Steady Madness

by Mike McCrary

  There is a lot to unpack here.

  Chapter 2

  “I need you to find Marcus for me,” Jonathan says.

  “What?” I say back with the coldest tone I can muster.

  He sucks on his cigar, blows a ring of smoke into the morning air, clucks his tongue. “Marcus—”

  “Gordo,” I say, cutting him off.

  Jonathan stops. Squints his eyes at me.

  “Gordo,” I say again. “We’re going to call him Gordo. Not Marcus. I know him as Gordo and I’m already a little loose in the head so I really don’t want more shit packed in there. So I…” I look to Skinny Drake for support. He gives it, supplying me with a firm nod. I turn back to Jonathan. “Sorry. We. We’re going to keep calling him Gordo. That work for you, asshole?”

  Jonathan looks to his people. Bear Boy shrugs.

  “Sorry.” I put a hand up. “I meant that work for you, assholes? As in plural. As in you are all assholes. Hate to leave anybody out.” I look directly at Bear Boy. “Assholes.”

  Bear Boy looks away from me again.

  Pussy.

  “Fine,” Jonathan says. “We’ll call him Gordo if that helps you.”

  I give him a thumbs-up. I feel as if I’ve worked through some sort of victory here. I know I haven’t won a damn thing, but it feels like a win. Like I’ve made a power move. Feels good. I mean, shit, I’ve renamed the man’s son. Of course, I renamed his other son.

  The one sitting next to me.

  The one he left and has had nothing to do with. The one whose mom is God knows where doing God knows what. I renamed him Skinny Drake, but Jonathan could give two shits about that.

  Jonathan clears his throat. “I need you to find Gordo for me then.”

  “No,” I say.

  This really gets Jonathan’s attention. I grip my gun a little tighter. Still keep it down, but I’m ready to go. I can set this thing off in the blink of an eye, man. God I wish I had my bat. I can see it in my mind. It’s like a phantom limb. I can see me bringing it down on Jonathan’s head over and over again. Just like I did to his sorry-ass wife. Does this make me a bad person?

  “And why not?” he asks, puffing more cigar filth into the air.

  “Better question? Why the hell should I?”

  “One, he lied to you. Frequently. Two, he has all your money.”

  This stops me cold.

  My moves are feeling far less powerful now. Victory fading fast. What the hell did he just say about my—sorry, our—money?

  “You can check if you like. Gordo recalled the wires. The money that was in your accounts? No longer there.”

  I look to my brother, trying hard not to let the panic show. I’m shaking, I can feel it, but I hope it isn’t something everyone can see. Surely this asshole is lying about the other asshole taking our money. The money was kind of the point of this shitshow. The only point.

  “I have more. Should I continue talking or do you want to keep going with your cute little renaming exercise? I’ll stick with calling him Gordo, by the way,” he says with a sneer. A sneer I’d like to smack the hell off his face. I nod, letting him know I’d like him to continue.

  Come to think of it, I don’t think wanting to kill him makes me a bad person at all.

  “Good,” Jonathan continues. “Then the third item? I understand you took your vase from my house.”

  I feel the muscles in my face almost slide off my skull. My shoulders drop. A sinking sensation I can feel from the top of my head to the tips of my toes rolls down my body. I can’t believe he knows about the vase.

  I still can’t believe he took it in the first place.

  The man and his whacko wife came into my home, killed my family, almost killed me, and then stole a vase I made for my parents when I was a kid. It’ll break a girl in half if you let it, if you think about it too much. But how can I not? How can I simply compartmentalize that little nugget of reality? That slice of truth.

  This man is a monster. I must never forget that.

  The mental image of my bat hitting his head over and over again is becoming a Zen-like place for me.

  I must also never let this monster see me weak, or give him the slightest hint I’m not capable of doing damage. He needs to know at all times what I’m capable of. I straighten up, get myself right and simply nod once.

  Only once, as I re-grip my gun for all to see.

  “Did it help you?” Jonathan asks. “The vase? Did it help?”

  “What do you fucking care?”

