Over Their Heads

by Eric Beetner

  I hoped he couldn’t see the sweat on my upper lip or my forehead. “So, they don’t want me to use our driveway, so could you just let me out over here?”

  “What happened?”

  I did not feel like shooting the breeze right then. I felt like changing my name and running for the border.

  “Disgruntled customer,” I said.

  He turned and looked at the destruction again. “Boy, I guess.”

  “Can you just lift the gate, Jed, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “What did you say to him that made him so mad?”

  My anxiety level spiked. I felt trapped and I honestly considered if the Infiniti could make it through the wooden gate without causing too much noise so I could skip Jed and just get the hell away from there. Jed was into drugs, herbal ones at least, so maybe he would understand that every second I sat talking to him was another second a car load of dope was speeding away in the roof of a fat man’s rental car, and if I didn’t get it back, Clyde would be dead and probably me too.

  Thinking it didn’t help my anxiety.

  “I don’t know, Jed. Just one of those assholes I guess. Seriously though, could you?”

  I motioned with my hand a raising the gate movement. He rotated on his spinning stool and he reminded me of an animatronic President you see at Monticello or whatever the hell George Washington’s place is called. Slow, deliberate and almost on the verge of human.

  “Sure man,” he said. His hand paused over the button to my freedom. “You okay? Like, you hurt or anything?”

  “I’m fine. Just want to get the hell out of here.” I tried appealing to his nature. “Go home, y’know, smoke a bowl.”

  A smile lifted the left side of his mouth, showing a few white teeth through the black nest of whiskers. “I hear you, man.”

  He set me free. I gunned the engine a little too much and let go a short chirp of tires, but nothing to alert the cops. I turned right, back up the street past all the better known, undamaged rental companies. I passed by a little Honda two-door and I swear I saw Skeeter behind the wheel.

  Great. Now I have PTSD and I’m seeing ghosts from my past traumas. Fantastic.

  18

  CLYDE

  Madeline had my knuckles smashed together, and I could feel my wedding ring digging into the skin of my fingers. Between the sweat on my head and the sweat on hers, it was hard to tell which one of us was in labor.

  The turbo-bitch nurse sauntered in to see how far along things were. “You look worse than your wife,” she said. “You step out while I check Madeline over. If you faint on my floor, you won’t be any good to anybody. I have plenty of legitimate patients to take care of.”

  She was moving me toward the door as she spoke, nudging me along with a gut that stuck out only slightly farther than her bosom. Her shoes squeaked loudly as she walked, pushing me along. I backed up, not wanting to argue with her. When Madeline cried out in pain, I froze, not wanting to abandon my wife, but wanting more than anything to call Brent and see if he had gotten hold of the guy who took the SUV. “Can’t she have an epidural or something?” I asked. “There’s got to be something you can do for her.”

  “Childbirth hurts, sir. We’re taking good care of her.” She had nudged me into the hallway and now stood with her bulk wedged in the doorway, blocking my view of Madeline. “The anesthesiologist is busy right now. Your wife is next on the list.”

  “Jesus Christ. You only have one anesthesiologist?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “We employ four, but only two do epidurals and they’re both busy. And I don’t like your tone.” She pushed the door closed.

  I stepped back into the hallway and swiped a hand over my face. Behind the door, the nurse’s muffled voice rasped and Madeline’s softer voice answered. I took a deep breath and headed to the bathroom. Other men stood in the hallway of the labor and delivery wing, mostly dads-to-be emerging from the locker room nervously waiting to be summoned back inside to watch their wives deliver. Two men in suits leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. I felt a little chill as I walked past them, but told myself it was nothing. The bathroom was empty and I moved into the stall farthest to the back to punch in Brent’s number.

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding irritated.

  “Where are you?”

  “Driving. Where are you?”

  Christ, he was gonna be dead when I saw him next. “Where are you driving, jackass?”

