Jump

by Tim Maleeny

  He’d scrubbed the blood from his cheeks and tried brushing his teeth, but it hurt too much. Every sideways motion of the brush sent a jarring pulse through his busted nose, Newtonian physics applied to cartilage and pain.

  Buster shifted his eyes to meet his own gaze but quickly looked away. He was hoping to find rage but would have settled for grim determination. Instead all he saw was fear.

  He used to think Zorro knew everything. Heard everything. Saw everything. Someone held up a grocery store under Zorro’s protection, the crew went down the next day. A new player started moving product around the Mission, he disappeared before his next sale. The stories were legend.

  Now, looking at his miserable expression in the mirror, Buster realized he’d only heard those stories—but out on the street, he rarely saw evidence of Zorro’s hand. Maybe Zorro wasn’t so omnipotent after all. Maybe Zorro was just a bully that no one had stood up to until now. Until he fucked with the wrong guy.

  Who knew it would be a guy like Sam?

  No doubt Zorro was dangerous. One glance at that jar of eyeballs and you knew better than to fuck with the guy. He would kill you as soon as look at you. But he wasn’t all-knowing, and he wasn’t always right.

  He had been wrong about Sam. Dead wrong.

  Zorro said that being a good cop meant playing by the rules, but now Buster thought maybe it meant doing the right thing. Standing up, not taking any shit. Buster looked in the mirror and met his gaze, managed to hold it this time. Realized for the first time that he wasn’t looking at a player or a gangsta—a G. That cop had played him like a punk, because that’s what he was. That’s what Zorro had made him.

  Zorro wasn’t someone you wanted to cross, but as it turned out, neither was Sam. And Buster had managed to cross them both. No matter which way he turned, Buster was caught in the middle, and when those two tangled it was going to get messy. Deep in his gut, Buster knew this was going to end badly.

  Buster brought the scissors up and cut away the hair extensions. Blue and green strands fell into the sink and onto the floor, cotton candy from some nightmare carnival. When he got to his own hair, he brought out the electric clippers, moving from front to back until he was down to a quarter-inch of stubble. He dumped his grill in the garbage can, a twisted sliver of metal covered in blood and saliva. Took the rings off his fingers and the chains from around his neck.

  For an instant he felt naked, almost dizzy, and thought he was going to be sick. Then he realized his ribs hurt a little less, as if a great weight had been removed from his chest. He took a tentative, deep breath and looked in the mirror again. Almost recognized the guy looking back at him, someone from a long time ago. A forgotten friend. Not a bad guy at all.

  Buster nodded at his reflection, then turned and walked down the short hallway to his bedroom.

  The duffle bag was packed and over his shoulder in less than fifteen minutes. He didn’t look back at his bed or mourn the loss of his stereo. He left his keys on the counter and the door unlocked.

  It took him five minutes to reach the BART station at 24th and Mission, the underground train that would take him through San Francisco in a straight shot, under San Francisco Bay and into Oakland. In less than an hour, with any luck, he’d be at Oakland airport.

  Buster had a sister in Denver. She was a self-righteous bitch, and he hadn’t spoken to her in ten years, and Denver sucked. Full of whitebread people, shitty weather, thin air that made you stupid. Goats, cows and other animals roaming around that Buster was pretty sure the locals liked to fuck when their dough-faced wives were on the rag. His sister married a goat-fucker, you could just tell by looking at the guy.

  But family was family, and Buster needed a new start. He’d rather talk to his sister and fuck a goat than sit around waiting for some sick pendejo to come and cut his eyes out.

  Buster arrived at the platform where the ticket machines stood all in a row like robots, red lights blinking a warning about a fare increase. Nearby was an escalator leading to the tracks. He reached into his pocket for some cash and felt the edge of a card. Pulling it out, he saw Sam’s name and flinched involuntarily. It was the business card Sam had shoved in Buster’s jacket, what seemed a lifetime ago.

