I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River

by Shawn Underhill

  She said, “Medium regular?”

  “You got it.”

  From there the duo walked back toward home, casually strolling. Crossed on the crosswalk. It was after noontime. The sun was still out and it was still comfortably cool at the warmest time of the day. The coffee was good. They were taking their time. No rush. They both loved being outdoors and walking in cool weather. They could walk for hours and not get tired of it.

  Ryan told Sharky, “I love this weather.”

  Sharky didn’t reply, but Ryan knew by that little extra spring in Sharky’s step that he enjoyed it just as much.

  Near the foot of their driveway Ryan looked over and saw a crappy car parked in front of the office. It was crooked between the white stripes, roughly where Rosie’s car should have been. It had New Hampshire plates. Different colored body panels. Rusted, bad tires, no hubcaps. It might have been stolen straight out of Baghdad. It might as well have had a lighted sign on the roof, like a cab.

  Buy Cheap Heroin Here.

  A guy got out, smoking a cigarette. Pasty, buzzed hair, sunken face. Probably rotten teeth. He looked scrawny under a gray hoodie and had a slouched posture, like an eighty-year-old guy who had lost all his muscles. He had expensive sneakers on his feet and his jeans were sagging way down, halfway to his knees. His boxers were bunched up over the waistband of the denim, in place of a nonexistent ass.

  One glance and Ryan already didn’t like the looks of him.

  Then the guy flicked his cigarette butt on the ground, instead of taking two extra steps and dropping it in the plastic butt receptacle with the long neck.

  Littering.

  Ryan liked living in a nice clean town. Everyone put butt containers in front of their establishments, to avoid having butts thrown everywhere. To simply drop the butt in rather than tossing it on the ground wasn’t a lot to ask.

  “Game on,” Ryan muttered and set his coffee on the white decorative fence and started up the driveway.

  Chapter 6

  “Hey, chief!” Ryan called.

  The guy with the sagging jeans turned away from the building and looked toward Main Street.

  “Pick up that butt and put it in the thing.”

  “What?” the guy said.

  “Pick up that butt.”

  “You pick it up,” he said.

  “Do it now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The guy that’s about to kick your ass all over the place.”

  “Oh, yeah? Big man with a dog?”

  Sharky was alert but under control. His ears were forward and his posture was tense, but he was still walking right at Ryan’s side, as he was trained to do. They were closing fast on the guy and Ryan said, “This is my place. Pick up that butt, put it in the can.”

  The guy in the sagging jeans stood there for a second, his face scrunched as he practiced his version of thinking.

  Then he said, “You run this place?” A different tone.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What do you charge?”

  Ryan was ten yards away now and he said, “Pick up that cigarette and we’ll talk.”

  “Sorry,” the guy said, his tone making it clear that he was not sorry. Then he bent down and picked up the smoldering butt and walked up close to the building and dropped it in the plastic thing with the long neck.

  “You looking to rent?” Ryan asked, now a few yards before the guy.

  “Yeah,” the guy said, turning back again. “Sorry about that. I thought you were just some guy giving me shit.”

  “People take pride in their places around here.”

  “I said sorry.”

  “You look it.”

  “Dude. What?”

  “What are you?” Ryan asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You a college kid? You moving in from somewhere?”

  “I just need to rent a small one.”

  “A cheap one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For what?”

  “What’s it matter?”

  “Simple question.”

  The guy shifted his weight and stood there, pelvis forward, spine lurched over, his thin neck stretched out as he tried to stand tall in spite of his bad posture. He looked like a human question mark.

  Ryan said, “I ask every customer why they’re renting. It’s protocol.”

  The guy said, “Just some stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “You know. Stuff.”

  “Your mom’s old sewing machine?”

  “No.”

  “You moving? Getting divorced? Making room for a baby crib?”

  “Me? No.”

  “You got a jet ski to put up for winter?”

  “No.”

  “Fishing boat?”

