by Eric Beetner
He paused. “And why should you be there?”
“Because this is my transport. And I always finish the job, do I not?”
“Not this time.”
“Unforseen circumstances. It’s those two jerk-offs who gave out the wrong car. I’m the one who found the fat fuck, ain’t I?”
“Aren’t you the one who lost him too?”
I sputtered and spat. How could he not see my side of it? “Mr. Corgan, you gotta let me prove it to you that I can finish what I started. And whatever else you need done while I’m there, I’ll finish that too.”
“What are you offering exactly?”
“Like the fat fuck. He needs to go, right? Him and his fat fuck wife? And the rental guys. Them too.”
He paused again, thinking it over, I bet. “You want to take them all out? You’d do that for me?”
“Sure I will. I’m more than just a delivery boy, y’know.”
Corgan put a hand over the phone and spoke to someone on his end for a minute. He came back with, “Jimmy will give you the address. I’m sending two guys with Clyde. They’ll have instructions. You don’t do anything until they say so, understand?”
“Yeah. Got it.”
“None of this Bruce Willis shit like last time, right?”
“Sure, sure. I want to bring the stuff to you though. That’s the job you hired me to do, I want to finish it.”
“Anybody bringing my merchandise to me is welcome in my house any time.”
“Thanks, Mr. Corgan. Thanks a lot. You won’t be—”
He’d passed off the phone to Jimmy who started reading off the address before I was ready. Either way, I’d scored my ticket to the dance.
61
CLYDE
I stared at the ceiling through the slits my swollen eyelids allowed. I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs and I could feel myself drifting.
“Get him up,” Corgan said, and I was dragged to my feet. One of the guys had the baby in the backseat of the car. It was hot and stuffy in the warehouse and he had turned the car on and the air too. Her cries had subsided and I could see his lips moving through the window. It looked like he was trying to soothe her.
Corgan opened his mouth and started to say something, but his phone rang. He asked who the fuck it was and then listened, his eyes sliding to me in a way that made my skin crawl. “You’d do that for me?” he said and a slow smile spread across his face. He handed the phone to one of the other guys who rattled off an address. Then he took the phone and made another call. To Griffin. He said they’d meet on Colonial Parkway between Yorktown and Williamsburg. I thought about that. Colonial Parkway wound along the York River. There were pull offs where people could park their cars and fish from bridges. That could be a plus or a minus. The road was surrounded by swampy tributaries of the York River and by forest. Again, a plus or minus depending on whether I was hiding, running, or begging for my life. The only advantage I could see to the meeting place was that it was summer and Colonial Parkway was heavily traveled by tour buses. If I could get my hands on my daughter and flag someone down, I might get out of this alive.
Corgan snapped his fingers at the man in the car, who climbed out and placed my daughter in my arms. I looked at her tiny face. She was sleeping. I wondered how air could move in and out of such a tiny nose. She was beautiful. I started to cry.
Corgan handed me my phone. “Dial your wife’s number,” he said.
I cradled the baby with one hand and pushed the speed dial number for Madeline with the other. Corgan took the phone from me.
“Mrs. McDowd,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that your husband and daughter are safe. For now.”
I could hear the ragged sound of Madeline’s crying, the sound thin and brittle and like hell. She yelled, cried out. A man’s voice came on and calmly asked where Corgan was, if he’d like to turn himself in. I thought of the FBI agent and the I.D. badge that I’d lost somewhere along the road. Corgan looked at me again, his eyes narrowing. His face turned red.
He clicked the phone off and removed the battery before handing it back to me.
“Let’s go,” he said to us all. “Time to head north toward Williamsburg.”
62
LINDA
My mom sat across the table from me and lit up a cigarette. I hadn’t lived with them in a few years and wasn’t exactly used to the smell anymore. It was worse than Sean smelled after he’d been out mowing the lawn. It gave me a headache. On top of the throbbing in my side it made for a hell of a bad morning. No one had gotten any sleep, not really. And I know Sean thought he’d really rocked my world with the sex at the rest area. But, shit, really? No. Not at all. He calls me fat. I’m not. I’m big-boned. You try squeezing out two kids and see if you don’t have a few extra pounds on you. Dumb-ass dickhead.