  “Did the vase help you remember something? Did seeing that simple, single childhood item, touching it, feeling it in your fingers, did that help unlock your memory?”

  It did.

  I know it did.

  It was only for a flash of a second, but holding that vase in my living room last night did pull up a memory I didn’t even know was there. It was amazing. Like a reboot of the operating system in my broken brain recovered a lost file. It was only one bit of memory, a flicker, but it was more than I’ve ever had. The rush of warmth. The feeling of home. Of family. A connection to my past. A replay into a life I never knew I’d had. A passing brush-up against a happiness I once had that I don’t remember having.

  Of course I can never let this man know this. Can’t let him think there’s something that he knows. Something he has to hold over me. Can’t allow him an ounce of insight. I don’t know what his game is or where this conversation is heading, but I’m positive whatever-the-hell he’s doing isn’t for my benefit.

  I offer him nothing.

  Not a word or a nod or a grin or an anything.

  I sit there stone-faced. Bitch-faced. Shove-it-up-your-ass-faced.

  He sees through me. Jonathan smiles big, shaking his head side to side. He lets the big silence of the situation fill my yard. Fill the big Texas sky. I can hear the morning sun breathe. The breeze gently whispers. I can feel my heart pound. A hint of a white glob forms in the corner of my eye.

  Panic shutters me.

  Not now! I scream inside my head.

  Can’t check out now. I can’t let the white globs grow and shut me down. Not the damn time for this shit. I thought I’d gotten control of this. Maybe I have. Focus. Stay in the here. Find a spot in the here and now and dig in.

  Another glob.

  Focus, girl. I push the fear back. I shove the growing burn that’s rising up from my gut down. Push it, shove it down. All of it, all the way down. Away. Aside. Anywhere but into my present disaster of a world. I will not check out now. Not in front of this man.

  This father of mine.

  This son of a bitch.

  Skinny Drake senses something is off. He places his hand on mine. No idea how he knew I was going down, but he did, and he did what a goddamn wonderful brother does. He’s here. He’s helping me and he’s not going anywhere.

  “Gordo tried to kill me, you know?” Jonathan finally says.

  A pat from Skinny Drake’s hand lets me know I’m good.

  I know he’s right. I cock my head. Dial in.

  White globs retreat.

  “That’s a damn shame, Jonathan,” I fire back. Feel myself pulling it back together. “Hate to lose you. Was hoping you’d walk me down the aisle when the time comes.”

  “Not looking for pity or concern, Teddy. Wrong crowd for that, I know.” He pushes himself up from the wheelchair. Bear Boy rushes to his side. Jonathan waves him off, letting his weak, wobbly legs level off and support his frail-ass body. It’s not pretty, but he is upright. “I couldn’t do that a few days ago. Could not simply stand up. Gordo, my own son, drugged me.”

  “I’m your own son too. I would have just shot you,” Skinny Drake says, speaking for the first time in this conversation. “If that makes you feel any better.”

  Jonathan’s eyes slip toward Skinny Drake. “Gordo drugged me.” His eyes slide back over to me. “He filled me with medication that robbed me of my strength and broke my body down to nothing but a shell. He whispered lies to me wh
ile my mind was weak. He manipulated me. Made me believe things. Things like I needed to sign a trust he created.” He pauses, collects himself. “He is a lawyer, that much is true. Somehow he got my wife and children to sign that document. Then he had me sign, convincing me I was dying of a rare, incurable disease.”

  He takes slow, tiny steps toward the porch. I think about raising my gun, but I realize he’s no threat. He’s barely alive. I will say, he looks a helluvalot better than he did when I saw him in New York. When he was on his supposed deathbed.

  Jonathan goes on to explain that he never would have signed if he were of sound mind. Tells us about how Gordo created an ironclad trust. One that only Gordo can alter or amend, and Gordo holds the original documents.

  Meaning Gordo holds the key to reversing anything the trust has done.

  Meaning Gordo can return a lot of money to Jonathan and/or take it away from me and Skinny Drake any time he wants.