  “No boat.”

  “There you go, those were answer. Well done. Keep up the good work. Now tell me what you’re looking to store here.”

  “What’s it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  “What do you care what I do with it?”

  “You have no good reason to rent?”

  “What the hell?”

  Ryan said, “If you had a good reason, you’d have a good answer. Listen to yourself. You can’t even talk right. I’ve met first-graders that are brighter than you. What, you got cancer or something? What’s your excuse?”

  “Dude, I just need to rent a small thing.”

  “For what?”

  “You gonna help me or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Just for a month.”

  “Not here. Not from me.”

  “What is this?”

  “Get in your shit box and go buy a new belt somewhere. You look like a walking endorsement for birth control.”

  The guy scowled and said, “What’s your problem?”

  “Your bad breath at the moment,” Ryan said. “Maybe lay off the shit and try some mouthwash. I know a good brand.”

  The guy laughed but made sure to keep his mouth mostly closed.

  Ryan said, “I don’t want your business, chief. Get lost. Pronto. Don’t come back.”

  “What are you gonna do?” the guy asked. “Put that dog on me for no reason? Get him put to sleep? Call the cops and say I tried to rent?”

  Ryan took a step closer and said, “I’ll call the cops and the ambulance after I break your fingers off while the dog holds you down. How’s that sound?”

  “Big threat from a douchebag in pajamas.”

  “At least they’re not falling down.”

  “That dog’s probably a pussy.”

  “See that big hill out behind the units?” Ryan asked.

  The guy’s eyes moved but he was just barely smart enough not to turn his head and risk taking a sucker punch.

  “Lots of woods out there,” Ryan told him. “Plenty of room to bury your scum and bones where nobody will find you. Maybe mail your fingers to your mom for a keepsake. How’s that sound?”

  The guy stood there, brow furrowed, mouth open, trying to look like Billy Badass. He looked at Ryan. Taller and stronger. He looked at the dog. Keen and alert and probably extremely fast.

  “Get off whatever you’re on,” Ryan told the guy in a slightly friendlier tone. “Clean yourself up and then we’ll talk.”

  The guy smiled. Embarrassed, trying to look cool. Like he had it all under control.

  Ryan said, “I’m being serious. You look like a statistic waiting to happen. What are you, twenty-five or thirty at most? You look like hell.”

  “What’s your deal, bro?” the guy asked. “You a scoutmaster?”

  “Where’re you headed after this? To visit your buddy that went to jail this morning?”

  The guy laughed quietly. His eyes dropped away.

  Ryan said, “You know him, right? Mr. rented Chevy? Is he your buddy? You came up here to pick up his slack?”

  “You sound crazy,” the guy said.

  “How’s your mom down on Lawrence Street
?” Ryan asked. “She doing okay?”

  His face changed. He tried not to swallow. Clearly angry, and overly disappointed. Much more so than a denied storage unit warranted. Ryan saw all the telltale signs of a guy at the end of his patience, about to make a risky move.

  Then his hand moved toward his coat pocket.

  Ryan reacted instantly, taking one sudden stride toward him. He planted his right foot, letting it take most of his weight, and extended his left foot, making contact with the guy’s saggy jeans. The guy tried to jump back as Ryan’s left foot hit his leg and then dropped down fast, the treads of his Timberland boot dragging down against the bunched denim.

  The guy thought that by springing back he was evading a lame attempt at a kick.

  Not quite.

  He was only helping Matt Ryan accomplish his goal.

  Their combined movements caused his already slouchy jeans to plunge down and bunch up around the guy’s ankles, exactly as Ryan had intended. Ryan stood there while the guy hopped back awkwardly, like an idiot on a pogo stick. Then he bent down fast and pulled his pants all the way up, glaring all the while.

  “What’s your deal, bro?” he said, standing there holding his pants up safely with both hands. “You like what you see?”

