Over Their Heads

by Eric Beetner

  Whatever. I knew Clyde had been into some stuff on the side. Rentals with no paperwork, all mysteriously taken care of by Clyde personally. Special cars, always big SUVs, reserved for weeks ahead of time. His business, not mine. The cars always came back. I always got paid.

  Shit, speaking of which, if Clyde was off at the hospital all day having a baby, I was starting to think this might not be payday.

  8

  SKEETER

  Maybe I was too hard on the dude. Nah, fuck him. Piece of shit minimum wage jockey. Aw, hell, I didn’t even know the guy. I needed to start to give people a little more room to be the douche bags they were and stop judging them so damn much. I did that thing where I talk to myself inside my head. I do it a lot. I said: Skeeter, you need to level out. ’Course a bump of the good stuff sure woulda helped.

  See? The government is trying to keep drugs illegal, when it really makes me a much better citizen. Probably woulda helped me find that goddamn car, too.

  Finally found it round the side baking in the hot sun. I thought Clyde knew enough to park it in the shade. I hated to think what would befall him if some of the shipment got cooked up in the ceiling.

  I stood looking at it, saying to myself: If that’s what they consider a dirty car, what the hell would they say about mine? Not that I saw her very much anymore with all these deliveries. Felt like I was back in jail and missin’ my baby. I shoulda started writing her letters. I wonder if my Honda can only read Japanese?

  Maybe after this one I could take a fuckin’ break. The big score, Corgan’s sidecar said. That brown-nosing shit eater, Dell. Corgan would never let anything slip about the size or value of a shipment, but his goddamn Siamese twin did. Dell was so far up Corgan’s ass sometimes, I bet he’d got the place furnished.

  Dell said this was a double load. Then he slipped and said triple a little later. Once again, pays to get a little powder up someone’s nose. Like a truth serum.

  I gotta say, for so many bricks of coke sewn into the roof lining of that Tahoe, it looked like a normal goddamn vehicle. I guess that’s what we paid this Clyde yahoo for. He was good at what he did, I’ll give him that. Or at least he had a good seamstress.

  But would it kill the guy to make an appearance at his own drug deal? I mean, I guess it wasn’t a deal, just a delivery, but I bet if Corgan showed up he’d have been here. But when it’s lowly ol’ Skeeter? I get the temporary help. The fuck did I expect from someone named Clyde.

  Serious though, this ceiling was smooth as a car right off the lot. Too smooth. I ran my hand along the top and I should have felt them, right? Thirty-three bricks. I’d feel them no matter how nice they stitched up the panels after they stuffed them up in there, right?

  This didn’t feel right. Fuck it. I was going in. Nothing a little buck knife wouldn’t fix. And if Corgan wanted to get uppity about a little slash in the roof, I’d explain how I was just making sure his merchandise was all where it was supposed to be.

  Which it wasn’t. I got foam, I got metal from the roof panel. I got no drugs.

  Oh, Clyde, Clyde, Clyde. Thought you could fool ol’ Skeeter, did ya?

  9

  BRENT

  The little dirt bag with the attitude and no sleeves came back. I silently wished for the fat-ass Griffin family.

  He pushed the door open so hard I thought the glass might break. Then he let out a bad Ricky Ricardo impression.

  “Loooooo-seee. You got some ’splain’ to do.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  He lifted his hand fast and flashed me a fixed blade knife in his hand. He looked like he might fling it my direction like we were in carnival. He pulled back his chapped lips and showed me his dark stained teeth, slammed the keys I’d just given him down with his non-knife wielding hand.

  “Where is it, motherfucker?”

  “The car? It’s . . . it’s . . .” I scrambled on the desk for the paperwork with the space number for the Tahoe. It should have been easy to find, being the only SUV left in the lot. And our lot wasn’t very big to begin with.

  “Not the car, asshole. What’s in the car. Or what’s not in the car.”

  In the car but not in the car? What?

