by Chuck Dixon
The doctor looked up at her over the screen. His eyeglasses had dropped over his nose and he was looking at her over the top of them. It was a look she was certain sent interns and surgical nurses away crying. After thirty years of marriage she was used to it.
“You know it’s true. We’re her grandparents but he’s her father,” she said.
“How many times must we have this conversation, Mar?” He set the laptop, still open, aside.
She shrugged and waved a hand. Dr. Roth sighed.
“Of course she’s happy seeing him. He spoils her with junk food and cheap toys. This isn’t about what Merry wants. It’s about what’s right for her. Do you want to see her end up like her mother?”
Marcia turned away from him. He went on.
“And don’t tell me he’s changed. And so what if he has? One dead-end job after another. He has no skills. No trade. Except for the one the government taught him. We don’t even know who he really is. All we know is what Arlene told us and that’s not a fraction of what he told her. And how much is there that he didn’t tell her?”
“So he was a soldier,” Marcia said.
“You make it sound like he marched in parades. He was a killer. He killed men for the government. He killed in secret and he must have at least been good at it. He stayed in their service for twelve years. Most of those years he was married to our daughter. Can you imagine the stress she was under? The constant strain of the life he chose?”
“It’s over now. He’s away from that.”
“It’s not over for him. That’s not something you walk away from.”
“He told us, he talked to you, about the PTSD. He was getting treatment, talking to people,” she said.
“He was following protocol. Like a soldier. Doing what they told him to do. See a therapist. Take the pills. Stay the course.” He snorted.
“Levon is trying.”
“You know what I do, Mar. I operate on the brain. That’s my trade. But you know what the brain is? It’s three pounds of greasy fat. But it holds within it the invisible organ of the mind. And no one can know what’s in another person’s mind. Not really. All I know is that Levon is unstable. Not today. Maybe not ten years from now, he’s going to have an episode. He’ll return to the feral state, to the wild. I don’t want our granddaughter around him when that happens.”
She said nothing.
“End of story,” he said and pulled the laptop back in front of him.
“You want more coffee?” she said.
“No thank you, Mar. I’m up at six for a procedure. I’ll be heading for bed when I finish reading this review,” Dr. Roth said and allowed the words on the screen to absorb him once more.
Marcia left the kitchen and made her way back to Merry’s room, the room that once belonged to her own daughter. She checked on the girl throughout the night every night just as she had for Merry’s mother when she was still a mother herself.
Merry slept in the muted glow of a snowman nightlight that Arlene once treasured; it had somehow survived all these years. She was sound asleep in the bed her mother once occupied that was now fitted out with Dora the Explorer sheets and pillowcases. The little girl slept sound, her arms around a teddy bear wearing a camouflaged army uniform and cap. A gift from her father.
As much as she loved having this little treasure around every day, Marcia Roth wished that all was as it should have been. Her granddaughter asleep in her own room, in her own bed, with her mother and father asleep in the next room.
And as much as Jordan’s reasoning made all the sense in the world, and was the result of his expert and learned opinion, she couldn’t help but think that they were stealing time from their granddaughter. Precious time that should be spent with her own father. And, once again, Marcia felt a pang for Levon who was losing his place in his daughter’s childhood just as she had lost seeing her own little girl grow to middle age.
She closed the door of the room, leaving it open only a crack, then went down to the family room where she could read where the light would not disturb the doctor’s sleep.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Know the ground. Know it like it’s yours. Know it like you know whatever ghetto or dogpatch or holler you came from. Know it like your old lady’s ass. Know it till you can walk it in your sleep. Till every blade of grass has a name. Till you own it. Till you know what’s going to happen before it happens.”
9
* * *
The guy was new at Skip’s.
Johnny knew most of the regulars, walk-ins from the surrounding neighborhood. There were always fresh asses on the stools and in the booths come nighttime. But Johnny knew this guy was a first-timer.
First off, he was a little older than the usual evening crowd. Not by much. Or maybe it was the way he carried himself. Most of the nighttime crowd were on their third or fourth adolescence. This guy was more together than that. It was like he was turned inside, keeping to himself. The rest of the crowd was there to be seen. This guy just nursed a draft at the stool farthest from the register.
He was dressed in clean cool-weather clothes. The weather was turning cold at the start of what passes for winter in Florida. Jeans, a button down shirt and a light jacket. He was wearing what might have been the first pair of actual work boots Johnny had ever seen in Skip’s. The drinkers here were either unemployed, retired or slumming students from the colleges. Nobody was spending a paycheck.
Maybe a soldier over from MacDill. The guy had that look. But they seldom made it this far off Dale Mabry. And when they did it was always in a group. Same for Canadians which this guy could be. They travelled in packs. It was the right time of year for snowbirds down from Ottawa and Toronto. Only they were usual older than this guy and came in couples.
Could be a cop or someone looking to hold up the place. In either case they’d give themselves away pretending not to be looking around. This guy only seemed interested in his beer with an occasional glance up at a football game playing muted on the screen over the bar. He made a single visit to the men’s room. Johnny tried to keep track of how long he was gone but there was a rush after ten. The guy was back at the stool gesturing for a fresh draft without Johnny noting his return.