  Ryan laughed a little and then said, “Tell your boss to stay away. I have ten guys working for me, all meaner than me. I’m the nice one. Get it? You can’t win up here. Quit while you’re ahead. Or you’ll all end up buried in that hill.”

  “Bullshit,” the guy said.

  “Thanks for helping me out.”

  “I ain’t helping you.”

  “You just told me where you’re from.”

  “Yeah?” the guy said.

  “Hit the road,” Ryan said. “Final warning. It’s all downhill from here, chief. The hospital first. Then jail. The decision’s yours.”

  “Asshole,” the guy muttered and turned and stepped to his car. He was trying to move with some swagger, some imaginary sturdiness and implied menace. Like it was all his idea to go. And he was trying to keep his pants pulled up and keep from tripping on the cuffs that were falling below the heels of his shoes. It was a lot for him to deal with at once.

  All that combined with the nerves of realizing that he’d narrowly escaped a savage beating from a man twice his size. The weird little kick that had dropped his jeans could have been a serious kick, followed by a few big punches. He was dumb, for sure. But not dumb enough to realize that he couldn’t win against the bigger guy.

  Ryan watched him closely. His pistol was in his hand in his coat pocket. He was watching for the guy to grab a gun, either from his pocket or from the car, hold it out sideways like a gangster, and start spraying bullets everywhere but at an actual target.

  Nothing happened. He had nothing. At least nothing he was willing to try to use.

  He fired up the crappy car and revved it a bit, his posture trying to project a scrawny version of Vin Diesel. Left arm aggressively out straight, as if manhandling the wheel, flexing nonexistent muscles. He showed Ryan the middle finger of his right hand and then stomped the gas and went sputtering down the drive to Main Street and hung a right. Heading south.

  Back to the city overrun with drugs and rising crime he’d come from.

  Chapter 7

  Ryan reclaimed his coffee from the white fence and went around the building and sat at his picnic table behind the apartment. He lit a smoke and waited, wondering if the guy in the crappy car would work up the nerve to come back and try to regain some of his lost pride. He had seemed pretty agitated. Sometimes the pain of a damaged ego lingers longer than a physical beating.

  Sharky played with a tennis ball while Ryan sipped his coffee and smoked and waited. The guy didn’t come back.

  Eventually Ryan got up from the picnic table and went inside and put the Dunkin’ Donuts bag full of cash in the bathroom under the sink. At least that way someone would have to enter the apartment and search around a while to find it. Better than spotting the bulky bag through a window.

  While he was there he got some mouthwash from the cabinet and swished away. Because it was fresh in his mind. The guy with the crappy car had inspired him to raise his own dental awareness.

  The mouthwash was a brand that Kerry Jamison recommended. Because she cared about health and hygiene and appearances. It was sweet, not spicy, and minty. Good stuff, supposedly capable of winning the war of bacteria within the mouth, thereby helping teeth and gums and breath. Ryan enjoyed having teeth and figured if there really was a microscopic war being waged in his mouth, he’d much prefer the good guys to win that war. The only problem with the sweet stuff was that it was dangerous for dogs, and therefore had to be stored safely away in the medicine cabinet.

  He went back outside. Still nobody there, except Sharky with his tennis ball. So they finally headed for the Barking Lot, where they had been going after getting the coffee and before the interruption from the guy in the crappy car.

  ***

  They went down the driveway and took a left and went by Enzo’s Italian place. Reached the blocky brick building that contained the Barking Lot, a bagel place, and a small laundry place that Matt’s father had once owned years ago. The three businesses were in that order, left to right as viewed from Main Street or the sidewalk.

  Up ahead on the sidewalk Ryan noticed two guys in front of the little bagel shop. He had seen them since turning left out of his driveway. He could have ignored them and turned left at the Barking Lot, but he couldn’t help being curious. It seemed like they had been messing with the bagel sign over the doorway. The sign had been there a longer than Ryan had been alive.

