Flash Crash

by Denison Hatch

  ■

  It had begun when he was a child, with the screaming in his house. His father was also named Jake. Jake was actually Jake Rivett, Junior. But he’d dropped the nod to his family tree when he’d moved to New York City. Even though Jake shared the man’s name, he wanted nothing to do with him. The word “Junior” placed him squarely in a stack with a man whom he hated. The moniker jammed him right back in the living room in Albany, where Jake Senior was screaming at the television in between swigs of whiskey. Most of the dads on Jake’s block would use any downtime to play catch with their kids, do yardwork, or hustle up a home-improvement project. Jake Senior would spend his time in front of the television, watching sports. And the drinking—oh, the drinking. The only time that Senior would leave the house during the weekend was to get more alcohol or pal around with his friends at the bar on Main Street a half mile away. While Jake’s mother was out in the yard mowing the grass, Senior would stumble past her without a word. Jake would watch from the window and then go outside himself. He’d have to ask his mother to throw a baseball with him. And she would do that, but she would never speak ill of her husband or tell Jake how disrespected she felt. She wasn’t an apologist. She just didn’t say anything. Her policy was silence, and muted depression her sentence.

  Jake Senior was a functioning alcoholic. Ironically he was also a high-ranking police officer who would later become the chief of police, until it all came crashing down. Senior stopped himself from drinking when he was in the office or out on a shift. But the rest of the time was spent with the bottle. It wasn’t a huge problem during the week. That’s not to say it wasn’t extremely evident. Senior would arrive home a few minutes before six. And just as the old grandfather clock in the dining room started to ring, the first beer would be open. By the time it was ten or eleven, he would be asleep, surrounded by a Stonehenge of bottles and glasses.

  The weekends were worse, because he could start as early as he liked. By the time the evening came along, Senior would always have found something to get mad about—something that Jake’s mom hadn’t done right, or a tidbit he’d heard in the news, or the tragedy of his favorite team losing. He’d turn that perceived slight into a tirade. He’d stand up and he’d beat his chest, and he’d rap his knuckles across the dinner table. He’d smash glasses. He’d rage at Jake’s mother for hours. She was so stupid. He didn’t want to eat chicken again. He wanted a goddamn hamburger. Men like red meat. How did she not know? Why didn’t she understand what he was thinking? He was sorry. No, he wasn’t. He was under pressure at work, and none of them realized how hard it was. He was supporting all of them. What the fuck didn’t she understand about that? It wasn’t his fault. She brought the anger out in him. It was her fault—and society’s. It was all the criminals running around the place those days. The country was going to hell in a handbasket and had been since the New Deal. Racial tension was on the rise because of Bill Clinton. We’d lost so much culture because we couldn’t sing in blackface any more. If the Yankees lost again, Joe Torre would have to be taken outside and shot.

  Jake would hide in his room. He’d cup his hands around his head so that he couldn’t hear the rages, but the sound waves would still work their way through his fingers. He’d talk to himself. Sometimes he’d pretend that he was a spy, or a soldier, or a detective. He was solving the case. He was beating the Germans. He was catching the terrorist. He would walk around the room, only allowing the verbose and maximized volume rants from the living room to seep into the edges of his stories. When he was a little older, he’d started singing. And the songs that Jake sang were not fun, rhythmic pop songs or romantic ballads. He would scream and he would do it in unison with his father’s tantrums.

  One evening while he was in the middle of screaming, his father opened the door.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Senior asked with manic, bloodshot eyes.

  “Same thing you are,” Jake replied defiantly.

  Senior pushed his way in. Jake could see his mother standing in the living room, watching quietly.

  “You’ll never speak like that to me again. You think this life is a right? Ain’t nothing like that! Living in this house is a privilege,” Senior raged.

  “Whatever . . .” Jake retorted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You little bastard. Everything you’ve got—all those CD’s, that CD player—I paid for it. You don’t want it? That’s what you’re telling me?” Senior asked.

