by Don Bruns
“So there’s something else you care about.”
“Yeah, I guess. All of a sudden I have some things in my life that really matter.”
There was nothing left to say.
Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe got busted our sophomore year in high school. They got caught selling drugs to an undercover cop and were expelled a week later. The cop posed as a student and she not only caught the goon squad but two other students, a student’s parent, and a wrestling coach.
It seemed like the perfect time to tell my story, but I didn’t. After Vic pulled me out, the sinkhole incident was on my mind every day and I saw the players every day, but in my sophomore year, three years after it happened, I often thought maybe I’d dreamed the entire occurrence. Now, after Rick Fuentes threatened me with my obligation to his son, I felt I could finally let it out. But it wouldn’t come out. It had been buried too deep and too long.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I MADE A HANDFUL OF CALLS the next morning, stopped at the Cap’n for lunch, and told James that Em and I were back to normal.
“There’s no normal with you guys.”
“Well, as close to normal as possible. Listen, I want to go back to the warehouse one more time.”
“I’m not that stupid, pard.”
“Well, I am.”
“You’re on your own this time, Skip.” He headed back into the kitchen to make someone a crab sandwich and I finished my po’boy and left.
He pulled up in the truck about seven fifteen, stepped into the apartment, and immediately walked to the refrigerator, pulling a beer from the inside of the door. “What time do you want to go?”
“Go?”
“Oh, fuck. You know I can’t let you drive down there by yourself. You’ll do something stupid like the last time and get yourself shot. I’d have to call your mom and try to find that worthless asshole father of yours and tell them you’ve been killed, and I’m not going to go through all that shit. What time are we leaving?”
“Nine?”
“Just the two of us?”
“I thought about that. If we need a gun, we need Angel.”
“Shit.” He pulled the keys to the truck from his pocket, took a long swallow of beer, and motioned to me. We walked out, got into the truck, and drove to Gas and Grocery. The tiny carryout was open, but Angel wasn’t there.
“What do we do now?”
I shook my head. Angel had always been there. “Stick around a couple of minutes.”
Half an hour later I went inside and asked the old lady behind the counter to leave a message for Angel.
“What the hell I look like? Voicemail?”
“No, I just thought if he happened to stop by—”
“We close at nine. You want him to get a message, you go find him.”
I walked back to the truck and shrugged my shoulders. “We’re on our own, James.”
“Been that way most of our adult lives, Skip. I think we can manage.”
We drove back to the apartment, pulled in beside the rusted-out Ranchero, and went inside. James finished the warm beer.
“This is about paying a debt, right?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Some of it is.”
“You and me, Skip, we’d do that for each other.”
“Sure.”
“But you’d do it for someone you don’t really know. You’d try to save someone because they saved you.”
“There’s other reasons.”
“You want to protect your lady and the new kid.”
I remember glaring at him. His psychoanalysis was getting a little overbearing.
“I’m right.”
“James, maybe I’m doing this because I’m afraid for my own life. If I don’t get them, they’ll get me.”
He smiled that cocksure smile of his. “Nah. You care about people, amigo. You’ve got people and situations that you really care about. It’s what makes you a strong person. It’s what I like about you, pard.”
“And you? What are you really in this for?”
He didn’t pause a second. “Because you’re in it. It’s you and me, Skip. Hell, I guess if you and what’s-her-name ever do get married, you’ll have to have a guest room for me to live in.” He grinned.
“Fuck you, James.”
“I said you’re my best friend, buddy. But I won’t go that far.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
WE LEFT AT EIGHT THIRTY. I had James swing by the carryout, but there was no sign of our black friend or his black Jeep. James hopped on I-95 and he opened it up to fifty-five miles an hour. We should have taken the Prism, but James had insisted.
“Need to open up the truck a little bit. Guy told me if you want to keep it tuned up, open it up once in a while.”
I listened to his bullshit for another couple of minutes. Finally I’d had enough. “You know, James, you couldn’t even open up that sorry rust trap pickup you had in high school! Christ, I think top speed was thirty if the damned thing started. You always sound like you know so much about cars and trucks—”
He was silent for a while. I probably should have just shut up, but I was riled. Vic Maitlin, Emily, James—they each had special meaning in my life and I could do something to help them. Protect them. But I had no idea what that something was. As it stood, I was playing David to Goliath and the only person in my corner tonight was James. Probably not the person to be pissing on.
“You’re in a tough spot, Skip. There’s a lot going on in your life. Just don’t take it out on the people who are here to help you.” Son of a bitch knew what I’d been thinking.
We were quiet the rest of the ride.
James pulled off the highway and we headed down to the river on North River Drive, past Garcia’s, downtown’s freshest seafood. The sign says so. Past the sewage plant next door to Garcia’s, and past the rust-bucket container ships with their loads of housewares, food, autos, and whatever bound for Honduras, Columbia, Belize, Puerto Rico, and other ports south. He slowed down, concentrating on something.
“You hear something?”
“What am I listening for?”