  He went ahead slowly, keeping Sharky close to his leg. Two men were picking up tools. One folded a ladder. There was a plain white pickup parked at the curb. Nobody local that he recognized. Just handy guys doing a small job.

  Ryan got closer and sure enough they had altered the old bagel sign that had been over the door for almost fifty years. Instead of Ray’s Bagels it was now World of Bagels, with a tiny of, so from any distance at all it just looked like World Bagels.

  The implication seemed to be that the world itself was selling bagels rather than just Ray. Or maybe the world was set to be supplied with bagels, all from a narrow shop right there in little Fall River.

  Below the front windows of the bagel shop stood one of those easel chalkboards. The things restaurants put out on sidewalks to lure people, listing the specials and whatnot, beckoning them inside. There had never been one by Ray’s before. Ryan remembered. He had a good memory. The chalkboard listed a bagel of the day that was said to be cheaper than the rest. Some weird combination of berries that didn’t sound good at all. And the chalkboard had a smiley face made of several chalk colors. Below the smiley was a message.

  All Are Welcome.

  Have a Beautiful Day!

  Sharky didn’t seem concerned with any of it. But Ryan was wondering what the hell was going on. Maybe old Ray Penske was trying to change his business model after a lifetime of level but solid sales.

  Ryan edged forward and put his face up near the glass and looked in. No sign of old Ray. Some other guy was behind the counter, much younger. He seemed to be talking to someone else, out back in the kitchen. Ryan couldn’t see the second person. Just got the idea of movements and the low sound of a voice.

  Not Ray’s voice.

  Strange.

  He stepped back from the glass and the duo turned and backtracked and went around the corner and paralleled the side wall of the long brick Barking Lot building. Out back they went through the chain-linked gate into the big fenced yard area.

  A doggy haven.

  Ryan never used a leash for Sharky anymore. Commands and reminders and respect kept him in check. But once inside that fence Sharky knew it was okay to go wild and jump in the plastic pools and chase soccer balls and play reasonably with other dogs. As long as he didn’t try to kill anyone, there were few rules. And most of his aggression tow
ard other dogs was a thing of the past now.

  ***

  Kerry Jamison came outside when she heard Sharky barking his head off. She was smart and extremely skilled at helping animals. And a beautiful woman. Dark red hair. Built. A saintly woman in many respects, always trying to do good for others. Ryan had a lot of respect for her.

  Except she had a few annoying issues.

  She sometimes called him Matthew, in a certain tone, like his mother. He didn’t appreciate that. They’d known each other since kindergarten. More than thirty years. So she’d had decades to perfect her tone.

  “I’m glad you’re in one piece,” Kerry said with a perfectly white smile.

  Ryan nodded and sat on a park bench with the remainder of his coffee. Kerry sat down on the other end.

  “What’s going on over at Ray’s?” he asked.

  “Ray’s?” she said, as if she’d never heard of the place.

  “Right next door. Ray’s Bagels. Been here all our lives. You know?”

  “Ray’s gone, Matthew. He sold the space and closed the deal last week. The new owners are sprucing the place up.”

  “Where have I been?”

  She shrugged and took a sip of some green juice in a reusable glass bottle. She made the stuff every morning in some fancy machine and sometimes tried to get Ryan to drink some of it. It looked awful. Tasted worse.

  “Are those new pajamas?” she asked.

  “Seriously?”

  “I was just asking.”

  “I’ve had these at least two years.”

  “Don’t get defensive.”

  “Are those purple scrubs new?”

  “Not very,” she said. “Anyway, Ray is gone. I assumed you had heard by now.”

  “I guess I didn’t get bagels often enough to stay in the inner loop.”

  Kerry said, “Ray’s in his late sixties. He was tired. He and Casandra are moving to Florida. Skip and Randy are a young couple just starting out, hoping for the best. You should get a bagel and wish them luck.”

  “Really?”

  “Bagels aren’t the healthiest breakfast, but one now and then won’t kill you.”