  “I . . . I don’t know what—”

  He drove the knife down into the counter. The tip cut through the speckled green enamel top and a snowflake pattern of cracks flashed out around it. I pushed back in my rolling chair until it hit the wall behind me.

  “Look, shitbag, I get it. You ain’t the man in charge. I ain’t either. But we both got a job to do and neither one of us wants to get our boss on the phone, right?”

  My boss. Clyde. He officially doesn’t pay me enough for this kind of crap.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He leaned over the counter, stretching a skinny arm twined with tattoos at me and pointed over my shoulder. On his arm I picked out a topless lady in a hula skirt, a snake wrapped around a flaming skull and what I swear was a swastika, but that one looked homemade—or prison made probably.

  “That car out there is empty,” he said. “I need it to be full.”

  “The gas tank?”

  He rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Not the fucking gas tank.” He turned and spit on the floor. “You really don’t know your asshole from your elbow, do you?”

  “I sure as hell don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” When in doubt, be professional.

  The guy grabbed his knife, plucked it out of the counter, and stashed it away in whatever sheath he had up under his jean vest.

  “I really did have better fuckin’ things to do today, y’know?”

  Then he turned on his heels and went out the door, pulling a cell phone as he went. The Tahoe keys stared at me from the counter. I debated whether to call Clyde first or go look in the car and try to figure out what the hell wasn’t there that the guy wanted.

  10

  SKEETER

  I swear to fucking god you want something done right . . . I don’t even know what. I tell you one thing though—I was not about to take the fall for thirty-three missing bricks of coke. That was one of those times when I’m glad to just be a messenger boy. I hoped to fucking Christ on the cross that Corgan didn’t want to shoot the messenger.

  So, on second thought, I killed the phone call. Decided on calling this Clyde jackass. Let him deal with it. I’d put him on the phone with Corgan to break the news. Let Corgan kill that messenger. Let him kill the whole goddamn U.S. Postal Service, as long as it wasn’t me.

  I thought: So, okay, Clyde. Let’s hear what you’ve got to say for yourself.

  11

  CLYDE

  I got back to the house in a record ten minutes and heard Madeline screaming from the driveway. I looked up and down the street to see if anyone was listening, sort of embarrassed, sort of excited. My kid was about to be born. Madeline was going to give birth. It was a crazy feeling and for a second I didn’t know what to do. I stood there in the driveway and paced around a little bit before pulling it together and heading inside.

  My phone rang just as I opened the door and was about to let her know I was home.

  “Hello?”

  “What the fuck, asshole?” It was Skeeter. Madeline stood in the kitchen, her arms braced on the counter, blowing through a contraction.

  I lowered my voice as I ducked back into the foyer out of her line of sight. “Excuse me?” I said into the phone.

  “Where the fuck is the shit?”

  “Nice language, douche bag. It’s where I put it.” My chest felt heavy and I rested my hand on the wall.

  Madeline poked her head around the corner. “Get the goddamn bags,” she said through clenched teeth, “and hang up that phone.”

  I held up a finger and stepped back out on to the porch. Skeeter sounded like he needed some of what was in the Tahoe. “It’s not where you put it. I was just in the Tahoe and there’s nothing there, man. Nothing.”

  I hadn’
t checked the Tahoe for the shipment. Shit, shit, shit. It was possible I was robbed last night, in which case I would have a hell of a time putting in a police report. I could just see myself calling the cops and telling them to be on the lookout for a car with a ceiling full of dope. “Shit. Okay. Let me call Brent and see what’s going on.”

  “Brent? Is that the asshole running the shop right now?”

  Madeline appeared in the doorway, doubled over. “Get . . . off . . . the . . . goddamn . . . phone.”

  I held up my finger again and she looked like she wanted to bite it off. “Look. Let me call him,” I said to Skeeter. “There’s something wrong. Your car was ready to go.”

  “Yeah. You call him,” Skeeter said, and the line went dead.