Mom had already slurped two cups of coffee down and was on a third. “I called Cousin Judy,” she said.
Now Judy . . . she’s fat. Makes me look like Katy Perry, tits and all.
I got up to pour myself a cup of coffee. My side was killing me and all Mom and Dad had around was ibuprofen. And now I was getting my own coffee. Jesus Christ. “Why?”
“To watch Chad and Becky while we go after Sean and Ernie.”
I sat down and stared at her, taking my time drinking half the cup of coffee before I spoke again. She watched me. Mom was real good at watching. “Why? Mom, I don’t think you understand what these people can do. I got shot for Christ sakes.”
She moved her lips into a wrinkly pucker. I always called it the pucker of doom when I was growing up. If she was making it for Dad now, he must be in real trouble. “Which is exactly why we need to go.” She pushed her coffee cup aside.
I followed her to the den where she pulled Dad’s colonial rifle off the wall. It was a real colonial rifle, the kind with a bayonet. The kind you have to pack with a lead ball bullet. Dad kept this little bull’s horn hanging beside it that held gun powder. A leather pouch held the packing. Dad was big into the colonial reenactments.
“He has other guns downstairs,” I reminded her.
She nodded and slung the rifle over her shoulder. “I know. But this will piss him off more.”
The doorbell rang and Judy walked on in. “I’m here,” she called. “Where are the kids?”
“Still sleeping,” Mom told her. “They eat and sleep and that’s about it.” Like they were five years old.
“They baked cookies,” I said.
I followed mom out to her car, leaving Judy to fend for herself. “How are we going to find them, Mom?”
She pulled out her phone. “I got that app that keeps track of his whereabouts.”
“Geez, Mom. That’s awful.”
She shrugged. “Bastard wants to mess around with a bimbo from the donut shop, then I guess I’ll follow him.” When I raised my eyebrows, she went on. “He had a little fling last year.”
I wanted to laugh. Couldn’t imagine my dad flinging with anyone. And I sure as hell couldn’t imagine Mom caring about it.
But I followed her out to the car and put the colonial rifle and the lead bullets in the back seat.
63
CLYDE
My baby stayed with Corgan. I knew now with certainty that my marriage was over. There was no way Madeline would forgive this. There was no way I could even face her after all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Corgan had stuffed me into the back seat of a car with two thugs in the front. We were on our way to the meet.
My eyes burned and I knew I was going to cry. I tried to hold it in, but all I succeeded in doing was making snorting sounds and blowing snot out of my nose.
“What the fuck, dude?” one of the thugs said.
I buried my face in my hands and just cried. Bawled like a fucking baby. The driver muttered something under his breath. I just kept my face in my hands and howled.
“Holy fuck,” the other one said and I could feel the car swerving and making a sharp right turn.
One of them smacked me on the top of the head. “Jesus Christ, pull it together, dude.”
“Go get him a bottle of water or something. People are going to wonder what the shit is going on.”
“Fuck.” The passenger door opened and closed and I was alone with the driver.
If I had been in a movie, it would have been the part where I made a break for it and saved my baby girl. But it wasn’t a movie. Corgan had my kid. All I could do was cry about it.
64
SEAN
Detroit, for most of its existence, has been the murder capital of America. New York had it’s heyday in the seventies, but Detroit came back strong and hasn’t relinquished the title since. Still, in all my years I never so much as saw a gun in someone’s hand. Now, in one long weekend in Virginia I feel like I’m in the middle of a rap music video.
I stood outside in a tiny parking lot just off the Parkway. I could see a bridge and had a feeling I might get the call to go over there and make the switch in the middle of the span or something. That felt like something a drug dealer would do. I guess so, anyway.