  Matter of fact, Jonathan tells us again, Gordo has already drained the money from our accounts. I’ll have to verify that, but I have no reason to believe Jonathan is lying. He knows I can find out, knows it’s a statement that’s pretty easy to check up on.

  I can tell he’s holding onto something else. It’s not just money. There’s another card Jonathan wants to play. I can see it tucked away behind his horrible eyes. A pocket ace he’s dying to drop on the felt. I, on the other hand, have nothing left to lay down. So I repeat the only question that matters right now.

  “Why the hell would I help you?”

  Jonathan leans on a wood pillar on the porch. He seems exhausted from simply getting up from a chair and taking a step or two toward us. I feel sorry for him for a fraction of a second.

  That sympathy ends very quickly as he tells me…

  Chapter 3

  “I’m taking your house until you return Gordo to me.”

  Jonathan tells us this as he motions for a couple of his goons to enter my house. One after another they storm into the place as if there were a free meat buffet inside. Bear Boy stays next to Jonathan’s chair with his gun resting by his side. Such a good boy.

  I stand.

  I raise my gun.

  Bear Boy raises his.

  “You can relax,” Jonathan says. “They will not harm your home. Everything will stay in its rightful place. I know what the place means to you. Obviously, or I wouldn’t be taking it, right?”

  I keep my gun on him. I feel Bear Boy’s gun on me. I feel Skinny Drake’s eyes on me. Can’t tell if he wants me to pull the trigger or lower my weapon. I’m pretty sure he wants me to pull the trigger and keep pulling until I reach a dry click, but ya never know. He wants, as I do, to unload a gun into this man’s skull and watch the body fall.

  For what he’s done to us in the past.

  For what he can do to us now.

  For what he will do to us in the future.

  I feel Skinny Drake’s hand on my shoulder. Evidence of a cooler head prevailing. I give him a slight nod of acknowledgement but keep my gun on Jonathan because, ya know, fuck this guy.

  Jonathan’s expression doesn’t bother to change. No alteration in his gaze. Not a single blink. As if having a gun on him is a normal way of life. Something that just happens. Another day in the life of Jonathan McCluskey.

  He turns, moving back to his chair as slow as an elderly turtle. He waves his hand to Bear Boy as he passes him. Bear Boy locks his eyes with mine and raises his hand to me, as if asking for me to hold on. He lowers his gun then moves toward one of the Yukons.

  As Jonathan takes his seat in the wheelchair I keep my gun trained on him, but also keep an eye on Bear Boy. I want them both to know I’m still considering blasting Jonathan into oblivion. I know he doesn’t care, but it comforts me.

  “What makes you think I’ll get all blubbery over this house? What makes you think that little threat will make me do what you want?”

  Jonathan relights, taking a massive puff on his cigar. He considers my questions for a moment then says, “Teddy. So strong. So tough.”

  “Patronizing me isn’t a solid way to start, Johnny Boy.”

  Bear Boy returns holding a large box in his arms. It’s sealed with tape. I turn my attention back to Jonathan, who simply smiles back at me with a finger pointed toward the box. Bear Boy moves past me and Skinny Drake as he disappears into the house.

  I know Jonathan wants me to ask.

  I’m not going to ask.

  Skinny Drake asks, “What’s in the box?”

  “Sorry,” Jonathan says, “there’s nothing in there for you. That box is all about your new best friend. Sorry, your new sister.”

  “Awww, not even my birthday,” I say, my gun still on him.

  “That box contains items from your childhood, Teddy. Much like the vase. Ten or so items, I think. The exact number escapes me.”

  I lower my gun.

  My stomach sinks, then twists, before it hits the ground.

  Jonathan smiles that smile again.

  “You son of a bitch,” I say. “You’re holding my childhood hostage?”

  “Something like that.”

  My mouth goes dry. I fight to think of what’s in the box. The sensation from the vase is still fresh in my head, like wet paint on a masterpiece I’m dying to touch.

  There was that crack of a memory I experienced.