  I leaned over and rested my hands on my knees while I tried to catch my breath. When I looked up, Madeline was gone from the doorway. I found her inside lugging her overnight case down the hallway. “You’re an asshole,” she said, pushing past me.

  I took the bag from her and held her elbow, guiding her to the car.

  I got her settled, strapped her in and sped to the hospital, which was five minutes away. I kept my cell clutched in my hand but didn’t dare dial. Madeline already wasn’t speaking to me and I didn’t know what the hell to say to her. All I could think of was that I was going to kill Brent if Corgan didn’t kill me first.

  I filled out the forms for admission, which we had actually pre-filled two weeks earlier in order to streamline the process. So much for that. A nurse helped Madeline into a wheelchair and whisked her away to labor and delivery. I watched them turn into a room down the hall and waved that I’d be right there. Madeline scowled at me.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed Brent. His voice was shaky when he picked up. “Hello?”

  “I’ll give you sixty seconds to tell me how bad you fucked things up, Brent, and then I’ll give you ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  12

  BRENT

  First I got attitude from the VIP dirt bag, then I got an earful from Clyde. It was starting to feel like my last day on the job; still to be determined if I left by my own volition or by getting fired. Clyde sure didn’t sound any too pleased with my performance.

  “Is this about the guy with the SUV?” I asked.

  “Of course it is, Brent. Skeeter’s fucking pissed.” Clyde did a lousy job of hiding his rage. Stress I’d gotten used to from Clyde, even a few outbursts of raised tone or short temper, but even in the changes I’d been witnessing for the last few months, this was over the top.

  “Where the fuck is the car?” he asked.

  “I gave it to him,” I said. “Wait? Did you say the guy’s name is Skeeter?”

  He ignored me. “Well, he’s saying it’s not the right one.”

  “Who is? Skeeter? Is that for real?”

  “He’s goddamn real, Brent. And you don’t want to piss him off.”

  Pissing people off seemed to be my specialty for the day. “What’s the damn difference. They’re both Tahoes.”

  He paused. “What do you mean, they’re both Tahoes?”

  I sighed. Not even nine a.m. and I’d had my fill of crappy attitude for the whole day, plus tomorrow. “I mean we had two on the lot, identical. One guy doesn’t like one, the other guy doesn’t like the other. I can’t win.”

  “What other guy, Brent?” Clyde sounded desperate, like if I was in the same room with him he’d have slapped me across the face. I’d definitely quit then.

  “The fat guy from Detroit with the family.”

  “You’re saying you gave him the Tahoe?”

  “I gave him a Tahoe.”

  Clyde muttered a few barely audible holy shit, holy shit, holy shits to himself. “That wasn’t just a Tahoe, Brent. That was the Tahoe. You’ve fucked me. Royally fucked me.”

  “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know?”

  Clyde exploded. “Because I told you!” He got control of his volume, sounded like he cupped a hand over his mouth and the phone. “I told you which car to give to the guy and you gave it away.”

  “What’s the damn difference?”

  “I can’t talk about this now. I need to make a phone call.”

  Clyde clicked off the line. I felt sorry, honestly sorry, if I’d screwed anything up, but to my knowledge I hadn’t. And I felt I hadn’t seen the last of Skeeter for the day.

  13

  CLYDE

  I hung up the phone and swallowed the dry lump of shit in my throat. I was fucked. There was no way around it. Brent had fucked everything up, including me. I pocketed my phone and went in to hold Madeline’s hand. She was sitting up on the bed, leaning forward, holding her knees and rocking. “The contractions are still about seven minutes apart,” the nurse said, “but they seem to be causing her some pain. I’m going to get her a shot.”

  She brushed past me on the way out the door and Madeline’s contraction seemed to end. She leaned back and gave me a weak smile. Her face softened a little. “Wow,” she said. “You look like hell. I guess you must be pretty freaked out by this.”

