Two in the Head

by Eric Beetner

“Tell me where the fuck he is.”

  “I’ll let him tell you.” Blake made a slow, deliberate move for his pocket. “My phone,” he explained. He lifted out an iPhone, pressed the screen and clicked the volume buttons on the side to turn up the speakerphone.

  Sam shifted her weight on her feet, annoyed, losing control of the situation. I felt her nervous stomach knot up in my own like I swallowed a D-size battery.

  The screen came to life on Blake’s phone. A video call—like we’d been told about since the Jetsons and here it was, the most modern of technology to handle a good old fashioned hostage situation.

  “Lucas?” Blake asked.

  “I’m here.” The camera view swung around and Lucas’s face filled the screen. There wasn’t much detail behind him, but he stood indoors and it looked familiar, though I couldn’t place it.

  “Your sister is alive.”

  “Thank God.”

  Blake panned the camera phone over to the couch where Marjorie and Barry didn’t paint the most convincing picture of calm.

  Marjorie pleaded with her brother. “Lucas, what the hell is happening here?”

  “Calm down Marjorie. We’ll take care of this, I promise.”

  Oh, Lucas. So quick with a promise. Promises to clients, promises to me about dinners I knew would never happen. Promises to his sister there might be any other way out of this than completely fucked.

  “I asked for you shitbag,” Sam said. “Not your messenger boy.”

  She really was an unpleasant person, this other side of me. I hope I didn’t let too much of her slip out before. It’s not often you’re confronted with the worst version of yourself, and good thing. It’s miserable. And she sometimes tries to kill you and your friends.

  “Let them go,” Lucas said. I had to hand it to him, he appeared remarkably strong for someone with zero experience at this. Blake must have coached him well.

  “No fucking way. You didn’t listen to me, why should I listen to you?”

  “You want your money, don’t you?”

  Sam threw up her hands. “Jesus Christ, to think I wanted to marry you.”

  “Show her, Lucas,” Blake said.

  Lucas panned his camera phone over and the familiar room made sense. I couldn’t believe it and I knew damn well she didn’t either. Lucas stood in Calder and Rizzo’s condo.

  The brothers sat behind their desks silently. Obediently. Odd, I thought. There were boxes piled up like the boys were moving out. Good move. A little too late though.

  “What the hell is this?” Sam said.

  “You let them go or these guys get it. And you don’t get your twenty million.” Lucas swallowed hard, let out a little cough. That little move betrayed his façade of calm. I felt so proud of him in a way, doing some big boy work.

  “You’re not going to kill them Lucas. You can’t even shoot.” Sam raised her gun at Blake. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

  “I won’t kill them, you’re right. I’ll take them to jail though.”

  “You and what army?” she said, chuckling at the pure eighth grade playground silliness of it all.

  “Them.” Lucas panned the camera further left and six men were revealed. Calder and Rizzo’s subservience—explained. Who the hell these six Latino muscle men were helping Lucas was a harder question.

  Sam squinted into the tiny screen, taking in the faces, the guns they held, the total control they held over Calder and Rizzo. The men began to look familiar.

  “Blake,” I said. “What did you do?”

  “The midnight six,” he said. “I think you know them.”

  Sam’s face fell. She shook her head as if to say, “Well played, gentlemen. Well played.”

  The midnight six are a team of assassins for the Gran Tiburón cartel, Calder and Rizzo’s main rivals in Mexico. The exploits of the midnight six are legendary and if even half of it is true, they are some bad dudes. Decapitation? What else you got? Bodies dumped in the desert? Too high to count. Dismembered body parts mailed to relatives? Ought to get a discount at Fed Ex. These are the baddest of the bad. And Blake cut them some sort of deal.

  For me.

  Blake’s cover was blown, he’d be fired for going around DEA regulations. He should have a dozen cars up here storming the castle in blue windbreakers and kevlar, but he chose to keep it all in the family. I felt horrible about the whole unrequited love thing and wished like hell we could end this and somehow rehabilitate Sam so she could go with him and he could have what he always wanted. If he still wanted her, that is, after she shot him.

  Either way, it was a brilliant play.

