The bank was almost empty when he pulled up to the curb, so he felt comfortable enough leaving her in the back seat in her fluffy cat costume. It took longer than he wanted and when he got back to the car he saw he only had 20 minutes before show time. Aubrey was still rehearsing, hardly aware that Father Time was starting to turn on them. So with cash in his pocket and Aubrey in the back, he backed out into the highway.
And was immediately rammed in the back.
The airbag deployed, Aubrey screamed, and there was the grating crunch of his crushed car fishtailing in the street. All of this probably happened in five seconds, but in Greg's mind it felt like five minutes. Especially Aubrey's piercing scream, which seemed to go on forever in his ears, then all of a sudden cut off as if someone had pressed pause.
The car stopped spinning with a final jerk and faced the smashed hood of a beat up grey sedan from the seventies. Greg saw the driver behind the cracked windshield and the sight of him waking from his daze made him think of Aubrey. He turned to the backseat, feeling a crackle in his lower spine that was very unpleasant.
He saw Aubrey leaning against the window, next to a big indention where the seventies sedan had struck the car. Her eyes were closed and there was a wet clump of red hair stuck to her forehead. Blood trailed down her cheek and dripped like a leaky faucet onto her costume. Time seemed to freeze then and for what felt like an eternity he stared at her beautiful face. Her calm, beautiful face. Somewhere in that time he started to cry.
Then she touched her hand to her forehead and felt the blood. She didn't open her eyes but Greg knew she was breathing and felt himself breathe again.
The next thing Greg knew, he was looking at the back of a red Chicago hat, staring into the solemn eyes of a snorting bull. The head it rested on was rushing toward the trunk of the seventies sedan.
Greg opened his door slowly. He would need the guy’s insurance information and while he was at it he might knock the hat off his head just to make himself feel better.
Vaguely Greg heard the trunk of the car slam shut. Behind the smoking sedan, a young guy with short dreads sticking out from beneath the Bulls hat was pulling a black duffel bag over his shoulder. Greg called out to him.
In response, he got the stiff report of a pistol, the quick clang of a bullet hitting the hood of his car, and the sound of sneakers beating the pavement. The guy disappeared into the distance in the blink of an eye.
After that all was still, all was slow, and Father Time was pleased.
Greg meanwhile was trembling with anger. He wanted to chase after the guy in the Bulls hat, but he was long gone and the crackle in Greg's spine was now becoming a pop. He knew running would just bring the final snap, so he stayed put. A part of him wanted to raid the seventies sedan for insurance information or an ID so he could sue him, but he knew that was a waste. Greg had years of experience to call on, but he didn't need any of it to know there was either drugs or guns in the bag. Which meant the guy probably wasn't carrying ID.
Instead Greg hobbled over and snapped a picture of the guy's license plate on his phone. A red bandana was caught in the trunk lid, which he snatched as well before returning to his car.
Aubrey was still unconscious and the father in him woke up with an angry jab at his heart. He dialed 911 and luckily there was an ambulance nearby. It carried both of them to the hospital.
-Son-
Aubrey was alive. That was the good news. The bad news, she was in a coma and none of her doctors could say for sure whether she would come out of it the same as before. If ever.
Greg's diagnosis was simpler. There was a small fracture in his vertebrae and he would be in a lot of pain while it healed. To him, that just meant he wouldn't be playing basketball for a while, but he would recover. His only response when the doctor told him was, "What about Aubrey?"
A whole month had been taken from her so far and that was already a month too many. Greg had taken his anger out on his wife and the occasional nurse that happened to walk into the red line of his sights. When the police came and told him they had no new information or suspects, he took it out on them too.
They had impounded the car and found a few ounces of marijuana in the dash and an illegal gun under the seat, but no sign of the driver. He had slipped off the grid, leaving Greg with nowhere to turn and not even a glimmer of hope. He didn't even get a name.
That was when he started going to the bar. At least there he could drown his pain and blurt out his frustrations to the closest ear that would listen. It kept Melanie out of the crossfire, but nothing could alleviate the anger.
Then one day, close to five weeks after the accident, Greg was holed up at the bar watching the top plays of the day on ESPN when a familiar face came up behind him. It was Buddy Alton, the "son" of Alton and Son, and a good friend from the office. Greg was thrilled to see him, especially after his fourth shot of bourbon just finished searing his throat.
"There you are," Buddy said. "I've been looking for you. Guess what."
"What?"
"We got him."
"Who?"
Buddy grasped Greg's shoulder. His eyes were gleaming almost as bright as his smile. "We got Frankie!"
Greg felt unused muscles in his face twitch. "You're kidding? You really got him?"
"He's sitting in a cell right now with three of the biggest, ugliest guards we could find. Trial starts tomorrow."
"That's fantastic!" Greg extended his hand and Buddy shook it emphatically. "Please tell me we got him on camera or a good witness."
"Better. They have his DNA all over a recently fired pistol and the body of the drug dealer he used it on."
"That's incredible. That's the best news I've heard in weeks."
Buddy's smile didn't falter, but his tone filled with concern. "How's Bry?"
"Still under," Greg said. He tapped the bar next to his glass and the bartender came with another glass for Buddy. He filled them both to the line.
