I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River

by Shawn Underhill

  “Tell me.”

  “Matt.”

  “Tell me, or I’ll dunk you in the river. You know I’ll do it.”

  Clay said, “He called me a faggot.”

  “At Enzo’s?”

  “Yeah, and he made some joke on Facebook. Do you know what a meme is?”

  “You mean the funny pictures?”

  “Basically, yeah. Murphy found one with a guy who looked a little like me and shared it. A bunch of people liked it and left the laughing emoji.”

  Ryan said, “Okay. Did he touch you?”

  “No.”

  “No bullshit.”

  “He didn’t touch me.”

  “How’d he hurt his foot?”

  “No clue. I never pay attention to sports.”

  “Where was Leo when Murphy was giving you grief?”

  “Out back, maybe. I don’t remember.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. All I did is ask if the food was okay. Then he busted out laughing and everyone joined in with him.”

  “So you did nothing to start it?”

  “Does that sound like me?”

  “Dumb question,” Ryan said. “I’ve had a lot of coffee.”

  Clay sat there.

  “So you just quit?” Ryan said.

  “After a few more days, yeah. Every time he came in he was basically laughing at me. Him and his buddies. Like I’m some loser for working there.”

  “Now you have no income.”

  Clay shrugged, looked out the side window.

  He said, “Money isn’t everything.”

  Ryan said, “You’ll have to live off your sister and mom. Drive Mom’s car.”

  “I don’t really have anywhere to go. Mom can just drop me at the Barking Lot to help Kerry out. I like being there.”

  They rumbled up through the center of town, tires humming. Passed the market and motel and Dunkin’ Donuts. The GMC’s big V-8 was just taking an easy stroll. A monster barely breathing.

  Then Ryan spotted the Kia again.

  Game on.

  Chapter 12

  Denny Hutch was surprised when a blonde woman answered the motel door. He balked and then tried to look over her shoulder. Clearly it wasn’t the right room. He knew her face, but not her name. She never interacted with him. He apologized and moved over to the next door in the line. Once the blonde closed her door Denny knocked on the correct door.

  A guy with tattoos all over his head opened the second door. No expression on his face. Mostly just ink. He looked Denny over briefly and then motioned him to enter.

  Denny stepped in and saw the coyote seated in a chair across from the small TV. He was slouched low in the chair, zoning out. Distributers such as himself often had a lot on their minds.

  It always struck Denny as odd to see an albino man from Mexico. Of course he’d seen plenty of pale people, being from New England. Just never anyone quite this pale. But he understood the coyote’s plight, and always did his best not to stare. The guy had been a lousy human trafficker and now made a much better point man for shipments and distribution in a northern state that offered significantly more shade than his native country near the equator.

  The coyote’s real name was never used. All Denny knew about him was that he was established and successful, always working, spending frugally, and apparently saving significant amounts of money. Maybe he would retire by age thirty-five and buy an old castle in England. Cool and often cloudy.

  Business was good. So good, in fact, that he sometimes invested some of his personal earnings into local assets, looking to expand his network and reach, and so increase his profits. Sometimes it worked out, other times it didn’t. It rarely worked out when he trusted Denny Hutch, even for very small jobs.

  “What do you want?” the coyote asked.

  “I got news,” Denny said.

  “Bad news?”

  “No. Good news.”

  “You’re bad luck. How can you have good news?”

  “Not this time.”

  “What is it?”

  “Remember that guy you tested out a while back? The one that got robbed and ended up dead?”

  The coyote remembered. He lost a lot of money, as well as costing some quality opioids.

  Denny waited anxiously.

  The coyote said, “He was useless. Bad luck. Like you.”

  Denny said, “He didn’t get robbed. It turns out he hid the money.”

  The coyote turned his face from the TV to Denny.

  “You heard me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, I know another guy who knows him. He found out. Best of all, the other guy knows where the money’s hidden.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you?”

  Denny tried to act surprised. Like he was some fine example of excellence beyond all reproach.

  “Where is it?” the coyote asked.

  “Up north a bit, in this little nothing town. In a small storage unit. Fall River Storage.”

  “Write the details down,” the coyote said, pointing to a notebook on the bedside table.

  “Write it? I can just show you myself,” Denny said.

  “Write it. I’ll go check it out. And if I don’t find my money, I’ll know you were lying to me. Maybe you stole it.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “I want your writing as proof. We all know your word isn’t worth anything. Make your writing count.”

  Denny huffed and said, “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not after you’ve given me jobs.”

  “You won’t get more jobs, if you lead me on a wild chase.”

  “Why would I do that?” Denny asked. “I want you happy so you’ll give me more work, more opportunities. Money makes us all happy.”

  “You should try saving some.”

  “Hey, it’s been hard times. You know.”

  The coyote shook his head and said, “Write it down.”

  Denny smiled inwardly. The coyote had fallen for the trap. If it had been a smaller amount, he might have let it go. But three hundred large was too much to forget. Now he would go and try to find it. Which meant he would handle the athletic DEA guy up in Fall River. And then Denny and the boys would surprise him on unfamiliar turf.

  Bang-bang, thanks a bunch.