  “What do you want?” Sam asked.

  “Let them go.” Lucas brought the camera back around to his face.

  “And then you’ll let them go?”

  “Yes.” I saw Blake starting to tense up. We’d reached a crucial moment in negotiating a hostage situation.

  “Bullshit. You’re lying.” She nodded her head toward me. “You still know how.”

  “We all just want this to be over,” Lucas said.

  “It could have been over if you hadn’t tried to get cute and you showed up here like I asked. Now I’m pissed off.”

  Blake spoke up. “Let me take them out of here. They’re not a part of this.”

  “Neither are you, fuckwad.” She thrust the gun at his nose. “God, marry him or fuck you. What shit choices I had.”

  “You might as well take a match to your twenty million,” Lucas said.

  “You already fucked me out of that, Lucas. You bring those psychos in there and expect me to believe Calder and Rizzo are walking out alive? You have me confused with the other one. She’s the shit-all stupid twin.”

  “Lucas,” I said. “Don’t do this for me. Call in the DEA. Call whoever you want. Don’t worry about protecting me. You’re the important one. You’ve got a case.”

  “I got no case without you, Samantha. I need what you know. I need my sister safe and I need you back here with me and the rest we can sort out.”

  I felt my forehead burning. The inside of my skull pulsed red hot. Sam. Her anger. I shuddered to think what inferno raged inside her head.

  “You now what Lucas? I’m not doing it for the money any more. Now I’m gonna kill you just because you really pissed me off.”

  Sam turned and shot Barry through the chest.

  “No. Wait!” Then Lucas was drowned out by the sound of gunfire on his end.

  Brilliant plan, Blake. Your big mistake? You didn’t plan on someone with no morals, no empathy and nothing to lose. You didn’t plan on the other side of me.

  LESS LIKE CLAY PIGEONS, MORE LIKE SITTING DUCKS

  I bet Barry forgot all about his hand.

  His eyes were saying, “I can’t believe it,” but his mouth said nothing because he couldn’t get any air in his lungs, what with the big hole in them and all. Right through the heart. I turned away from him. No point in watching another man die.

  All that in half a second as every living thing in the room moved at once. My mind stayed on the phone, the other end of it anyway. With Lucas. More than one gun fired and the image went all shaky before Blake jerked the phone away as he went for his gun.

  Like some coordinated dance move I went left, Sam went right, Blake crouched down and Marjorie flung her body over her husband. I headed for the couch. I hooked three fingers under the thin coffee table on my way and flipped it up, making a shield over the sofa as Sam ripped off another shot. Wood splintered and did little to stop the bullet which went on to dig deep into the meat on Marjorie’s arm. She wailed.

  Blake fired into the ceiling. I knew he was a great shot, maybe better than me (maybe) so I knew he’d fired a warning shot to distract Sam and give us some time.

  It bought me and Marjorie a few seconds, but only because Sam turned and shot Blake. He was already in motion after his shot so she clipped his back and I couldn’t tell how bad he’d be
en hit. He fell to the ground and spun as he did, firing a shot at her legs.

  I felt a hot poker singe the flesh on my right calf—my portion of the gunshot that tore through Sam’s leg. Her right knee hit the ground and she fired again, but missed.

  “What the fuck, Blake?” she yelled.

  Blake snaked his way across the carpet and picked up the fruit bowl that fell off the coffee table. He popped up like a cobra and slapped the ceramic bowl, emblazoned with a bright yellow sunflower, across Sam’s face. In stereo we yelped and she fell back as I fell forward onto Marjorie.

  Blake stood in a flash and grabbed my arm. “We gotta go.”

  I shook it off, still a little woozy. I knew she’d be worse. I held on to Marjorie’s arm, trying to think which was the shot one. I needed to get her out. A little more arm pain is nothing compared to what would happen if I left her there. A potato peeler? Only the opening act.

  “Let’s go, Marge,” I said.

  “Barry,” she said as tears streaked her face and slurred her words.

  Sam struggled to get her feet under her.