"On me," Buddy said as he walked away. The bartender nodded.
"I don't know what to do, Buddy. Aubrey hasn't shown any sign of recovering. Melanie is on edge. And I've just been making things worse. Every day, worse and worse."
"It's not your fault. And I should know, I'm a lawyer," he paused just long enough for Greg's lip to rise meekly and fall. "It was a hit and run and the guy was gone before you ever saw him.
What else could you do?"
Greg shook his head. "No I saw him. I saw him clear as day. I saw his face right after he hit me, through his windshield."
"What did he look like?"
"Like every high school kid I've ever seen. Nothing special, nothing to remember him by. Just his face, some dreadlocks, and a hat. But I'd recognize that face in an instant."
Buddy exhaled and tapped his fingers lightly on the bar. "That's tough. You could pick him out of a line up if they ever grabbed him but any good lawyer would say your judgment was clouded at the time."
"I know what he looks like," Greg said with a bite of anger.
"Doesn't matter, the chances of finding him are astronomical." He gritted his teeth as if there was some leftover bourbon on his tongue. "Unless Aubrey died of course. Then they might try to find him. Get a sketch artist to work with you."
"What the Hell, man?" Greg pulled his eyes from the bottom of the shot glass and laid them hard on Buddy.
"I'm just saying, the only way this guy goes down is if they catch him red-handed. Then you would still have to identify him and..."
"You have a point, Alton, or you just trying to cheer me up? Cause let me tell you, you’re doing a damn good job."
Greg felt some of that misplaced anger coming back, though he was pretty sure he knew where he wanted to place this bit of rage.
"What would you do, G-man? If you found this guy what would you do?"
Thoughts of Aubrey in the back seat with one red highlight streaking her silky blonde hair. Her face still and vacant. "I'd knock his freakin’ jaw into his skull."
"Damn straight."
"Really?"
Greg's whole body was trembling. He felt like knocking Buddy's jaw out of whack, but he knew he would never do that. He would no sooner do harm to Buddy than he would Aubrey. He turned back to his glass and said, "Go to Hell, Buddy."
"Exactly. Everybody wants revenge but when it comes to it, most people don't have the stomach for it. That's not a criticism, just an observation.”
The bartender poured two more shots, but Greg left his sitting. Buddy had managed to take the mood out of drinking. Greg was just about to walk out and leave him with the tab when Buddy thumped his hand down on the bar and slid something across the wood under his palm. He moved his hand to reveal a plain white business card.
Buddy was circling his finger in the air before Greg could speak. "Flip it," he said eagerly.
Greg flipped it and read the words printed in fine black ink. It read:
Got a score to settle?
Can't involve the police?
Don't know where to start?
Get Duped!
We Never Fail.
There was a phone number at the bottom. No name, no address, just a 10 digit number. Greg read the card twice before he started to laugh. When he saw Buddy was smiling, he laughed harder.
"You had me pissed for a minute, but it was worth it in the end."
Buddy, still smiling, "I'm not joking. Call the number. They can help."
"Ok, I'll bite. Whose number is this?"
Buddy stood, threw back his shot and left a bill large enough to cover all the drinks on the counter. "They're good people. Call them, they'll help you get what you need." He started to walk away. Before he got to the door, "Peace of mind, Greg. You won't regret it."
-Mother-
Greg woke up just before sunrise, sitting crooked in the chair next to Aubrey’s bed. A vague pounding in his head and the sight of his shoes strewn across the floor told him he had passed out some time that evening. He barely remembered leaving the bar. All he could remember was laughing.
Melanie was curled up cat-like on the small couch on the other side of the room. Greg got up quietly and went to the bathroom. When he came back the couch was empty.
Melanie stood over Aubrey, one hand on her forehead, the other intertwined with Aubrey's limp fingers. "Do you think she will ever wake up?"
"I hope so, Mel. God I hope so."
She stroked Aubrey's arm. "I still can't believe this happened."
"I know."
“And the guy's still out there, probably doesn't even know he shouldn't be. Probably doesn't even know what he's done."
The guy, Greg thought. Something about the guy beneath the Bulls hat. Something...
"Are you going to do it?" Melanie asked.
"Do what?"
"God. I don't know why you let Buddy buy you all those shots. You can't remember the sky is up and Hell is down when you drink liquor."
Buddy? Buddy, back at the bar. He had left money on the counter and Greg slid the bill to the bartender and said 'This many please.' That was why he had started laughing. That, and when Buddy showed him that card.
"The card!" Greg's hands flew to his side pockets then his back ones.
"Yes dear, the card." Melanie said slowly. From her pocket she retrieved the plain white business card and held it up. "Don't you remember?"
"It's a joke, Mel. Buddy trying to be funny."
"Our daughter's in a coma. Why would he joke about something like that?"
Greg shrugged. "It's Buddy. You can't ever tell with him.”
"I don't think so, Greg. You need to look into this, seriously. It could help." She gave him the card. "If anything, at least you can say you tried."
"What is that supposed to mean? He had a gun Melanie. And I couldn't just leave our daughter!"
"That's not what I meant. I just think you should call them is all."