  He ran his index finger across the raised digits of the phone number and stood rigid on the platform as people brushed past him on either side. He imagined calling Sam and wondered what he would say. Would he threaten him? Not a chance. Thank him? Not likely.

  Tell him that he wasn’t a punk anymore. He wasn’t Zorro’s bitch. Maybe ask Sam to call off the dogs. Let him slip through the net. Walk away if he fingered Zorro.

  Buster looked over his shoulder, an involuntary move that he suddenly realized he might be doing for the rest of his life.

  He started to chew his lower lip but it hurt. Blinked and looked up from the card, found himself facing away from the ticket machines. Ten feet away stood a pay telephone, its silver key pad a little face staring him down, daring him to make the call. From the next level down, Buster could hear a train approaching.

  Fishing in his pocket, Buster came up with a quarter and held it gently in his open palm. As the roar of the train shook the station, he chose heads and flipped the coin into the air.

  Chapter Sixty

  The phone scared the bejesus out of Larry and Jerome.

  They’d been home for hours, talking through their plan. No television, no radio, just the sound of their own voices until maybe an hour ago, when it seemed there was nothing left to talk about. Larry lay on the couch, sipping Tab and staring out the window. Jerome sat in the kitchen watching the clock. In the perfect stillness of their thoughts, the phone sounded like a fire alarm.

  Jerome grabbed the handset and grunted hello. Larry watched as his brother’s brow furrowed and his expression changed from curiosity to wide-eyed disbelief.

  “No can do, Z,” Jerome said mildly. “We only had the one toaster.” The wrinkled brow again, followed by, “Never mind, it’s not important. We’d love to help, but that’s boxing outside our weight class, know what I’m saying?” A pause, then Jerome nodded, as if expecting what he’d just heard. “Sure, we can do that, but that’s all we can do. Yeah—crystal. Adios.”

  After Jerome hung up, Larry asked, “Zorro?”

  Jerome nodded. “He changed his plan. Either that or the cop changed it for him.”

  “The cop didn’t show?”

  Jerome shrugged. “Got me. The only thing I know for sure is Zorro is pissed.”

  “How pissed?”

  “Pissed enough to call us himself.”

  Larry thought about it. Zorro always worked through intermediaries. “What happened to Buster?”

  Jerome raised his hands. “What am I, Google?”

  “Sorry, what did he want?”

  “He wanted to know if we’d kill the cop.”

  Larry spit Tab across the living room. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed his mouth and said, “You’re serious.”

  “You heard what I said about the toaster.”

  Larry took a deep breath. “Probably not the answer he wanted to hear.”

  “I don’t know,” replied Jerome. “I think he had to ask, you know? I mean, if we were willing to cross that line, it solves a lot of problems. But he didn’t want me to say yes—there was something in his voice…”

  Larry picked up the thought. “He wants to do it himself.”

  “Yeah,” said Jerome. “So Zorro’s coming here.”

  Larry shook his head as if shaking off a nightmare. “What does he expect us to do? Just sit here and wait for him?”

  “Nope,” said Jerome. “He wants us to keep tabs on the cop—he said he wants us to be his eyes.”

  “His eyes.” Larry put his chin in his hands. His head felt incredibly heavy.

  “He’s going to kill the cop, then pay us for our trouble.”

  “Pay us?” Larry was incredulous.

  “We help him get the cop off his ass, he giv
es us a bonus, then we’re back in business.”

  “I’m done with this…business.”

  “Me too, bro,” said Jerome. “But one last paycheck would make it a lot easier to kiss it goodbye.”

  Larry looked like he was about to get sick. “We don’t have any choice, do we?”

  “You want to change the plan?” asked Jerome. “We could run, you know.”

  Larry kept his head in his hands but his voice was firm. “It’s a good plan.”

  “OK, we stick with the plan.”

  Larry sighed. “His eyes—he actually said that?”

  Jerome nodded. “Those were his exact words.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  “They will be my eyes, and then I will eat theirs.”