  “I don’t fucking know, Clyde. Guess I’m going to head to Williamsburg to try to find the fucking car you’ve got stuffed with drugs.”

  His voice rose on the last part of what he said and I could tell he was nervous. I swiped a hand down my face. Outside my stall, the bathroom door opened. I held my breath. Road noise from Brent’s end of the line whooshed in my ear. Footsteps crossed the bathroom tile and I could tell there were two pairs of wingtips headed my way.

  “You there, man? I’m going to Williamsburg. I figure that’s my best bet. The kids were asking about Busch Gardens.”

  “Shh,” I managed to breathe in the phone.

  “What the fuck, Clyde? Go fuck yourself.” He disconnected.

  I guess Brent had had enough of me for the time being. I’d call him back if I lived through the next few minutes. The steps drew nearer. One set of shoes entered the stall next to mine. The other set stood right outside my stall door, toes pointing my direction.

  “Come on out, Clyde McDowd,” the voice beside me said.

  19

  SEAN

  I found a Holiday Inn, just like the kids demanded. I pulled into the lot and looked for a place to park. In the backseat, Chad and Becky were arguing over whose butt was bigger, Beyonce’s or J. Lo’s. They had reached that level of shout that makes all fathers threaten to pull over. I wanted to shout out that no one’s ass was big when compared to the size of their mother’s, but that sort of comment is what makes a wife completely willing to testify against her husband in court.

  I could see it now, Yes, Judge. He stole all that money and I knew nothing about it. And do you know what he was doing with it? Taking us to see my parents. Cheap-ass bastard never even offered to take me out of the country.

  The judge would explain that this wasn’t the point, that the money was stolen and her husband had broken the law. Linda would say, I understand that, your honor, and she’d say it just like that, just like he was something she had stepped in on the sidewalk, I’m trying to give you insight into his character. The selfish bastard couldn’t even steal without being cheap about it.

  So I let the kids yell at each other about ass size and kept my mouth shut. I put the car in park, rolled down the windows and switched the car off.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Linda yelled over the kids.

  My head hurt, and I hadn’t stopped sweating for over an hour. I was fat, sure, but even a fat guy shouldn’t sweat this much. She had to suspect something, something other than my glands, which I had blamed since the age of fourteen. I wanted a shower. I wanted out of this car. I wanted her dead. I supposed I needed to tell her; I KNEW I needed to tell her. She might be less surprised when state troopers hauled me off in handcuffs. She might have a story prepared for the kids.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked. Actually, she yelled. Linda was what one would call a “yeller.”

  “I’m parking the fucking car,” I shouted back.

  20

  CLYDE

  I opened the stall door and found myself standing face to face with one of the suits. The second suit emerged from his stall. The outer door opened and a young dad-to-be poked his head in.

  “Beat it,” one of the suits said. The door shut and I was alone.

  Stall guy moved over toward the sink and the guy in front of me nudged me along after him. I found myself in front of the mirror, my junk pressed against the counter, one guy on either side of me. I looked at the three of us, me and them. One suit wore a pale blue tie, the other a pale purple tie. O
ther than that, they looked enough alike to make me wonder if they were brothers . . . or clones.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Blue Tie said.

  We moved through the door and out into the hallway.

  Blue Tie held my right arm and Purple Tie held my left. We were just a group of guys wandering through the maternity ward in no big hurry. Never mind that one of us was sweating. Or crying. Maybe I was doing both. I had no idea.

  Madeline’s nurse was at the nurse’s station as we passed, and she leaned over, resting on her meaty elbows as I walked by. She arched one eyebrow in a way that said she knew it all along. She knew I was no good and she couldn’t wait until I was out of earshot to tell anyone who would listen.

  I had no idea what she would tell Madeline. I had no idea if I’d see my kid. And I had to wonder if it was all worth it. Was any of it worth it? I thought about falling on the floor and peeing myself, pretending I had a seizure or something. Would these goons just run away or would they pick me up and carry me to their car and beat the shit out of me? Probably beat the shit out of me. Of course, that was bound to happen anyway the way things were headed.

