly serious.

  The card was a clear message: he knew Michael was alive, and he most assuredly was not joking with him about getting the money Michael owed him from eight years ago—which, knowing how Big Daddy operated, would include substantial interest.

  Michael could never pay him. He owed the man a hundred thousand dollars. He hadn't been able to pay it then, and he sure as hell couldn't pay it now.

  He never should have come back home. Big Daddy Jay was crafty, probably knew that faking his own death would flush out a lot of his debtors, like a tomcat retiring to the shadows to fool the mice into coming out to play. Michael had fallen right into the trap.

  Holding the card, he went to the bed. Kisha continued to sleep.

  I can run, he thought. Just clear out of Atlanta and start over again somewhere else, with a new name, a new look.

  He looked at Kisha. He thought about the decent life he was building with her. He'd kept his nose clean for eight years, had left the old life behind. He'd become a stable, tax-paying citizen.

  He didn't want to give that up. He didn't want to run. He'd been running from his past for eight years.

  A
nyway, now that Big Daddy Jay knew he was alive, running was not a viable option. Big Daddy Jay had connections everywhere. He would find him.

  Michael had to settle this business once and for all. Like a man.

  He threw on a t-shirt and jeans and went to the jeep. He stored a small leather case in the cargo hold. He carried it back inside the hotel, opened it.

  It contained a loaded nine-millimeter pistol, and ammunition.

  Some things changed. But some things remained the same.

  Kisha awoke, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Why you up so early, baby?"

  He quickly closed the case.

  "I wanted to get a jump on our day in the city," he said. "Wake up, lazy girl."

  She giggled, and tossed a pillow at him.

  He laughed, but he was already thinking about paying a visit to Big Daddy Jay's store later that night.

  * * *

  At a quarter to nine that evening, Michael pushed through the front door of Jay's Meats & Foods. He wore a dark windbreaker that concealed his gun.

  He found Tommy Boy behind the counter, running the store alone. Tommy Boy, with the same tall, broad-shouldered build as his father, had to be in his early thirties by now. But he looked exactly as Michael remembered, as if he hadn't aged a day. Michael guessed that was why they called him Tommy Boy—he had the face of an ageless kid.

  Tommy Boy didn't appear to recognize Michael.

  "Need any help, mister?" Tommy Boy asked. "We're closing in fifteen minutes, by the way."

  Michael placed his hands on the counter, facing the guy directly. "You recognize me?"

  "Naw, don't think so." Tommy Boy frowned, scratched his head.

  "Cut the bullshit," Michael said. "I'm Mike B. I know Peanut told the whole world that he saw me in the back last night."

  "Mike B.?" His eyes grew large. "But you died—"

  "Give it up, man. Or does Big Daddy really keep you in the dark like that?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about. My daddy passed. And Peanut--"

  "Big Daddy isn't dead, and you know it." Michael flung the Joker card onto the counter. "He left this in my hotel room this morning."

  Tommy Boy shook his head wildly. "I'm telling you, my daddy died a few weeks ago!"

  "He faked his death," Michael said. "I know all about how to do that, man. He faked his death and now he's settling debts."

  "You're crazy," Tommy Boy said. He came around the counter. "You say you saw Peanut? Well, he passed like five or six months ago, had lung cancer or something. You're imagining shit."

  "I saw him out back last night," Michael said. "There were a bunch of cars parked back there—guys playing cards upstairs."

  "No one's been upstairs since daddy passed," Tommy Boy said. "Now unless you're gonna buy something, it's time for you to leave."

  Michael unveiled his gun.

  "Hold on, now." Tommy Boy stuck his hands in the air. He laughed nervously. "You don't need that."

  "Big Daddy put you up to this, didn't he?" Michael said. "Trying to screw with my mind. Well, fuck that." Michael headed toward a door at the back of the store.

  Tommy Boy moved in front of him. "Where you going?"

  "Upstairs to talk to your daddy. Get outta the way."

  "Don't go up there! For... for your own good, I'm warning you."

  Tommy Boy's eyes were frightened, and his cinnamon brown complexion had paled.

  "Your daddy's scared the shit out of you, hasn't he?" Michael said. "Did he beat you when you were a kid? Maybe with that cane of his?"

  "If you were smart, you'd go home. Just get the hell out of here and go back to wherever you were living!"

  Michael hesitated. The way the kid behaved was beginning to unnerve him. He talked as though Big Daddy Jay was running a death camp or something.

  Tommy Boy touched his arm. "Go. Please."

  I might be making the wrong choice, but I'll be damned if I punk out again

  "I've gotta do this." Michael shrugged off Tommy Boy's hand. He motioned with the muzzle of the gun. "Step aside."

  Tommy Boy's shoulders drooped. Lowering his head, he moved out of the way.

  Michael opened the door. A dim yellow light at the top of the landing spilled down the stairwell, illuminating the steps in front of him.

  The Stairway to Hell, the old crew had called this flight. Over the years, Michael had ascended those steps hundreds of times on his way to card games, some of which he'd won, many of which he'd lost. Men like him had lost fortunes—and perhaps their lives—traversing these stairs.