“Just listen.” He jazzed the engine and we scooted ahead for a moment.
“Hear that?”
“What?” I hate it when people do that. Tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be listening for.
“That. Right there.”
I heard it. A clunk.
“Yeah, a clunk. Why couldn’t you say, ‘Listen for a clunk’?”
James ignored me. “Shit. I’ll bet we’re low on oil.”
“Just like that, you know?”
“Had a friend who was driving home with some girl and clunk. Car threw a rod because of low oil. Had to catch a bus home.”
“We’re back to a rod again?”
“Just shut the fuck up, Skip.”
I could see our warehouse just up the street, lit up by a new floodlight in the parking lot.
He pulled over, three lots from the one with the forklift next to the building. Three lots from the parking lot where I’d run my ass off. Three lots from the warehouse where I thought I’d seen Vic Maitlin.
“What are you pulling over for?”
“Check the engine.”
“Shit, we should have driven the Prism.”
“Makes no difference. They know every vehicle we own. Besides, we can park the truck here around back of this building and walk over to their warehouse.”
“What I meant was, the Prism doesn’t drink like it’s dollar beer night.”
“Yeah, and the Prism hasn’t made us one fucking penny by hauling anything either.”
“And, James,” I was ready to bow out after my last shot, “the Prism hasn’t almost got us killed!”
He stepped out and walked around to the front. I sat in the passenger seat watching him. He reached under the hood, flipped a lever, and raised it. I could hear him tinkering, probably pulling out the dipstick and trying to figure out if we needed oil.
“Shit. It’s dryer than a witch’s womb.”
“And what do we do about that at nine o’clock at night?” I yelled through the windshield.
“Put oil in it, asshole.”
I put my head out the window. “And, Mr. Lessor, where the hell do you think we’re going to find oil at this time of night?” I could just see us stranded by the water. Tomorrow morning we’d both miss work again, and I’d have to beg a ride home from Em.
“If you will be so kind as to fold down the passenger seat, open the door behind the seat, you will find that closet with the false wall. Inside you’ll find a case of oil. You see, I do know what I’m doing.”
I’d forgotten. James, for once in his life, was prepared. I got out of the seat and gently folded it down. In the dim light it was hard to find the door. If you don’t know it’s there, it’s hard to see.
Finally I found the small metal pull, opened the door, and stepped into the dark closet. James had set the case of oil to the right. I fumbled for a can, lost my balance, and ended up on my knees as the door swung shut and I was lost in the pitch black.
And then I heard the second noise that night that frightened me. The sound of a car pulling up beside the truck and a voice asking, “Having engine trouble?”
I knew the voice. There was no question whose voice it was.
“I asked if you’re having engine trouble.”
I could hear James’s trembling voice. “Yeah. I just—look, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Ah, Mr. Lessor. I’d help you. I really would. But it seems my arm is in a cast and a sling right now. A little hunting accident from the last time we saw each other. I don’t know why you’re here, but it could be the biggest mistake you’ve made in your whole life.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
I HELD MY BREATH longer than I’ve ever held it. I used to practice in the public swimming pool when I was just a kid. Other kids would say they’d heard of guys who could hold their breath for two, three minutes. I may have made it for about fifty seconds but that was it. I swear that night I made three minutes easily.
“Where’s your partner?”
It was Big Mouth, the guy who’d rolled the Buick.
“He had some late calls to make. He’s in sales and—”
I heard a thud, then James grunted.
“He’s not here.”
Another thud.
“Don’t mess him up too bad. We may need to get some serious information from him.”
There was some rustling around, then the voice that I assumed belonged to Carlos. “You look like a fucking trussed-up pig. I’d put you on a spit and watch you twist in the fire.”
There was no sound. I pictured James, tied with rope and gagged, thrown in the backseat of their car, or worse, in the trunk. I thought about coming out. For about half a second. There was no earthly good I could do.
“I’ll drive the Buick. Carlos, you follow in the truck. We’ll park inside the warehouse in case he was meeting someone. Post someone outside to see who drives by. We can’t take the chance on any company tonight. Especially tonight.”
The car started and pulled off. The driver’s door opened on the truck and I took another deep breath, praying the door to my closet had latched. All I needed was for that door to spring open. It didn’t.
Carlos started the engine, let it idle for about fifteen seconds then said to himself, “What the fuck is that noise? Thing goes clunk. Clunk.”
The truck started moving and I started counting the seconds. Less than forty-five and I heard other voices as Carlos pulled into the warehouse then the sound of the big overhead door as it rolled over the top of the truck and slammed to the concrete floor. I was blind, but my ears were picking up everything.
“Where is the partner, Juan?”
“He doesn’t want to say. I suggest we play pass the pig.”
A voice I didn’t recognize said, “Push him over here.”
There was a soft thud and a grunt. James was getting the shit beat out of him and there was nothing I could do.
“Where is Eugene Moore?”
“Take the gag out of his mouth.”
“Where?”
James spit. I could hear it even through the thin door. I thought he was spitting to clear his mouth after losing the gag.
