Ocean Park

by Michael Walsh

  The water stopped.

  “Your choice,” O’Neil said. “Say all you know, shout it loud and clear. Or suffer.”

  Samay screamed against the plastic. His breath pumped the mask like a bellows before he spoke.

  “His name is Pon. Pon is the one you’re looking for.”

  For some reason his mouth was being filled again. He spoke faster and louder.

  “Pon killed them. Victor Rodriguez. The men who came for Channary.”

  O’Neil’s right hand returned to Samay’s shoulder and massaged.

  “Pon will kill me,” he said at the end of his confession. He thought the comforting hand meant it was over.

  More water, a third time.

  Finally, when it was done and Samay’s hurried breaths prevented him from speaking, O’Neil cut the tape that held him to the inverted board, helped him up, and freed his face.

  “I’ve betrayed the devil,” Samay gasped.

  O’Neil squatted in front of him and held his face with a strong hand.

  “No. You’ve helped make him a real ghost.”

  ****

  Sour breath woke Samay on Wednesday night. Vithu’s hateful face loomed just inches away. His tormentor collected Samay’s shirt at the collar and yanked him out of bed.

  Not again. How had Vithu found out?

  For three nights Vithu had punished Samay for his betrayal of Pon. For three nights Samay had endured beatings in the basement with whips and fists until his back and buttocks were raw. He didn’t think he’d survive another round.

  Vithu lifted him and hurled him through the bedroom door, into the hallway. Samay knew his pleas for forgiveness would draw even more punishment, but begged anyway. Maybe the right words would soften Vithu’s stone heart.

  “I can’t. Not again. Please, Vithu. No.”

  Vithu dragged him to the top of the stairs and hurled him down. Every inch of his body hurt, and the tenderness became agony with each new punch and kick. The curve in the staircase saved him from tumbling far, but his body hit the plaster so hard it cracked. Samay struggled to his feet and continued ahead of his devil. He braced himself with a hand on the curved wall, and saw when he took it away he’d left handprints of blood. For the first time in his life, he decided to pray, even though he didn’t know how.

  Oh Great Spirit, take Vithu out of my life. Kill him, or just make him vanish. Your choice. I’ll promise you anything. I beg you sincerely.

  Vithu knocked him down the remaining steps and he tumbled onto the faded rug in the dark basement, into the dank, cold cellar.

  Oh Great One, rip this gang’s tattoo from my arm. I hate this life. I will deny my vows, even to eyewitnesses. I hate them all dearly.

  The light flicked on. Pon stood in the middle of the rug, in front of the bound body of William O’Neil. His arms were tied by rope that ran over the rafters, and his legs were lashed to a metal support pole. His face was swollen and his chin rested on his chest. Bruises and welts covered his shirtless torso. Maybe tonight wasn’t about fists and whips. Samay felt elated, but wary.

  Vithu poised to strike Samay again, but Pon waved him off.

  “My brother Samay,” Pon said. “Is this the man who tormented you?”

  “Yes. He’s the monster.”

  Pon pulled a knife from a sheath on the table next to him. The knife had ornate carvings on the handle and serrations on the blade, and curved like a scimitar. He laid the flat of the blade against O’Neil’s cheek.

  “Here’s your chance for revenge, for justice.” He turned the knife and presented it to Samay.

  Overhead, the floor creaked under the sound of slow footsteps. A siren wailed far away. Samay stared at the knife. Vithu paced behind them.

  Kill or be killed?

  “Make a choice,” Pon said. He touched the taut rope. “You may show mercy. The knife can also be freedom.”

  Water dripped in a dark corner. The sharp sound of each drop echoed and blended into the next.

  “But if I let him go, he’ll kill you,” Samay said. “He told me so.”

  Pon lifted O’Neil’s head by the hair. The captive’s still eyes looked brittle. “Look at him, Samay. He’s defeated. The life is gone, can you see it? The resignation on his face? He doubts himself. He might welcome death. Another choice for you to consider. It’s difficult, isn’t it? All the choices. Don’t kill him for me. I don’t fear this man.”

  Pon’s voice was hypnotic, soothing. “So what will it be, Samay? Choose wisely.”

  Choose wisely? What choice will save me?

  Samay raised the knife to O’Neil’s throat. What choice would please them? Did he have to kill to make Pon happy? And if he did, would the ghost of William O’Neil haunt him for the rest of his life?

  Samay touched the rope with the knife. Pon smiled. Samay sawed with vigor and fibers popped free from the rope. Soon he was halfway through.

  This is the right choice. Pon’s smile says so.

  Suddenly Vithu stepped forward, wrested the knife from Samay’s hand, and dragged the scimitar blade across O’Neil’s throat. Blood poured and darkened his pale chest and belly. Samay gasped and backed away.

  Vithu balled his fist and cocked his arm. The HATE tattoo seemed to grow.