  No more groveling. No more subservience.

  Three hundred thousand bucks.

  ***

  The red Kia was parked at the back of Burger King’s lot. Wedged right up close to the dumpster, trying to hide.

  Ryan caught a glimpse of the pointy grill and red paint and hit the GMC’s turn signal and stepped on the brakes and swung into Burger King. He rolled by the building and other cars, circling around back, by the little fenced playground, closing on the Kia by the dumpster. When he was straight-on facing the Kia he reached down and flipped two toggle switches on the dash. The lights on the roll bar and the front push bar flicked on, each one as bright as a mini sun. All directed at the Kia.

  For an instant Murphy and the girl were stunned. Like Dreyfus in Close Encounters. Then they tried to turn away from the glare, shielding their faces with their hands. The lights were blinding. Unbearable and inescapable.

  Then Mrs. Murphy’s Kia jumped to life, its lights flicking on. It revved and missed the GMC by a few feet, turning hard right and speeding on toward the exit. The brake lights flashed and the nose plunged. It leveled out and its engine revved again and its tires chirped and it turned right on Maine, headed back north.

  “Matt, please,” Clay said. “You’re scaring me.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Ryan said as he feathered the gas through the lot to the road. The way was clear. He cut the wheel right, feathered the gas some more, and then stomped it once they were aligned straight in the lane.

  Up ahead the red Kia’s taillights blinked for a second. Then the car turned hard right, just before the Pinewood Motel, and zipped down the access road to the park by the river.

  “Bad move,” Ryan
said. “He’s panicking, not thinking. We got him now.”

  “Oh, God,” Clay said. He was clutching the aftermarket grab handle with both hands. “This is bad. This is trouble. I can’t handle jail, Matt.”

  “For what?

  “This.”

  “Driving?”

  “We can’t just attack Murphy.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “You, then.”

  “Who’s attacking anybody?”

  “It seems like it.”

  “We could go to his house instead. How’s that?”

  “No, Matt.”

  “We could leave a flaming bag on his front steps. Nobody gets hurt.”

  “That’s nasty.”

  “What? You clean up the yard behind the Barking Lot all the time.”

  “I can’t be a part of this,” Clay said. He was breathing hard and he sat there with a double grip on the overhead handle.

  “Stay calm.”

  “I can’t,” Clay said. “I can’t breathe. I think I’m having a panic attack.”

  “It’s called circulation,” Ryan said as he turned right and followed the Kia down the grade, through a section of tall pine trees bordering the cemetery on the right, the motel cabins on the left.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Your heart’s beating for a change. That’s all.”

  Clay just shook his head and clenched the handle.

  The grade of the access road leveled out down below the motel cabins and then everything opened up around them. A big parking area to the right. A boat launch ramp dropping down into the river straight ahead. A picnic area right of the boat launch, picnic tables and woodfire grills lining the river under the shade of some tall pines. Right of the parking area there was a slightly raised soccer field with drainage ditches running its length. Beyond that was a playground and the baseball field and a small building used through the summer for selling food and drinks.

  The Kia stopped in the center of the big parking area, facing out from the river, pointing toward Main. Ryan slowed and revved the GMC, blocking the exit, waiting for the Kia to make a move.

  Murphy put his head out the window and yelled, “I’m calling the cops.”

  “What did he say?” Ryan asked.

  “Can’t hear,” Clay answered.

  “Probably threating to call the cops on us.”

  “On you. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Relax, willya?”

  “How? This can’t be legal.”

  Ryan dropped the shifter into neutral and revved the GMC, all its bright lights fixed on the Kia. He let it roll against light pressure on the brake pedal. He kept edging forward, left foot on the brake, right foot feathering the gas. Daring Murphy to react.

  Murphy was a competitive kid. He didn’t like feeling cornered.

  He took the dare and charged. Cut the Kia’s wheel hard to the left and gassed it toward the soccer field. Probably hoping to go right up to the soccer field’s edge and then cut right, go straight for the road, cut left again, just under the truck, and fly back up the hill to Main Street.

  Free.

  But it didn’t go according to plan.

  Maybe he was rattled from all the stress. Maybe the Kia didn’t perform as well as he had hoped. Or maybe his foot was bothering him and his girlfriend was yelling at him. Either way he failed to make the turn.

  The Kia’s left front tire dipped slightly off of the pavement and caught the grassy slope of the ditch running along the length of the soccer field. The weight of the car shifted slightly to the left, following the left front tire. Velocity and weight and momentum began working overtime against Murphy’s desired trajectory. He took his foot off the gas and hit the brake, cranking the wheel right.

  About a second too late to avoid being sucked into the ditch.

  Mrs. Murphy’s Kia came to a rest partially on its driver’s side. The lower half of the doors and the panels were pressed against the opposing incline of the drainage ditch.

  Inside the Kia’s cabin, Mrs. Murphy’s frustrated son tried to gun the gas, hoping against hope. All he accomplished was digging the car in deeper, sinking lower into the damp ditch, burying the car up to the frame. Dirt and dead grass and little rocks flew back from the spinning tires. The Kia was down for the count.