The guy nursed the second beer. He didn’t speak to anyone except to nod at a dude asking if he could take the bowl of mixed nuts from where they rested, untouched, by the stranger’s elbow. The crowd went from rowdy and dancing to sullen and serious as the tides of beer and cocktails washed over them. The same tide carried them away in twos and threes as closing time approached. The stranger in the work boots wasn’t the last to leave but close to it. He left what remained of a twenty for two beers.
Johnny got busy with closing. He counted out the register and put the cash and receipts in a zip bag that he dropped into the slot atop the stout safe set under the bar counter. It was someone else’s money. Someone would come and check his count tomorrow. There’d be a crew in tomorrow morning to clean the place. His job was drinks. That’s all.
He checked the locks on the front door then shut down all but a few lights until the place dropped into a gloom tinged orange by the neon Heineken sign in the window. Johnny entered the security code at the back door and stepped into the fenced back court behind Skip’s. He worked a row of deadbolts closed in the heavy steel door and turned to his Audi parked alone in one of three spaces.
The guy in the work boots stood by his car. Johnny should have been surprised. He wasn’t.
“I had a question,” the guy said.
Johnny had a question, too. How the fuck did this mutt make it over the ten foot fence topped with razor wire that surrounded the back court? The gates were still in place with loops of chromed chain and a big brass lock holding them tight.
“What about, chief?” Johnny’s fingers opened and closed. The five-shot snubbie in the waistband at his back grew warm with a heat all its own.
“Three weeks ago a girl was in here. This is the last place she was seen.”
Flat and even. The guy stood easy with his hands at his side. His eyes never left Johnny’s. Even when Johnny hit the remote on his key ring making the Audi chirp. The guy never looked away.
“I talked to the police,” Johnny said and feinted as if to make for his Audi.
“Now you’ll talk to me.”
Johnny stepped to drive a shoulder into the guy’s gut while reaching for the snubbie with the same move. Johnny was big with a low center of mass. He’d played hockey in a Canadian minor league. In his time he’d knocked more guys on their ass than a rodeo bull. The old speed was still there in short spurts. His legs drove him toward the guy’s unprotected ribs to drive the guy off his work boots.
Only the guy wasn’t there.
With nothing to spend his force against except empty air Johnny stumbled. A hand crushed the wrist at his back. His hand never reached the gun. He swung his free hand around to strike but his fist swept through nothing. An arm snaked around his neck with a rustle of cloth and drew tight.
That’s the last thing he could remember.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“They tell you everyone has a breaking point. Bullshit. There are some men who will die before they break. Those men have something inside. Call it Jesus, bullheaded or what have you. But most men have nothing to cling to. You show that man the empty place in his soul and you’ve broken him. Fill that empty space with your will and you own him.”
10
* * *
He could hear surf close by. It was cold but he was out of the wind. The floor was steady. He wasn’t on a boat.
And, oh yeah, he was buck naked.
Johnny’s eyes were covered and he was restrained in a sitting position by what felt like tape. He was seated low on something smooth and cold. His legs were numb. It hurt to flex them. He scraped his toes on the floor, sand on tile. He pressed his foot to the floor and pushed. His seat rocked slightly. He felt ice cold water touch his balls.
The son of a bitch had him taped down on a toilet.
“Anyone hear me?” he called out. His voice echoed back to him from a large empty space. It wasn’t a bathroom in a home. It was bigger. A public restroom.
“Hey! Anyone hear me? Is anyone there? I need help!” he called louder.
“I’m the only one here.”
The guy. The guy from Skip’s. Work boots.
The voice startled Johnny. The bowl under him rocked sending a splash of chilled water up over his scrotum. The asshole had been there the whole time watching Johnny sitting stripped naked on the crapper.
“What the fuck, man?” Johnny barked.
“Like I said. I have questions.”
“I told you I talked to the cops. I signed a statement. The county sent sheriffs and I talked to them. They sent staties and I talked to them.”
“You lied to them, John.”
“You know my name. Big fucking deal.”
“You lied to them, John.”
“What do you want from me? I’m just a working guy making an honest living.”
“You’re not honest.”
The fuck?
“You steal from the owners of that bar.”
Johnny said nothing. Was this what it was all about? About his skimming?
“You take home a hundred a night out of the till. Maybe more.”
“How do you know, asshole? You see me take from the till? You know you didn’t.”
“No. You’re smarter than that. You keep a new matchbook handy but you don’t smoke. You tear out a match for every five bucks you don’t enter on the register. End of the night you have your own count. That goes into your pocket. You went through a whole book tonight.”
Johnny broke a sweat. His face was slick with it. It chilled his scalp as the cold air touched it.
“I don’t care about that, John. I’m here and you’re here about the girl.”
“I can tell you what I told the cops,” Johnny said after clearing his throat. He fought back the shivers that wracked him.
“You told them lies. I want the truth. You can tell me the truth.”
“Fuck you.”