My jacket was making me sweat, but I run a little hot anyway. A few extra pounds will do that to you. I guess I carry more than a few. But no way was I going to take off the jacket. It was hiding the pistol in my waistband.
Ernie insisted on hiding in the trees. He’d brought some high powered scope for his rifle and he claimed, with nothing to back it up as usual, that he could hit a guy through the pupil of one eye from three hundred yards or some ridiculous shit like that. He kept saying he would “cover” me. So why did I feel so uncovered?
The suitcase at my feet held the drugs. It felt weird, emptying out my suitcase of clothes and toothpaste and filling it full of plastic wrapped narcotics. It felt almost as weird as packing up the bundles of cash from the office the day before I split town with the money that was owed me. Both times I packed a suitcase with something that could get me arrested. Easy money. Dear God, there’s no such thing, is there? That idea is the Bigfoot of the criminal set. They want to believe it, many spend a lifetime pursuing it. But when the facts are laid out, the bastard just doesn’t exist.
Not in Virginia anyway.
65
CLYDE
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the fat man, Griffin, waiting in the lot. I’d regained control of my emotions enough that I wouldn’t be an embarrassment, but really I was an observer in this whole deal. It felt like I was watching an auction on my daughter’s life. If things went my way, she lived. If other people fucked it up, I would lose it all.
The tears threatened to come back.
The driver parked and waited. He and his pal scoped out the area. I saw three cars near the edges of the lot, all by a foot path which led down to the river. For fishing, probably. Enjoying a day on the river as a family. Lucky fucks.
There was no traffic on the bridge. Nobody milling around. Nothing to stop this deal.
“Let’s go,” I said.
They ignored me and finished their sweep of the area at their own pace. In synchronous motion their doors opened at the same time.
“Okay,” the driver said. “Let’s do this.”
I got out and stayed behind them. Griffin looked nervous. I could see him sweat and he swayed a little on his feet. What the hell did he have to be nervous about? His fucking kids weren’t in the balance.
The driver pointed to the suitcase at Griffin’s feet. “That for me?”
Griffin started to speak, but his mouth was dry. He swallowed. “Money first,” he said.
My two companions shared a look like, “This guy, right?” I knew the truth. They never intended to pay him. Why would they? Corgan couldn’t let some tourist come in and screw up his day and then let him walk away. It sent the wrong message, and as I learned all too well, Corgan’s messages were hard to misinterpret.
The driver spoke again, his partner always scanning the horizon for trouble. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit and do this like professionals?”
“I am,” Griffin said. “Money first, then the case.” His words were hard, but his attitude said pure jelly.
“Gene.” The partner nodded his head and the driver followed his gaze. A beat up Honda was pulling into the lot. It banged over the entry and headed for our group. It took me a moment, but as it got closer I could see the driver.
“Shit,” I said. Somewhere far away, I swore I could hear my little girl crying.
66
SKEETER
Fuckers started my meet up without me.
Brent was in the seat next to me still bugging out. He kept chattering but not saying real words, like he was speed reading a long list of things written with no spaces or nothing. Man, I wish crystal still got me that high.
I put it in park and left her running. “Y’all save any cake for me?” I said as I walked toward the group of assholes in front of me. Corgan’s two goons I recognized. Gene and the other one, Tricky. And Clyde. Pussy looked like a bitch on her period, all red eyes and snotty nose. Then the fat man. He didn’t like the look of me, that’s for sure.
“What?” Gene said.
“Well, y’all started the party without me. Did you save me a slice of cake?”
I didn’t wait for no invitation. I walked right across the divide between them, a wide berth you could have driven a Peterbilt through. I got right up close to Griffin and put a hand on the suitcase.
“Mr. Corgan thanks you, and I thank you.” I lifted the case. Good ’n heavy. “You fat fuck,” I said. Then I spun on my heel and stared walkin’ back to my car. Yessir, Corgan was going to get his load and I was going to get my promotion.