  Zorro plucked an eyeball from his little jar of horrors, but Julio was unimpressed. Zorro was a pig, and Julio was getting tired of his monologues. He remembered when they were just getting started, struggling in turf wars with rival gangs. Zorro was one of the men, a natural leader, not someone who believed his own bullshit. Julio would come home with blood on his shirt and cash in his pocket. The good old days.

  “We will kill everybody,” said Zorro.

  Julio shifted his size-fifteen shoes and frowned. “Everybody?”

  Zorro sucked on his teeth and nodded. “The cop.”

  Julio held up his right hand and extended his thumb. “That’s one—”

  “—the brothers.”

  Julio opened his index and middle finger and held them high. “Two and three—but I thought they were your eyes?”

  “After they spot the cop, they are just loose ends,” said Zorro. “And tomorrow I tie them all up.”

  “You’re going to tie them up, and then kill them?”

  “No, idiot.” Zorro shook his head. “I am tying up loose ends. I meant it metaphorically.”

  Julio nodded. What a pendejo. “So how are you going to kill them?”

  “We,” said Zorro. “We are going to kill them.”

  Julio shrugged—just another day at work. “OK, how are we going to kill them?”

  Zorro held up his hands. “You have no suggestions?”

  “I say we shoot them.”

  “Not very dramatic.”

  Julio took a deep breath and spoke very deliberately. “He is—or was—a cop, Zorro. He will have a gun. The brothers—if they don’t run away tonight—will be suspicious. That makes three possible threats, and we are only two.”

  “But you, my friend, are a giant.”

  Julio held his arms out from his sides. “With only two hands. They live in an apartment building in the heart of the city.”

  “The guns will be too noisy then, no?”

  “No,” said Julio. “The noise will scare people. If they are afraid, they are more likely to stay in their apartments until the police come. But if they hear a struggle, who knows? Maybe they rush into the hallway to help, become a witness. And then—”

  Zorro frowned. “We have to kill them, too.”

  “Guns are fast, Zorro. We go in, shoot, and run away.”

  “I thought you were going to make the brothers commit suicide.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before you decided to kill the cop in his home.”

  Zorro grunted. “You’re saying you can’t do it?”

  I hate this job, thought Julio. “I suppose I could…maybe. After we shoot them, we could put the guns in their hands, make it look like they came after the cop, but he shoots them at the same time.”

  “A Mexican standoff,” said Zorro, clapping.

  “We set them up, and then we run away.” Julio felt it important to repeat the run away part, in case Zorro wasn’t paying attention the first time.

  Zorro frowned. “What about the eyes?”

  Julio clenched his jaw but forced a smile. “You want to go to jail?”

  Zorro didn’t answer.

  Julio sighed. “We could always get them later.”

  “From the morgue?”

  “Sure.”

  Zorro seemed content. After a minute he said, “Any word from Buster?”

  Julio shook his head. “The men are still looking. I think he’s hiding, or he ran.”

  “Maybe the cop killed him.”

  Julio thought about it. “Maybe.”

  “When we find him, add Buster to the list.”

  “The list of loose ends?”

  “You have another list?”

  So this is how you lead your men. “I’ll see to it myself,” said Julio.

  Zorro licked his lips. “We will use guns,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him. “But what kind?”

  “Big guns,” said Julio. “The louder, the better.”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Sam drew his gun before he opened the door to his apartment.

  He knew someone was waiting inside. The deadbolt had been turned before he left, and now it was unlocked. With his right shoe he flipped the corner of the doormat and saw that his spare key was missing. Given the events of the past forty-eight hours, leaving his key might not have been the best idea.

  He flicked the safety off with his thumb and kicked the door open, crouching as he crossed the threshold, gun raised and held steady with both hands. Movement in his peripheral vision as he pivoted toward the kitchen just as Jill started to scream.