  Blake pulled hard and in a chain the three of us were yanked up from the couch. I watched as Marjorie let Barry’s hand slip from her grasp. His eyes were locked onto hers and he watched her go with the last few seconds of life. Marjorie howled the way you’d expect a woman leaving her nearly-dead husband behind.

  Sam fired again from a crouch and Marjorie took another bullet, to the leg this time. High, just below her well-padded behind. The cry of pain had nothing on the scream of anguish.

  Blake had left the door open. Old trick when you know you might want to escape a situation in a hurry. With him in the lead we hooked arms and sprinted out the door. Not before Sam managed one more shot catching Marjorie in her leg again. Those high meaty thighs took the shots and kept on pumping. As much as I hated to haul the extra weight behind me, damn I’m glad she kept that padding and could suck it up when the bullets came.

  Blake left the door open and the car running also. Always with a plan, that one. Some even work. He slid into the driver’s seat and I pushed Marjorie ahead of me into the back then tumbled in after her. Only when I landed on top of her did I realized the amount of blood she’d leaked.

  Blake didn’t wait for silly things like doors to be shut, he dropped the car in gear with his good arm and gunned it. Sam appeared in the doorway and fired another shot that sounded like it pierced the trunk lid. Blake made it half way down the block before she could shoot again.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, saw through her eyes. She walked inside with a limp, cursing like a sailor which I could barely hear over Marjorie’s sobbing. Sam walked over to the couch and stood over Barry. The hole over his heart pushed tiny gushers of blood out with each slowing muscle contraction.

  He moved his glazed eyes to her and, in effect, he stared right at me. Sam lifted her gun and pointed at Barry’s face. I braced for the shot, knowing from experience I could not look away. Somehow I found myself concerned with shielding Marjorie from seeing what went on in her living room. Crazy, I know, but crazy had become the norm.

  Sam lowered the gun, kept her gaze on Barry as her body shifted a bit and then her hand came back into view. This time she held Marjorie’s Smith and Wesson. The gun Barry insisted on giving her. The anniversary present. Sam displayed a flare for the dramatic, I’ll give her that.

  “You watching, bitch?” she said and fired a bullet into his forehead. The back of his head came apart and ruined the upholstery and the sunflower wallpaper behind the couch. No need to ever tell Marjorie.

  My senses were coming back to me. The fear driven dash to the car let me forget about the pain in my leg and my head for a second. “You’re going to a hospital, right?” I asked Blake.

  “Yeah.” His voice came out strained. I pushed up from the backseat and peered over the seat. He drove with one hand. I saw his blood-soaked shirt sticking to the seat back. Blake had been hit worse than I thought.

  I turned back to Marjorie to evaluate her wounds. Not good. Nothing vital seemed hit, just a lot of extra Oreos and Ben & Jerry’s that parked itself on Marge’s body. She’d live if we got her help soon. The biggest threat for her was loss of blood, and with three holes to leak from, Marjorie dripped like a leaky faucet.

  I seemed to have made it out the best with only two phantom injuries. I decided complaining about the pain would have been petty. I tried to put my leg pain in perspective. Marjorie’s had three actual bullets in her, where I had one invisible bullet wound. And the further the car got away form the house, the less I could feel it. The electricity between Sam and I lost voltage the more miles were between us.

  Lucas. I thought about Lucas.

  “Blake, is Lucas okay?”

  “Dunno.” He sucked air through his teeth, grinding through the pain. I reached over the seat, put my torso up on the headrest and bent down to dig through his pockets. My hands were as close as they’d even been to Blake’s dick, but I doubt he even noticed. I found his phone and lifted it out.

  Blank screen. Nothing. Disconnected.

  So Lucas could be dead anyway. I’d be devastated and Sam would be pissed she missed her chance to pull the trigger. With those midnight six nutjobs in the room, I’d be shocked if anything living came out of there. Potted plants wouldn’t stand a chance and Lucas could dodge bullets about as well.

  A horn blew and the car veered back into our own lane. I dropped the phone onto the seat next to Blake and caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. Not doing well.

  “Move over,” I said. “I’ll drive.”

  “You sure?”

  “Blake, you can hardly keep from passing out.”