  I was freaked out by Brent not parking the Tahoe where he was supposed to. I was freaked out by Madeline’s mood swings. I was freaked out that I was probably never going to get to watch my kid grow up. I nodded. Yeah. I was pretty fucking freaked out. My collar was soaked with sweat. I didn’t dare take off my jacket. I was drenched. I sat down beside the bed and she held my hand and gave it a little pat. “It will be okay, hon. We’re gonna make great parents,” she said. I kissed her fingers and nodded again. I needed to talk to Corgan. “Sorry about all the yelling,” she said. I tried to give her a smile.

  The nurse came back with a syringe and bustled around the room like I wasn’t even there. She helped Madeline onto her side, talking the whole time. “Now, ideally we want to get an epidural in . . .”

  “That’d be great,” Madeline said.

  “But the anesthesiologist is on another case right now, so we’ll just have to wait.” She swabbed Madeline’s butt with an alcohol swab and gave her the injection. “So you’ll just have to muddle along like they did in the past with just an injection to help you with the pain.”

  Madeline rolled her eyes at me and rolled onto her back as another contraction took hold. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  “You,” the nurse snapped her fingers at me. “Sit here and help her through this. Just like the Lamaze classes.”

  The phone buzzed again and I knew it had to be Brent or Corgan. I sat beside Madeline and breathed with her, watching the door to the hallway with one eye and the nurse with the other. She continued to mill about the room for a minute before leaving. She straightened Madeline’s sheets, brought her a damp cloth for her head and checked to make sure she had fresh ice chips. “You should really be the one doing this,” she said, holding the cup of ice chips under my nose and shaking it. I wanted to answer, but there were too many other things to worry about besides an overbearing nurse who thought all men were shit. All I could think about was the phone in my pocket and Madeline squeezing the hell out of my hand.

  The nurse left, the contraction passed, and I pretended I felt faint, which wasn’t really too far from the truth. I said I needed the vending machine and walked out into the hallway. I bumped into a few people on my way to the waiting room. Once there, I pulled out my phone and punched Corgan’s number.

  “Clyde,” he said as he picked up, his voice cheerful. Like nothing at all was wrong. “Beautiful day.”

  I tried to push words out from between dry lips. “Yeah.”

  There was a long pause while I waited for him to tell me I was already dead. “I’ve had words with Skeeter,” he said. “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  I cleared my throat. “There’s been a mistake,” I said.

  He laughed softly. I’d never met him, but I’d heard about what he was capable of. “Skeeter told me. Where’s the car?”

  “I don’t know. Some family from
Detroit.”

  “You don’t know. Well, in that case, I suppose you better figure it out. If you have difficulty, I will be happy to provide you some motivation.”

  “Yessir.” I didn’t say anything else and neither did he. There was nothing more to say. I knew what would happen to me if I didn’t get the car back.

  14

  BRENT

  This time he did crack the glass. Nothing shattered or anything, but a fat crack ran up from the bottom to just below the push bar. Nearly broke the bell, too. That, plus the counter repair, made today a pretty expensive day for Clyde, I guess.

  More pressing for me, was the sleeveless dirt bag—Skeeter according to Clyde—crossing the lobby toward me again. No knife this time, which I took as a good sign.

  He slammed a hand over the keys, drew them back off the counter, staring at me the whole time.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. Damn, this guy was a regular font of pop culture clichés.

  I didn’t say a word as he went back out and turned toward the back where the Tahoe still sat. I guess Clyde talked him into keeping it. All I knew was that I was damn glad to see him go, and I felt like I was starting to get more of an idea about how weird Clyde got when certain days came around, certain cars needed to be matched with certain drivers. Why he got all nervous.

  It wasn’t about the baby. Clyde was into something. Something illegal. Something I didn’t want a damn thing to do with. Maybe I could go across to the airport and get a job as one of those guys with the orange glow sticks who guide the planes in. That could be fun.

  No sleeveless a-holes would come harass you on the tarmac of an airport. Not like out here where anyone can treat you like shit on the heel of their boot and you have to sit and take it because the customer is always—