  “Who cares? I don’t! Take it!” Jake screamed right back. He was angry. He’d never talked back to his father like this, but the rage was spilling out of him unabated. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Fuck you!”

  Senior bounded at him and with one heavy swipe slammed Jake to the ground. He reared up with his knee and fired down on Jake on the ground like a piston, kicking him—once, twice, a third time—as Jake rolled into the fetal position on the floor. Senior stomped out of the room.

  The next day Senior went to work as though nothing had happened. Jake’s mother said nothing, as per usual. But when Jake came home from school, he noticed that she had poured out all of the beer. There were thirty empty cans in the kitchen trash bin. She had also hidden all of Senior’s liquor.

  When Senior returned that evening and saw what had happened, the savage beast emerged. He quickly located the beer cans in the trash, but he didn’t believe she would have had the audacity to pour out his liquor. So he broke the whole house down looking for it while Jake and his mother sat at the dining room table nervously. He ripped through all the cabinets in the kitchen. He clawed underneath the bed in the master bedroom, and then proceeded to yank out each and every drawer from the dressers. About an hour later, Jake heard the chime of seven o’clock on the grandfather clock. But the tone was off. Senior approached the clock like a bull in a china shop. He flipped open the door and spied a pile of liquor bottles inside. He’d located the hiding spot. Senior couldn’t quite reach to the bottom, so he simply grabbed the metal chord inside the grandfather clock and ripped it out with his bare hands. He turned to the two of them, who were still watching silently.

  “I hate this goddamn clock,” Senior snarled, holding the chords in his hand. “Your father gave it to us. He was a prick. It’s a hand-me-down.”

  “It’s an antique,” Jake’s mother replied calmly.

  “Well, soon, it’s gonna be trash,” Senior replied. He yanked out the four bottles of liquor that she’d stored inside. He placed them on the table one by one. He picked up a bottle of vodka and slowly unscrewed the cap. He poured a quarter of the clear liquid down his throat while staring at the two of them. He burped. Then Senior kicked the grandfather clock as hard as he could. It started to teeter, and he charged it like an offensive lineman. The clock tipped and fell onto the floor. Senior jumped on it, pitting his two hundred pounds of cop muscle against a few screws and glue. He smashed the wood, splintering the grandfather clock completely. He shattered the glass clock face, ruining the timepiece, and yanked out the spindle columns holding the fine workmanship together.

  Jake Rivett Jr., age fifteen, couldn’t bear to watch anymore. He took one more glance at his mother before he ran out of the house and down the street, screaming his head off. He didn’t go home that night. He snuck onto the Amtrak train to New York City. And after he disembarked, he wandered his way to Chinatown.

  ■

  The actual name of the music was “screamo,” Jake’s preferred musical genre. He opened his eyes as he finished singing. Schaub, the drummer, stood up from behind the drum set. He walked around and plopped down on a couch across from Jake.

  “Something on your mind?” Schaub asked.

  “It’s been a rough few days,” Jake said.

  “Still can’t believe you’re a fuckin’ cop,” Schaub said.

  “Yeah? Well I still can’t believe you’re alive.”

  “Well, I am. Know why?” Schaub asked as he opened a small decorated wood
en box on the table. “’Cuz I take my medicine.” There were a few rolled marijuana joints in the box. Schaub picked one up and lit it. “You’re not gonna, like, arrest me, right?” Schaub asked.

  “Expect a civil citation in the mail,” Jake joked.

  Schaub closed his eyes and took a huge hit from the jay. He exhaled a smoky mass into the center of the room. Marco, one of the sound engineers working the booth, stepped in from the other room and asked, “Can I get a hit, bro?”

  “No, you cannot. This here man is a police officer,” Schaub replied.

  Marco glanced at Jake. Jake shrugged in the affirmative. Marco turned around and hightailed it out of there.

  “They got you working that gold robbery that’s on the news, don’t they?” Schaub asked.

  “I can’t talk about it. You know that,” Jake replied.

  Schaub took another puff from the joint. “You should smoke more weed,” Schaub said.