“You can tell me the truth, John. You want to tell me the truth.”
“Why do I want to do that, asshole?”
“Because whoever told you what lies to tell isn’t here. I’m here. You deal with me now. I’m the guy who owns your future.”
“You gonna kill me? Is that your big plan, chief?” Johnny tried to gin up some defiance. He was a tough guy. Everybody knew he was a tough guy. Because of that rep nobody fucked with him. This guy was fucking with him. This guy was all about fucking with people. Johnny’s rep was built on the minor league ice. This guy was a major league goon.
“You know why you’re strapped to a toilet, John?”
Johnny held his breath.
“Because I don’t like cleaning up after.”
Johnny’s vision swam even though he was blinded by the tape over his eyes. A gusher of piss exploded from him, creating a fountain sound that bounced off the tiles all around.
“So, you tell me who the girl was with that night. Tell me their names. What car they drove. Anything you know. Anything you can remember. Tell me everything I need to know. And everything you think doesn’t matter. Everything. And tell me who told you to lie. Names. Where they’re from.”
“Then what?” Johnny said with a croak.
“Tell me something good first. Then we see what happens next.”
11
* * *
What happened next after Johnny told all he knew was the guy cut the tape holding him down to the bowl. Not even a ripping sound as the blade sliced through the tape holding his wrists behind the pipe that went into the wall. The man leaned close to cut the bands over his legs and gut. No fear of Johnny moving on him. Johnny’s arms were locked up with cold and his hands were dead numb.
A sharp snick told him the guy had retracted the blade of a carpet knife back into the handle. Johnny was free to move except for the strip over his eyes. He heard the work boots crunch away over the gritty tile floor. A squeal of rusting hinges. A gust of cold air.
He was alone. The guy was gone. He could hear a car start and pull away, crushing gravel.
Jonny tried to rise off the bowl. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. They gave under him and he fell against a steel partition wall before crashing to the floor. He lay on the icy tiles and howled as the circulation returned to his hands and legs and ass like liquid fire.
It was a long time before he could make his fingers work to tear the tape off his face. It was gray duct tape. It took off one whole eyebrow. He blinked blood from that eye.
Just as he thought. He was in a public restroom. A long row of stalls with a bank of sinks across from them. The place was familiar. Johnny braced himself on a sink stand and stood up with an effort to look around for his shoes and clothes. The shoes were okay but the clothes were slashed in strips where the guy had cut them off.
Naked and shivering he stepped outside into cold dawn light. He was facing a broad parking lot with trees beyond. Walking further out on the wooden deck he could see the waters of the Gulf. Gentle rollers crept up on a stony beach.
Johnny had been here once before. It was Honeymoon Island, a state park north of Tampa. People would surf cast off the rocks and there was a beach where you could bring your dog. It was closed at night. The guy at the bar knew that. Maybe he was a local. It didn’t matter now.
What did matter was for Johnny to get his naked self back to his car and then his apartment in Temple Terrace, grab his stash, pack the car and get as far as fuck away from Florida as he could before whatever shit the stranger had planned started raining down. This bully knew when to get off the ice.
Those plans struck a hitch when the park rangers found Johnny tramping for the exit wearing only his loafers and a plastic trash bag cinched around his waist to cover his ass.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Always be moving.
When you’re not moving stay hidden. When you’re hiding, will yourself to be invisible.”
12
* * *
The roof of the derelict Winn-Dixie gave Levon a clear vantage point.
He could see the front and rear of Skip’s. Johnny’s Audi was still parked in the fenced courtyard from the night before. A van was parked by it now. The van had Eezy Breezy Cleaning printed on a magnetic sign on the side. A fat guy sat sipping convenience store coffee and chain smoking at the wheel.
Around nine a new BMW purred to the spot next to the Audi. Two men exited. The driver was a stocky guy who wore the last Member’s Only jacket on Earth. The passenger was taller and younger and moved with a gym rat swagger. He wore a Bolts jersey with the tail out. The men could have been brothers or father and son. Both had dark wavy hair worn long on top. The older held a leather bag under his arm. It had a clasp atop it like an old school doctor’s bag.
They walked past the smoker in the van without a word or gesture. A flash of gold bracelet when the younger one held the door open for the older. A momentary bulge along the right hip under the jersey. Armed. Both entered and locked the door behind them.
Levon took down the license plate number of the Beemer. He crouched and waited.
Around ten thirty, two middle-aged Latinas exited the back door. Levon could hear the row of deadbolts locking behind them. The pair of women wore matching smocks, jeans and sneakers. One carried two plastic carry-alls with spray bottles and rags in each hand. The other hauled out a pair of loaded trash bags which she tossed into the rusting dumpster that stood against the back wall. They climbed into the van and it backed out through the fence, piloted by the smoker.
A Rainbow Cab with a sun-faded finish arrived as the van was leaving. It pulled to a stop in the service way behind the strip. A man exited the rear of the taxi. He waved to the driver of the departing cleaning van and entered the courtyard for the rear door of Skip’s. The van pulled away with the taxi following.