A hundred comebacks flew to his mind, each less relevant than the last. He sat by the window where the sun was just starting to rise and decided silence was best.
The rest of the morning was filled with faint beeps and sighs from the machines hooked to Aubrey and the occasional chatter of a nurse coming to check on her. No one from the Walker family spoke again until Melanie asked Greg if he wanted anything from the cafeteria. He mumbled his response and she was gone.
By the time she came back with a to-go plate of waffles and sausages, he was dressed and waiting by the door. She went to her couch to eat and Greg left the room.
For seven floors he stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, his fingers flipping and bending the white card in his right pocket. His cell phone padded softly inside his left.
Outside, the streets were just about empty. It was that time of day when most people were already at work or school and lunch break was still only a distant reprieve. He took a few blocks, wondering silently what he wanted to do.
He couldn't go back to the hospital, the silence was unbearable.
The YMCA was only a half mile away; he could probably be on the basketball court in 15 minutes. The pop of the net had proven itself medicinal in the past, but a twinge from his lower back told him it would be awhile before he felt hardwood beneath his feet again.
All that was left was the Denny's about a mile away. Or the business card, just inches from his fingertips.
He heard the phone ringing in his ears before he ever knew he had dialed the number. The simple face of the card stared at him from his palm. Get Duped! In his mind he heard a TV salesman every time he read it. With only one phone call, you too can get Duped! Go ahead folks, dial that number, this is a limited time offer. Then a chant from the studio audience. Duped. Duped. Duped. Duped.
The ringing stopped after two short bursts and a perky voice filled his ears. "Hello, how may we help you?"
Greg nearly hung up. When he spoke, it came out broken and filled with umms and uhs. The gist of it was, "Yes, a friend gave me this card. Is this where I get Duped? Whatever that is."
The woman stayed professional, though it sounded like she was smiling. "Would you like to set up an appointment?"
"I just want to know what this is. My friend wasn't specific, he just said..."
She cut him off. "Yes sir, I can set you up to visit in an hour if you like."
"No obligation, right? I'm not going to owe money for this?"
"No sir, we don't charge anything until it's all said and done. So an hour works?"
"Sure."
"Great! We'll send you a text with the address. If you would be so kind as to erase it after you open it, we'd appreciate it."
"Kind of sketchy, but ok."
"Thank you very much. We'll see you in an hour."
The line went dead.
As soon as it did, his phone began to vibrate in his palm with a new text message. There was no name or number listed, only two emojis staring up at him. Both were bright yellow smiley faces. It didn't seem right.
Regardless he opened the message, memorized the address, then deleted it as promised. Even once it was gone, he still saw those twin smiley faces in his mind.
Get Duped!
><><
On the Southern end of Tressler Street, about four miles from Alton and Son Attorney, Greg stepped into the lobby of an unmarked five story building. It was bright, decorated in good taste, and extraordinarily clean. There was a large circular desk in the middle of the room, behind which sat a young woman with trim black hair and a big smile. Greg recognized her voice immediately.
"Come for an appointment, sir?"
"Yes."
"You have your card right? The one with the phone number."
He took the slightly crumpled card from his pocket and handed it to the woman.
"Perfect. You're right on time, too. Go straight back and the elevator is on your left. You'll be on the third floor, room 301. I'll call up and they will be expecting you."
"Ok." He started pa
st the desk, then stopped and called back. "How did you know I was the right person? You never took my name."
"We are by referral only," she said quickly. She held up his card. "This is the only way in."
“I see.”
At the end of the hall, Greg called the elevator and pressed the button for three. Once the doors opened, he stepped into a bare hallway that stretched on for what seemed like a mile.
"301," he said. He saw that there were only two doors on the entire floor. One at the very end of the hall had number 302 printed over it. "Which means," Greg turned towards the door on his right, "301." He reached for the door handle, only to have it yanked from his fingertips.
A woman stood in the doorway, gesturing for him to enter. "Good morning. Please come in."
Greg went inside and took a seat in a comfortable leather chair. The room had the feel of a therapist's office, complete with book shelves, a water cooler, and the neat, middle aged woman with short blonde hair and glasses behind a large oak desk. She was even wearing a turtleneck, despite it still being a week from autumn.
The room was quiet while she situated herself. Greg's thumbs battled each other in his lap until she finally spoke.
"First things first, welcome. To keep things simple, you may call me Mother." She smiled automatically, like she probably did every day. A robot smile. "Judging by your appearance you must be going through a very difficult time. We offer our sincerest condolences to you and those involved. Now, how may we be of service?" The robot smile again.
"Well thank you, uh Mother. It has been a rough time, a very rough time. You see, my daughter is… "
"Sorry to interrupt, but we do not need to know what hardships you have endured, we just need to know what you want done about it. Not that we don't care, it just really doesn't change what we do."
Greg felt like he had been slapped. "What do you mean it doesn't change it?"
"We feel that if you are at the point that you came to us for help then you have exhausted all options and are looking for our brand of justice. The reason why is unnecessary. Surely you can understand, being a lawyer."
"How do you know I'm a lawyer?"
9 Tales From Elsewhere 4 Page 8