  “Holy crap,” Clay said. He was leaning forward now, staring ahead in disbelief and, Ryan believed, a hint of exhilaration.

  Ryan circled the GMC wide and pulled up behind the Kia, slightly to the right, squarely on the pavement, and he called out the window, “You okay, dipshit?”

  Murphy shouted, “Asshole!”

  “You need a tow?”

  “You’ll pay for this, Ryan!”

  “I got a chain right behind my seat. We can have you out in no time. You can go home and finish your pizza.”

  “I’m calling my dad,” Murphy bellowed.

  “Nobody likes a sore loser, Murphy. Just swallow your pride and let me give you a tow.”

  “Wait till my dad gets here. Then we’ll see how funny you are.”

  “No sense of humor,” Ryan said to Clay. “If he can’t win, he just won’t play.”

  “He’s a psycho,” Clay muttered.

  “Well, aggression makes guys good at sports.”

  “He’s not that great. He thinks he’s Tom Brady or something. Just a wannabe.”

  Ryan looked at Clay.

  “What?” Clay said.

  “I thought you didn’t pay attention to sports.”

  “I know who Brady is. And I know Murphy isn’t all he thinks he is.”

  Ryan nodded and then called out the window, “Murphy, you sure you don’t want a tow?”

  Murphy said, “You’re in deep shit now, Ryan! You’ll wish you were never born!”

  Chapter 13

  The GMC pulled away from the stranded Kia. Went up the hill to Main. Waited for a few cars to pass and then turned out left, southbound. Then swung into Dunkin’ Donuts and went around to the drive-thru window.

  Clay didn’t want anything. Ryan ordered a medium regular and a dozen assorted donuts rather than a half-dozen, in case Clay changed his mind later.

  Better safe than sorry.

  From there they followed Chuck Reynolds in the cruiser, down the hill to the park. By then Ryan had shut the auxiliary lights off, so as not to catch any flack about them from Chuck. Technically they were dangerously too bright for road use.

  Down by the river, Ryan parked and sipped his coffee and had a donut while Chuck helped Murphy and the girl from the stranded Kia.

  Both ended up climbing out the passenger door while Chuck held it open. They crawled over the rocker panels and lowered themselves out carefully, the passenger side pointing up at an awkward angle, the track of the open door resembling a Lamborghini door in the low light. Then the girl took over holding the door open while Chuck opened the back door and fished out the crutches. Murphy hopped a bit and took the crutches and then stood there. Breathing hard, fuming mad. White knuckles on the crutch handles. Bitterly complaining to Chuck.

  The girl still had her purse, but Ryan didn’t see the small pizza box. He wondered if the box had flown open in the car, or had simply been forgotten for the moment.

  “You’ve really done it now,” Clay said. He was slouching down as low as possible, hiding. Hoping to avoid detection from Murphy.

  Ryan said, “What?”

  “He’ll really have it out for me. Worse than before.”

  “He’ll avoid you now.”

  “No.”

  “He’ll associate you with a very bad evening. Trust me.”

  “He’ll just beat me up when you’re not around.”

  “On crutches? You can’t handle a guy on crutches?”

  “He’ll have his friends do it.”

  “Have they ever touched you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’ll talk about it to blow off some steam, but nothing will happen. In a few days it’ll all blow over.” />
  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. Trust me.”

  Chuck walked over. He didn’t look happy. He came up to Ryan’s window and said, “You gonna sit there and watch the whole thing?”

  “I was planning on it.”

  “Get out of here, Matt. Before the kid’s old man arrives.”

  “I offered to tow him out.”

  “His old man will do it.”

  “Either way.”

  “The kid says you were terrorizing him.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Did you have the bright lights on?”

  “A little.”

  “Why?”

  “Just for the fun of it.”

  “You can’t do that, Matt.”

  “He started it.”

  Chuck said, “Clay, tell me what happened.”

  Clay said, “We followed them from Burger King and down the hill. Then Matt just sat there, revving the truck. Murphy crashed all on his own.”

  “Would you be willing to write down in an official statement, if it comes to that?”

  Clay nodded, saying, “It’s the truth.”

  “Okay,” Chuck said. He looked at Ryan. “Get out of here, please. I’ll tell the old man about Carl bullying Clay. But I don’t want you guys here. I don’t need you in a fistfight with the old man.”

  “He’d just go away in the ambulance,” Ryan said. “His wife would have to come pull her Kia out. Then she’d be taking care of two hobbled guys at home.”

  Chuck said, “Get lost. Now.”

  “Should I at least offer them a donut? It might be a nice gesture.”

  “Go,” Chuck said, then turned and walked away.

  Ryan dropped the shifter into drive and went up the hill while Murphy jeered and hopped and waved his middle finger.

  ***

  “Just drop me at Kerry’s,” Clay said when they reached Main Street. “I’ll stay with her tonight.”

  “Feel like getting a pizza or something?”

  “I’m too nervous to eat now.”

  “About what?”

  “We were almost arrested.”

  Ryan laughed.

  “It’s not funny, Matt.”

  “You need to calm down. I’m not joking. Lighten up. Before it’s too late.”

  “How can I? My whole future just flashed before my eyes. I thought we were on our way to prison.”