  I stayed where I was, held up between them, being pushed and dragged some, but mostly walking under my own steam, toward the elevator.

  Inside, Purple Tie punched in a number on his phone. No doubt talking to Corgan. “We’ve got him.” Anything else he said was lost because my own phone buzzed in my pocket. The sound was too loud in the elevator.

  “Answer it,” Blue Tie said.

  I pulled it out. Brent. “Yeah,” I said. My voice sounded like an old man’s.

  “I’m in Williamsburg. I just parked over by the Duke of Gloucester Street and walking past the Barnes and Noble.”

  Blue Tie took the phone from me and pushed the speaker button. Purple Tie said, “Hang on a second. We got some info on the other phone.” He put his phone on speaker and held it out to my phone so now we were all just one big conference call. The elevator door opened and a woman carrying a bunch of balloons moved to step in.

  “Fuck off,” Blue Tie said. He said it real soft so it wouldn’t pick up on the phone. The woman backed out and the doors slid closed.

  “You there or what?” Brent voice crackled from the phone.

  Blue Tie nudged me in the arm, like I should talk to him. I cleared my throat. “Any sign of the guy with our SUV?” I lowered my voice a little, tried to sound tough or at least like someone who wasn’t about to piss in his pants.

  Brent gave a snort. “No sign of him, man. And this place is busy. I can’t believe the shit you got me into. I’m going to make one circuit here and if I find him you better hold onto your promise and cut me in.”

  My gut clenched. Purple Tie arched an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth lifted up. Brent hung up and Blue Tie handed my phone back to me.

  Purple Tie put his phone to his ear and listened for a minute then disconnected and put it in his pocket. The elevator doors slid open and we pushed outside, into the front parking circle of the hospital. We walked across the street and into an ocean of cars. A strip mall hovered in the distance. It was the usual type of place for Virginia. Tattoo parlor, sushi joint, donut shop, tanning salon. We approached the strip mall and the suit twins nodded at the apron-clad owner of the sushi joint sweeping the sidewalk in front of his restaurant. He nodded once and then took his broom and went inside. The three of us moved around back.

  Purple Tie pulled out his phone again and punched some numbers. When Corgan answered, the phone was put on speaker.

  “Hello, Mr. McDowd,” the voice sounded grainy. “You lost my shipment.”

  Blue Tie pulled back and punched me in the gut. I dropped to my knees but Purple Tie, holding the phone in one hand, used his other to hoist me back up again. Blue Tie took his jacket off.

  “It was a mistake,” I managed. “Brent—” I was cut off with another punch to my gut, a fist to the eye and an upper cut to my chin. I ended up on the ground again and tried to hear through the ringing in my ears.

  “Is this ‘Brent’ the person you are now offering to cut in on your payment?”

  I pushed myself to my knees, head bent as I tried to get my bearings. Blood dripped from my mouth onto the concrete. “It’s not what you think,” I said, looking up. Blue Tie seemed even bigger without his jacket on.

  “What I think,” the voice crackled, “is that it sounds like you don’t need as big of a cut. So let’s do this. You get my shipment back. File the insurance on your little business. We’ll give you half of the original price.”

  “Half.” My mouth went dry.

  “Since you don’t need as much, we won’t give as much.”

  I blew out the breath I had been holding. They were going to let me live.

  Purple Tie hoisted me up again while Blue Tie examined his knuckles and moved to put his jacket back on.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “If you don’t find my shipment and return it to me unharmed, I will make sure your wife and child suffer greatly before they die. Now you run along and find my drugs.”

  And that was all. Purple Tie punched the phone and put it in his pocket.

  “I’d hurry if I were you,” Blue Tie said. “We’re going to head back to the hospital now and see how your wife is doing. She was looking pretty tired.”