“You motherfucker. You spit on me—” Whack. Whack.
If my boy lived through this I would have to give him all the credit in the world for taking this beating on my account. But as long as one of us was still undetected, there was a chance I could get out and get help. I just didn’t see any opportunity at this point.
“Want to tell us? Where is your partner? The other night, he was running like a scared rabbit. Maybe he is in his briar patch?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” James croaked. “Maybe if he was here he’d run again. Seeing as you guys don’t have any weapons on you, maybe he’d take off running and bust out the side door like he did the last time and—” Whack. Thud.
“Fucker just wants to mouth off.”
I ached for him. Maybe they were doing some irreparable damage. He’d given me a clear signal that with the element of surprise I might get out the door. No guns? No guns that he could see. And how far could I run? Far enough to get my cell phone out and call 911? What if I called now? Shit, I knew I’d have to say something and they’d pick up even the faintest whisper.
“So what do we do with him?”
“If it was me?”
“Carlos, it’s not you. If we made decisions based on what you thought we should do, we’d be nowhere right now.”
“Both of you shut up. We don’t need a hassle right now. The truck is coming in an hour to take the boxes to Key West to be put on the boat. It has to be tonight and we don’t need any screw ups. If he’s got a partner who’s going to be looking for him or coming by later, I want to know about it.” Still another voice. By my count there was Carlos, Juan, and at least two other men.
Thud. “Anybody else coming by, pig?”
I couldn’t let this continue. I don’t know what I thought, maybe he had broken ribs, a concussion, but I had to do something.
“I can’t hear you, smart-ass.”
I reached into the case and picked up two cans of oil. Not exactly weapons of choice, but ones of necessity. If they were effective, Pep Boys and Gas and Grocery would have a whole new advertising campaign.
“Mr. Lessor. We can keep beating you, but we seriously don’t want to do that. What we simply want to know is who else is coming. Surely you didn’t come by yourself. You’ve always got company. Let’s see, you were with your friend and his female companion the night of the fire—you were with the black man at the storage unit, you were with your two friends the other night when you spied on us.”
I eased the door open, just an inch, clutching those two oil cans like they were hand grenades.
The door was hinged on the right so I peered out to the left. I could see through the driver’s window, but I’d have to open the closet door a lot farther to be able to see through the windshield.
The back of a small man blocked my vision. His hair was thick and coal black and he wore a green shirt, about the same puke green color as my Prism. Should have brought the Prism. I would bet that they wouldn’t have recognized that car.
“Come on, James. You protect someone else, but then you can’t protect yourself. You see what I’m saying?” Thud.
Someone else was kicking or hitting him. My green-shirted guy stood motionless.
I pushed the door open farther, becoming increasingly bolder. Now I had a clear view through the windshield. James was on the hard cement floor, his hands behind his back. The first thing I noticed was blood running from his face. Juan, Carlos, and someone else stood around him, Carlos bouncing on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter waiting for his opponent to get up off the canvas. James wasn’t getting up.
Juan, his arm in a cast, kept taunting James. “Come on, Mr. Lessor. You’re not so
tough without your friends. Tell us who else is coming. If they come before we load our truck, we’ll have to show them how we treat our visitors.”
I pushed the door even farther and no one noticed. They were concentrating on my roommate, face down on the cement, blood flowing freely, staining the concrete floor.
Putting the oil can I had in my right hand on the floor, I reached for the passenger-side door handle. It opened quietly. With the seat folded down, I could reach the door with my leg. I picked up the can and pulled my leg back. I kicked the door wide open, leaped from my dark closet, jumped to the cement floor and fired a can at Big Mouth’s head. I hit him on the back of his neck and Carlos went down.
Running for my life I turned and fired the second can, catching the small guy with the green shirt in the middle of his back. He stumbled and fell. I reached for the door handle on the side door of the warehouse and the door popped open. Head down I ran one, two, three steps and hit a stone wall.
“Hey!” Arms wrapped around me, binding me up. I struggled, kicking and fighting to get free, as my assailant turned me and put his arm around my neck. He was squeezing, applying serious pressure, and I could feel myself choking, gasping for air. Lights popped off inside my head, brilliant flashes exploding behind my eyes, and I fought for consciousness.
“Don’t kill him. Tie him up and put him in the office and we’ll decide what to do with him later.”
I was passing out, but I recognized the voice. It was the second time Vic Maitlin had saved my life.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
MY HEAD WAS SPLITTING OPEN. Someone had taken an axe and cleaved it. I can’t even describe the incredible pain. And then I opened my eyes and concentrated on consciousness. And there was James, propped up against the wall next to me. He was tied with thick rope, and maybe because the light was dim, he appeared to have a gray hue to his skin.
My hands were numb, tied too tightly behind my back, and my head really did ache. Part of me hoped that James was passed out so the pain of his beating wouldn’t be so hard to bear. The other part of me wanted him to wake up fast so we could try to make some plans. Hardy Boys novels didn’t seem so glamorous this time.