  “I don’t smoke any,” Jake replied.

  “I know why you sing, Jake. The whole black-leather thing, the hair . . .” Schaub said.

  “I’d love to hear your opinion.”

  “’Cuz deep down inside you’re still a schoolboy from Great Neck revolting against your mama who dressed you until you were twelve and your papa who absolutely, definitely worked for the government,” Schaub guessed.

  “It was Albany,” Jake finally replied.

  Schaub smiled. He extended his fist. Jake fist bumped it.

  “Ready to go again?” Jake said. “Now that you’ve had your meds?”

  “Sure. But hold on. I brought a little . . . inspiration,” Schaub replied.

  Schaub ducked into a side hallway. The band got ready to record again. Jake fiddled with the settings on a nearby amp.

  “Who’s ready to rawwkkk?” Schaub suddenly screamed. Jake turned to notice that Schaub had re-entered the room wearing leather chaps and a leather bra. But that wasn’t all. Over his face and shoulders, Schaub had placed a completely lifelike prosthetic woman’s face. Like some macabre nightmare from a Gene Simmons dream, Schaub’s frozen-in-time prosthetic face belied expression.

  “You are demented,” Jake said as he chuckled.

  “That’s harsh. Does my appearance change what you think of me?” Schaub asked. “Why can’t I be whoever I want to be—man or woman? Isn’t that the dream?”

  A thought flashed across Jake’s brain. It started out far away and deep, only tapping the sonar of his synapses briefly. And then it began to multiply rapidly until it was the only thing Jake could think about. The rest of the room laughed while Schaub spun around and pirouetted—except for Jake. Jake sprinted out of the room without notice.

  “Fuck. I’m stoned. Should I have waxed? Is that why he left? What did I say? Was it something I said?” Schaub asked.

  EIGHTEEN

  MEANWHILE, AN AMBULANCE DROVE up to the Belovs’ house in Bensonhurst. The back door of the ambulance opened and Marina helped Mikey out. A paramedic lifted the IV pole down and Marina taught Mikey how to push the IV into the house.

  ■

  Once inside, Marina cleaned Mikey’s portable intravenous insulin pump and the injection zone on his thigh.

  “I’ll be okay, Mummy. Know why?” Mikey announced positively as Marina held the needle just above his skin.

  “Why, honey?”

  “Because I’m a brave little man,” Mikey said.

  At this moment, Marina caught sight of a person stepping into the doorway of Mikey’s room. Startled, she dropped the needle haphazardly on the floor. She peered up to find Jake Rivett standing there and holding his helmet. She rose and angrily pushed Jake out of the room.

  “What are you doing in my house?” Marina demanded.

  Jake held up his cell phone. An official document was displayed with a circuit court seal on it. “This is a digitally signed search warrant, executed five minutes ago by Judge Nichols. So basically, to answer your question, I’m in your house because I have the power of the law behind me, and you don’t have one ounce of choice in the matter,” Jake said.

  Marina realized that in addition to Jake, Villalon and four more crime-scene investigators stood in the foyer. “Are you serious? You’re going to do this to us again?”

  “Where is he?” Jake asked Marina.

  “I have no idea. I don’t know what David got himself wrapped up into. I don’t know why any of this happened, and honestly, what you’re asking me is exactly the same thing I’ve been asking myself—over and over again. If I had that answer, I’d be a much happier woman right now and so would my son.”

  Jake listened to Marina’s response carefully, attempting to calibrate her words. What shook him the most was how honest she sounded. Of course, he remained wary. He’d already made the mistake of believing a witness who seemed truthful, only to get stung when the case shifted like a boomerang and flew right back into the cuckoo’s nest itself. But he was still a man, and a human, and he relied on his intuition to survive. In this case, what he heard from the wife seemed like the truth. The conclusion didn’t comfort him. The paradox was that most husbands and wives tell their partners everything, even the ones who hate each other for the ninety-five percent of the time that they aren’t having sex. But the Belov family seemed to have a real bond with one another, which would imply that they would share their plans. And if that was the case, then why didn’t she know where her husband was?