  A taste of the past that one item, that vase, led me to. The reality of opening up my closed mind is something I never let myself consider before a few hours ago. I’ve accepted that my melon is busted as hell, never to be corrected. It is simply understood. A fact of my life. I’ve worked around that fact and carved out a life the best I could.

  Then the vase.

  That damn vase changed everything in the blink of an eye. It showed me with lightning speed that my past is still inside my head. My mushed all to hell melon does hold some value and that vase revealed that to me. What really sucks about all this? What’s burning me down from the inside out? The fact McCluskey has had it all along. All these years.

  What else does he have?

  Is there enough crap in that box to bring it all back?

  Can I get all the memories of my parents back?

  I can feel the water pooling large in my eyes. I don’t want this monster to see me cry, but at the same time I don’t care. I feel raw. Exposed. A stripped nerve unprotected out in world. I’m sure that’s exactly what this piece of shit planned on when he got up this morning. He wants to break me wide open so I’ll do what he wants. This is what he does. This is who he is.

  This father of mine.

  “That’s a good girl,” he says, studying my face.

  Skinny Drake stops me from blowing his face off.

  Chapter 4

  Skinny Drake drives.

  Despite him having his arm in a dog sling, I’m too pissed off to drive.

  Jonathan gave us one of his cars. Not a Porsche. That would have been too much to ask I suppose. I feel like I’ve downgraded. Jesus, is that where I’m at now? Pissed off about cars? Upset I don’t have a red Porsche to risk my life in?

  I need help.

  He gave us a Yukon. It’s a nice ride, loaded, and Skinny Drake found some Steely Dan on satellite radio, but none of it helps me with the fit of anger shakes I’ve got rumbling through me at the moment.

  Can’t help but think how I should have killed that son of a bitch.

  I could’ve taken him out right then and there. Of course we would have had to shoot it out with his goons. That couldn’t have gone all kinds of different ways. It’s a very red light, green light type of deal I’ve learned. Extremely binary. They die or we die. I’ve played that game before. Done it recently. Lived through it. Skinny Drake and I both have. Together.

  I’ve also started thinking about this situation. The one I’m in right now. What do I care if Gordo took Jonathan’s money? Took our money? I never had any money to begin with, so why do I need it now so damn much? I have no idea what Gordo’s maste
r plan is and it doesn’t really matter to me.

  That’s not true.

  Gordo gave us a view of a different life for us. A life we wanted badly, and that money unlocked that view.

  Money matters. As much as I hate to admit it, it does.

  Jonathan gave us a bit more info about Gordo before we left.

  Aside from Gordo having a different name, him being my brother and not my uncle, he has managed to screw me and Skinny Drake over pretty good. Gordo reversed the wires and sucked the money out from our accounts, and there is a really strong chance the rest of the money we were promised is not coming our way. We were scheduled to receive all the investments and real estate from the McCluskey trust. Didn’t matter if Jonathan was alive or not. He was incapacitated and couldn’t make sound decisions in his present state of mind.

  Now it seems Gordo has taken all of the loot from the estate for himself.

  Oh that Gordo, he’s a smoothy.

  Skinny Drake and I have a fair amount of cash on us, actual physical cash, but that’s all we’ve got and it will run out eventually. We could get by for a year or two, maybe more if we play things right, but it’s hardly the kind of money you retire on.

  Ain’t enough to pay off the house.

  Ain’t fuck you money.

  Ain’t what was sitting in my bank account not long ago. I called the bank a few minutes ago. That douche Gordo did indeed reverse the wires, and he did it days ago knowing I’d be way too busy to check the balance on a regular basis—he was the one keeping me busy.

  I’m getting more and more pissed at Gordo by the second. I want to be happy he’s giving it to Jonathan and all that, but the fact he lied like a son of a bitch to me and Skinny Drake and left us out in the cold has me wanting to hurt the man. I knew I couldn’t trust him.

  Now he’s my brother to boot.

  Dammit.

  That money. That was the main point of this whole damn thing, and now I don’t have it to pay off the house. Not to mention, the house is being held hostage by my asshole father and his goons, along with a box that could possibly give me back the memories that very same asshole robbed from me in the first place.