  He eased the car to the shoulder. I noticed Marjorie stopped crying and I checked on her to make sure she wasn’t dead.

  “Marge?”

  She emitted a low groan. Hurt, but still with us. Groan all you want, Marjorie. It hurts to be shot. No need to tough it out like Blake here.

  Blake slid/I pushed him into the passenger seat, then I moved behind the wheel, my leg complaining as if I had a real and not a phantom bullet in there. The seat was soaked in blood. Felt like sitting into a bowl of soup. Warm, sticky and wet. I nearly gagged.

  I dropped the car in gear and pulled back out onto the road. I didn’t talk, didn’t ask them any questions. I left my passengers alone with their pain. Last thing I’d want if I had to bite through multiple bullet wounds would be someone wanting to know what came next. Hospital, morphine, extraction with forceps. That’s what came next for these two.

  I focused on the road outside. I tried to zero in my mind on the flashing white lines the same way I had on the trigger to Marge’s Smith and Wesson. Go. Move. Faster. Get these two to safety so this day isn’t a total disaster like the others. I didn’t pull the trigger on her, I didn’t kill myself and Sam at the same time. Might as well make some use of myself if I’m going to be around. Lord knows no one would have gotten shot at all if I had the guts or the power over my little damn finger.

  I wondered if that’s how everyone who does it views suicide. An easing of the burden on everyone else.

  I passed a sign: SPEED LIMIT 45. I checked the speedometer. 47. Hell yeah.

  Despite the headache I bared down like a woman in labor and pushed the car up above 55. A little bit of balance. A tiny rule broken. Hope that I could be at least somewhat bad again.

  Like I said at the start, everyone has a bad side. God damn but I wanted a little taste of mine back.

  ER (EMERGENCY ROOM),

  GSW (GUN SHOT WOUND),

  WTF (WHAT THE FUCK?)

  I parked in the Emergency lane. Fuck ‘em. I ran around to the passenger door and helped Blake out. I knew better than to try to lug both of them and Marjorie was a much bigger task. Still moaning in the backseat, I knew she’d keep until I could get the pros out with a gurney.

  Blake leaned hard on me. I took easily eighty perce
nt of his body weight. When the automatic doors slid open I started yelling right away.

  “I need help. He’s been shot!”

  Everyone in the waiting room turned. Six people, none of them bleeding. I hope they all felt a little silly to be clogging up an ER with a case of the sniffles.

  A man and a woman in light blue scrubs came running out to meet me. The man scoped his shoulder under Blake’s other arm and took his weight off me.

  “There’s another one in the car,” I said.

  Gunshot wounds get reported to the police. I knew that. I’d walked into a hornet’s nest and I didn’t give a damn. Let them have me. Lock me away again. I’ll testify for Lucas even if she’s never caught. Of course, after all the gunfire I heard over the phone, I started to doubt if my testimony would be necessary.

  Two more male nurses came out of the back wheeling a gurney. I led them out to the car and opened the back door. Marjorie’s hand flopped out and for a second I thought she was dead, but then she picked up her steady moaning.

  The nurses muscled her out of the car and set her down on the white sheets of the rolling bed. They hustled off like the flag fell on the Gurney 500 and they were in pole position, leaving me in the dust.

  As I staggered in a stern looking nurse approached me with a clipboard.

  “What happened?”

  “They were shot.”

  “I can see that, what happened?”

  “I just told you.” I managed to sound genuinely annoyed. The balance came back easier now. Soon I’d graduate to bitchy and be back to my normal self. Well, maybe not so fast.

  “Fill this out,” She said and shoved the clipboard at me. I took it and the pen attached with a chain flopped over the side and hung there like a suicide. All eyes in the waiting room were still on me and I didn’t care.

  The forms asked for name, address, insurance information. Very little I knew off the top of my head. I wandered back to the bays where small flocks of doctors crowded around the new arrivals. I saw an older black woman wheeled out from behind a curtain and left in the hall to wait while some real excitement took place. She rolled to a stop facing the wall and didn’t bother to move herself, just sat hunchbacked and staring at a taped up flyer about parking validation.