  “Yeah,” Purple Tie said. “Labor can really be hard.”

  “You fuckers,” I said, lunging for Purple Tie. He easily side-stepped me and Blue Tie landed a punch to my ribs that dropped me again to my knees. They left, and as soon as I was able, I stood and made my way to my car.

  21

  BRENT

  I knew I couldn’t do shit on my own. I needed help, but a guy like me doesn’t have a whole lot of options in that department. Luckily, I had one. I only hoped one would be enough.

  Vikash was the new kid in seventh grade. Some days I was the only thing standing between him and another beating. Weird accent, funny name, strange bag lunches. Viks hit the trifecta of outcast nerd kid, but I always liked something about the little freak.

  We kept in touch after high school when he did the normal thing Indian kids do: he went to a great university, graduated with honors and now works for the government in homeland security or something. High tech computer something or other. Smart shit. He’s got a clearance level. I don’t know what number, or even if I did I have no clue how high up the clearance ladder that would be, be he’s got one.

  Better than I got: A job at a now destroyed car rental company and a new job as drug recovery agent.

  So I called Viks to ask a favor.

  “Hey, man,” he said. I know he didn’t like me to call him at work, and truthfully we hadn’t talked in a few months.

  “Viks, what’s up, dude?”

  “Not much. How’ve you been?”

  I looked out at the road, thought about what I was doing instead of sitting on my ass at the rental shop waiting for five o’clock. “Better. I’ve been better, I gotta be honest.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, I need to know if you can get on your little computer there and get me some information.”

  There was a pause on the line. I kept driving, headed toward Vikash’s house, because I didn’t know where else to go.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “It’s nothing. One name I need to track by his credit card number. I really need to find this guy—”

  “Brent. I can’t.”

  His accent had almost completely vanished. Been a long time since the seventh grade. Reminding him of those days when I kept his briefs wedgie-free would have been met with more of this rules and regulations crap. I had to remind him that he owed me a serious favor.

  “Viks, you owe me, man.”

  “I owe it to you to break the law? That’s an abuse of the Patriot Act.”

  “Viks—”

  “I can’t just use the full resources of the federal government to help
you find somebody.”

  “Vikash.”

  “And for what? Huh? Why do you need to find this guy so bad? Hire a private detective or something.”

  I let him run out of steam. Then, “Sandy would want you to.”

  More silence on the line and I knew my driving to his place was going to be worth the trip.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Yeah. Sorry, bro. That’s the way it is.”

  I’d waited five years to cash in that chip. Five years since Sandy.

  See, Vikash was never a ladies man. He’s still about ninety-five pounds despite being six-foot one. He has buck teeth, too. And for some reason American girls don’t think Indian guys are exotic the way American guys think the women are. Same goes for Japanese or Chinese. Asian girls can get attention from any guy in a bar, an Indian guy or a Chinese guy had better stick to his own kind. Not sure what that says about American girls, but it’s been the truth of Vikash’s life since I’ve known him.

  So he’s been known to partake of the occasional escort. Not street hookers. Professional ladies who are expensive, but earn it.

  Sandy was one of those professional ladies.

  Viks had taken her out on a few occasions. She’d been very nice to him. He’d taken her to fine dining establishments and she’d repaid in kind back at his place. But those visits didn’t come cheap, and he ended up with quite a bill.

  A bill he couldn’t pay.

  Sandy began harassing him for payment. She was good at it, too. She’d call, find him in public and embarrass him. She was relentless, even when he tried to give her a schedule of payment.

  Finally he called me for help. I had to go deal with Sandy.

  Maybe it was my dead-end job aspirations. Maybe it was that I’d protected him all those years in school. I don’t know why he thought of me to go scare off his hooker-stalker. But it turned out I was quite good at the job. I fronted him some cash and paid her half of what she was demanding and made it known that their relationship was done. She was never to contact him again, and she didn’t.