  ■

  Jake huddled his team together in the hallway. “You know what we’re looking for. They just came back from the hospital, so let’s do this quick. And if you mess with the kid, I’ll mess with you.”

  Tony Villalon and the CSI team moved to the basement, where they set up folding lights. They conducted an itemized search of piled-up plastic storage bins and the rest of the basement. They opened a bin to reveal various cheap Halloween costumes.

  ■

  In Marina and David’s bedroom, Jake carefully picked through the items in Marina’s closet. Marina watched him from the corner of the bedroom, her arms folded defiantly across her chest.

  “What didn’t you find last time—that you won’t find now?” Marina asked.

  “Any other costumes in the house? Cosmetic items? Wigs or masks?” Jake questioned.

  “Is it Halloween?” Marina retorted.

  “Answer my question, please.”

  “No—just what’s in the basement.”

  Jake rose, seemingly satisfied. “So you haven’t heard from him?”

  “Oh my god,” Marina exclaimed. “You’re impossible. Are you done yet?”

  Jake took in Marina’s contempt. “I read the report about what happened to you and Mikey,” he said. “I know what went down. I saw the pictures they sent. I’m really sorry about that. I am. The truth is that I know it was all too real for you, and that’s what makes it real for me. But I can’t leave any stone unturned. It wouldn’t be right. If you think about it, that wouldn’t do justice to you, either. You’re a victim. I know that. But your husband? I don’t know what he is. I need the truth. My old man was a jerk, but he taught me one thing I’ve always held with me: What separates humanity from chaos is the difference between right and wrong. Okay? I want to be right.”

  “They scared the living daylights out of Mikey.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But they didn’t really touch me—not like that.” Marina looked up and met Jake in the eyes. “They could have. They could have done anything. I had to accept that I was going to die. And all you can do is come in here in the middle of the night, harass me, and frighten my son—instead of getting your ass on your motorcycle and going out there and finding the cocksuckers that did this to us,” she said. A heavy tension rested in the air between them. “I have to put Mikey to bed,” she announced as she turned towards the door.

  “Mrs. Belov?” Jake asked. She turned back. “The truth is that your husband’s a fugitive. If he hasn’t got anything to hide, why’s he running? I don’t know why yo
u’d want to protect the person who did this,” he said.

  “David did not do this,” Marina said sharply.

  “He was involved,” Jake replied.

  “No. I know my husband. I know everything about him, and I know his heart. He would never knowingly put me or Mikey in danger—not in a million years. Something else is going on. You better figure out what that is,” Marina replied.

  Jake wasn’t sure how to respond. It was rare that the push and pull was so powerful. On one hand, he wanted to slap handcuffs on her for impeding the investigation. But on the other, he knew that she was completely right. He needed to figure this out.

  “Good night, Mrs. Belov,” he finally said.

  ■

  Outside the house, Jake conferred with Villalon on the steps.

  “Get the Stingray,” Jake ordered.

  “There’s procedure for that. Need a national security letter, which I don’t think we’ll get—”

  “Tony. When you look at me, what part of me do you think cares about procedure?”

  ■

  Marina watched Jake and his team exit the yard. Her face twisted as she walked along the landing and entered Mikey’s room. But she was blocked by a wall of wooden building blocks. She stepped over it and found Mikey sitting on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Marina asked.

  “I wanted to build a fort.”

  “I see that, honey. You need to rest.”

  “Who else is going to protect us if I don’t?” Mikey said.

  “We’ll be fine. I promise.” Marina comforted him. She grabbed Mikey underneath his arms and pulled him up onto the bed. It was only then that she noticed he was holding the green Froggie Finger device in his little hands. “Why do you have Froggie? I know where you are, silly.”

  “I thought if I pressed its nose enough times, then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Daddy might come back,” Mikey said.

  This hit Marina in the gut. She stuffed Froggie into her pocket and pulled the covers over Mikey.