“The fuck you doin’ Skeeter?” Gene said.
“What? I came to get my delivery. That’s what the fuck I’m doin’”
Clyde found his voice all of sudden. “Skeeter, stop. Corgan sent us to get that.”
“Wrong, boyo. He sent me to get it yesterday morning. You fucked that up. I’m just doin’ what I said I’d do when I took the job. See, I believe in my work and my word. If you don’t, well, that’s between you and the good Lord.” I laughed out loud. “And Corgan, who just might send you to see the Man upstairs real soon. Fuckin’ know I would.”
I reached my car. Gene and Tricky were walking my way now. “Skeeter, he sent us down here special to get that case.”
“Then you should have took it. Look at y’all, standing around with your dicks in your hands like you’re afraid of this motherfucker. Look at him.” I threw an arm out to Griffin so we could all gander at his disgusting disgustingness. “He’s fat, he’s scared and he ain’t armed.”
Imagine my surprise when a bullet ripped into the suitcase.
67
SEAN
I knew Ernie couldn’t take anybody’s eye out. But I didn’t know if that’s what he was aiming for. But with that one shot, boy, things got real ugly.
“Everybody hold the fuck still,” Ernie called as he stepped out from behind a tree. He kept one eye behind his scope and moved out of cover of one tree and stepped artfully behind another.
“Jesus Christ,” the skinny dope fiend said. He held up the suitcase and examined the hole in it. Then he dropped it and dropped to his knees at the same time. He did one of those weird Hollywood-style shoulder rolls in the dust and came up behind the trunk of his car. He squeezed off two rounds: pop, pop! At the two guys in suits. They fell, motionless, in the tall grass.
“Holy shit!” the guy in scrubs, Clyde, said, ducking beside the Tahoe he’d arrived in. “Holy shit. I just want my kid. I just want my kid.”
“Okay, fuckers,” the druggie said. “Just you and me now. Corgan’s gonna be pissed you killed his two favorite bitches.”
The little shit was going to blame us. I squeezed off a round, aiming for his tires so he couldn’t get away. The guy deserved a bullet between the eyes, but I didn’t have the stomach for killing someone. And my aim was horrible. Dust kicked up in front of the
driver’s side front tire.
Someone yelled “Don’t shoot!” A woman’s voice. I looked up and saw Betty and Linda climbing up the bank toward the end of the bridge.
“Jesus goddamn Christ, Betty,” Ernie yelled. “Get down. Are you crazy?”
“Yeah I’m crazy,” she said, out of breath, “and you’re an asshole.”
Linda struggled up behind her, clutching her side.
“He’s got a gun,” Ernie yelled. “Stay down for chrissakes.”
Linda pulled a gun I recognized from Ernie’s gun rack and shot it into the air. It went off with a blast like a cannon and a puff of black smoke.
The skinny druggie fired a round in their direction and Ernie shot at him. I ducked and shot too, although I don’t know what I was aiming at.
Clyde covered his ears and duck-walked around the back of the Tahoe. He was crying.
The drug guy opened the passenger door of the car he was driving and pulled a man from the front seat. It was Brent from the rental shop. His foot was wrapped in a bloody bandage. He looked like he’d been through a blender. Drug guy held Brent up in front of him, like a human shield.
“Who the hell is that?,” Ernie called to me.
“Which one?”
“The one with the bloody foot?”
Drug guy squeezed off a shot and it kicked off some tree bark in front of Ernie.
“Son of a bitch,” Ernie yelled.
“The guy with the foot is from the rental place. Rented me the car.”
“Good or bad? Good or bad?”
I shook my head to clear it. “Uh. Good. I think.” He was singing something and spit bubbles frothed at his lips. He was clearly stoned out of his mind. Drug guy squeezed off another shot and just like that, my leg was on fire. It buckled under me.
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” Ernie yelled. Linda and Betty poked their heads over the edge of the bridge.