  Drawing a breath, he checked that his gun was loaded and ready, and climbed the steps.

  The landing at the top of the stairs opened into a small seating area. A handful of rickety folding chairs leaned against the wall, like skeletal remains. On the far wall, a scarred door, as red as blood, led to the big man's office.

  Michael approached the door. This is it. The end of the line. He opened the door.

  Peanut stood on the threshold. He flashed a death's head grin at Michael. Then he hit him over the head.

  * * *

  Michael awoke sometime later to weak light and a throbbing headache.

  He was seated in a chair, in front of a large slab of mahogany that he remembered served as Big Daddy Jay's desk. Big Daddy wasn't there. But Peanut sat on the edge of the desk. He twirled Michael's gun around his fingers.

  In the light, Peanut looked something awful. He looked like Death—in the actual sense of the word.

  His dark brown skin had begun to turn purple. His eyes were yellow, rheumy, clouded. His head was bald, as was his habit, but swollen sores marred his scalp, as if his skull were going soft.

  When Peanut opened his mouth, a fetid stench came out that nearly knocked Michael unconscious again.

  You say you saw Peanut? Well, he passed like five or six months ago, had lung cancer or something. You're imagining shit. . .

  Michael was suddenly convinced that he was dreaming, or imagining shit, as Tommy Boy had said. Dead men didn't walk.

  "I tole Big Daddy you was back," Peanut said.

  And dead men didn't talk, either.

  Peanut took a swig of whisky from the flask in the wrinkled paper bag. Then he coughed—violent spasms that racked his withered body.

  Peanut wiped his mouth. "You knew he was gonna get you, didn't you? Old boy got me, too, man. Big Daddy ain't about to let you get away without paying him his money."

  "Tommy Boy said you were dead," Michael said.

  Peanut grinned, exposing a row of blackened, crumbling teeth.

  "Still had to pay my debts," Peanut said. "Dying don't clean the slate, not for Big Daddy Jay, not for the man he work for."

  "You know who Big Daddy works for?"

  Michael was surprised that he had the clarity of mind to ask, to follow a logical line of questioning. But he'd just asked Peanut one of those questions that had floated around Big Daddy Jay for decades. In spite of his influence and the fear he inspired, Big Daddy supposedly was the front man for someone far more frightening-and even more mysterious. But no one had ever seen this individual, spoken to him, or even learned his name. Amongst the hustlers and gamblers in town, the mystery man had taken on an air of myth, like an urban legend.

  Twirling the gun, Peanut only smiled. "If I knew, think I'd tell you?"

  "Where's Big Daddy Jay?"

  Michael heard a heavy footstep behind him. Then a hollow clop, like a cane striking a floorboard.

  Peanut's smile fell away. He straightened.

  Michael sat ramrod straight in the chair.

  The dragging footsteps and clopping cane grew closer—and so did a noxious smell. Michael squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to believe this was happening.

  Dead men don't walk, dead men don't walk, dead men don't walk. .

  The walking noises ended behind the desk.

  "You owe Big Daddy Jay a lotta money, son," a familiar, guttural voice said. "Think y
ou fooled me pulling off that little suicide?"

  Michael opened his eyes.

  Big Daddy Jay sat in his old leather chair. As dead looking as a corpse that had been in the grave for a few weeks. Milky eyes. Bloated, greenish-blue skin. Fingers like fat, spoiled sausages.

  Big Daddy Jay leaned back in the chair, one fat hand massaging the pearl-handled cane.

  "You think I'm a joker?" Big Daddy Jay asked. "That what you think?"

  I think you're a dead man who can't be here talking to me.

  Michael licked his dry lips. "I ... I don't know what to say. I can't pay you. I don't have all the money."

  "Should've thought about that before you went all in at the table," Big Daddy Jay said. He belched, and a stench steamed forth, making Michael's stomach turn.

  "I can't pay you. So I guess you'll just have to kill me."

  Peanut started to chuckle. So did Big Daddy Jay, and he was not a man prone to laughter.

  "Why would we want to kill you, son?" Big Daddy Jay said. "When we can own your soul forever?"

  His words echoed in Michael's mind. He looked at Peanut, raised from the dead and looking the worse for it. Peanut, who'd always drank too much and struggled to cover his bets. Peanut, who, drowning in debts, most likely had signed over his soul to Big Daddy Jay and his enigmatic, silent partner.

  "That's right," Big Daddy Jay said, reading his thoughts. "Just like Peanut."

  Peanut shrugged. He twirled the gun on his finger.

  Michael leapt out of the chair and wrested the gun out of Peanut's hand. He must have pulled too hard, because Peanut's arm came off with a soft, squishy sound. Peanut wailed as his arm plopped to the floor.

  His gut churning, Michael stepped away from the desk. He aimed the gun at Big Daddy Jay.

  Big Daddy Jay grinned, unconcerned.

  Michael shot him in the head.

  Dark blood drained like water from the headshot, and Big Daddy Jay's head snapped backward. Then his head bounced forward, as if attached to a coiled spring. He smiled at Michael.

  "I ain't no joker," he said. "You ain't getting away this time."