  Jill’s coffee mug crashed to the floor as her hands jumped into the universal sign for please don’t shoot me! When the ceramic mug exploded, her scream came to an abrupt end. Sam lowered the gun and holstered it with a mildly embarrassed look on his face.

  “Hi,” was all he could manage. Sam bent to pick up the shards of ceramic at the same time she did—their knees collided and both fell ass-first onto the floor. When they stopped laughing, Jill said, “Sorry I screamed. I never—”

  “—had a gun pointed at you before?”

  Jill’s eyes answered for her.

  “Let’s hope it’s the last time.” Sam stood and brushed off his pants. He took her right hand in his and pulled her to her feet, then kissed her lightly on the lips before stepping back and saying, “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”

  Jill forced a smile. “Rough night on the town?”

  “Eventful.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Sam took her hand again and led her over to the couch, where they sat, knees again touching. “You want me to?”

  Jill gave a tentative nod. “But maybe later, OK?”

  “Sure.” Sam leaned back on the couch and tried to decompress. Still holding Jill’s hand, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze reflexively moved to the mantel, and what he saw there made him sit bolt upright. He released Jill’s hand as he stood and crossed to the fireplace with a sudden sense of vertigo.

  All the frames were where he’d left them, but every picture had been replaced, some restored, others new. But in every frame the eyes looked back at him. His own face, smiling. Danny, trying to look serious. And Marie, her eyes as full of love as ever.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Jill. “You had told me where you kept your key, and I was going to make you dinner, but the pictures…” She faltered, then said, “I couldn’t stand looking at them. So I snooped around a little in your closet and found that box of photographs…”

  She stood behind him a few feet, hesitant, wondering if she’d crossed a line. When he spoke, she couldn’t see the tears in his eyes, but she could hear the emotion in his voice.

  “Thanks,” he said simply. “This is better than any dinner.”

  “I should’ve left a note on the door. Didn’t mean to startle—”

  Sam turned and took her in his arms. As they embraced she backed toward the couch, a slow and awkward waltz that ended with her pulling him onto her as she fell. Within minutes they were on the floor and their clothes were scattered across the couch that Sam realized wasn’t nearly wide enough.

&
nbsp; Afterward Sam padded down the hall and returned with a blanket. Pulling cushions from the back of the couch, he made a makeshift bed and lay down facing the sliding glass doors and the night sky, Jill lying in the crook of his arm.

  “That was nice,” she said.

  “You really do have a talent for understatement.”

  “Want to tell me about your night?”

  Sam shook his head. “I’d hate to ruin the mood.”

  Jill ran a hand across his chest. “Fair enough. You can tell me later.”

  “Deal.” Sam pulled her close. “How was your night?”

  “After you left I kept working on the computer.”

  “Singing?”

  “Some, then I took a break and did some real work—the kind that pays the rent.”

  “Websites,” he asked. “Or graphic design?”

  Jill paused as she gave him a squeeze. “Shalya came over for a while. We worked on their site. They’re making a lot of changes.”

  Sam chuckled. “Those girls will be co-presidents one day.”

  “Of their own company?”

  “Of the country.”

  “You really should visit the site.”

  “You won’t get jealous?”

  “It’s some of my best work.”

  Sam lifted the corner of the blanket and looked at her with open admiration. “Ever think about having your own site?”

  Jill snatched the blanket away from him. “I’m too modest.”

  Sam laughed. “Could’ve fooled me.” After a minute he said, “Thanks for coming over. Next time—”

  Jill put a hand over his mouth. “Next time I’ll leave a message on the door.” Her eyes went wide and she sat up, adding, “I forgot to tell you—”

  “What?”

  “Earlier,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen and the phone sitting on the counter. “You got a message. I heard your machine pick up while I was rummaging around in your closet, so I didn’t hear the message—only the last part when I came into the living room—but it sounded important.”

  Sam glanced toward the kitchen but didn’t move. He was way too comfortable, even though his arm was falling asleep from the weight of Jill’s body. He didn’t want to move ever again. “Did you hear a name?”