  “This is strength,” Vithu screamed. He reared back and punched Samay so hard he fell to the carpet. Vithu stood over him and held the knife inches from Samay’s face. Blood covered the blade and guard.

  “And this is justice.”

  ****

  An hour later Samay dragged the dory across ragweed and tall grass. Its bottom whispered along the growth until it clattered over small rocks imbedded in the muddy bank. It slipped into the black river silently and spun in a slow, wide arc. He secured the bow line as Pon and Vithu lifted the body of William O’Neil, wrapped with canvas and bound with rope, into the boat’s flat bottom.

  The moon was a sliver, stars barely visible. Vithu climbed over the transom, balancing himself with a hand on the gunwale. The sucking mud tried to keep him on land. He sat on the wood seat near the stern, inches from O’Neil’s head.

  Pon pushed away from shore and stepped in, feet steady in the rounded bottom. He sat in the front seat and Samay fit the oars into the half-rings. He twisted the oar handles until the paddles ran perpendicular to the water, and pulled a steady stroke that swept them into the middle of the river. The oars created tiny whirlpools and the ripples glistened in the moonlight. The wake grew into a giant fan.

  The Saugus River coiled. Samay rowed around a bank and pulled hard, the metal oar locks creaking. His arms burned from the pain of Vithu’s beatings, and the night air stung his raw, beaten face. His neck screamed in agony when he occasionally looked back and corrected course when he drifted too far from the middle.

  Two curves later, lonely railroad tracks stretched on the berm to their right, along with dark houses shrouded in fog. Grassy banks stood on their left, jutting chins with green beards, too muddy to hold houses. Samay pulled the oars in and helped Vithu heft the body onto the gunwale. Pon lifted the cinderblock and they dropped both into the black water together. The river cratered, rippled, and smoothed.

  “Food for you, fish,” Vithu said.

  Bubbles rose to the surface and broke in a frothy circle.

  “Ocean Park is hungry since Tommy Lopez died,” Vithu said. “It’s our job to feed them.”

  The boat seesawed back and forth. Samay sat and listened. Pon answered.

  “Buddha says a warrior becomes the devil he vanquishes.”

  “You quote Buddha?” Vithu replied. “After desecrating a church with Rodriguez’s murder, after slaughtering an army in our very home?”

  “You talk to fish. You should also talk to Buddha.”

  “I have, Pon. Our brothers are restless. They worry about money. They ask about their future, how Pon will help them. I say Pon does nothing for others, only for himself.”

  “Will you help them to their graves, Vithu?”

  �
��They say I’m their savior. They say I killed Victor Rodriguez and those who came for the girl. I don’t correct them. I took your sins from you, Pon. Now I’ll be feared and respected like Tommy Lopez.”

  “Those I kill asked to die. They whispered it like the fish, Vithu, for those who chose to listen.”

  “Did you ask to die, Pon?” Vithu held his hand over the spot where they’d dropped the body. “What about this demon? If not for me, he would have killed you. You’re a great warrior, my friend, but your work here is done. We no longer need you.”

  Pon stood, perfectly balanced, and drew his knife. The river hardly rippled.

  “I won’t leave snakes behind, Vithu.”

  Samay shrank to the side of the boat. Vithu stood and the boat yawed. He reached and steadied himself on the starboard edge.

  Vithu and Pon faced each other. Water gently slapped the hull. Moonlight flashed on the knife suddenly in Vithu’s hand.

  Pon held his own dagger in front of his face like a knight presenting his sword, and whispered, “I’m listening, Vithu. When you’re ready, I’m listening.”

  After a long time, Vithu sat down and turned his face toward the banks. Samay turned the boat and pulled a long stroke, while Pon stood still on the bow, spread-eagled and as unmoving as a figurehead.

  Chapter 35

  The next day marked the start of Vithu’s rebellion. Samay wondered whether Vithu’s newfound courage sprung from his humiliation by Pon on the river, or if somehow the spirit of William O’Neil had indeed possessed and emboldened him.

  Vithu and Samay searched for Pon in the tenement and the courtyard. They found him at the end of River Street, standing under an elm, its branches frosted with fresh snow. Vithu drew a bag of white powder from his pocket.

  “Your leadership has failed, Pon. Your brothers live in squalor and they cower from the Latin Kings.” He squeezed the bag and held it to Pon. “This is our future.”

  Suddenly a police cruiser sped toward them, tires squealing, and Vithu hid the bag behind his back. Pon strolled to the curb, leaned into the car’s open window, and handed a fistful of bills to the cop. The policeman hesitated, studying the three of them from behind sunglasses before handing a blue jacket to Pon, along with a cap that said NAHANT.

  “Wait,” Pon said and the policeman obeyed.

  Pon reached behind Vithu, snatched the bag, and handed it to the cop. The cruiser sped away as Pon turned to Vithu, their faces so close they almost touched.

  “This is your last chance, Vithu. Seek a life of honor, one where you don’t cower and hide. Here,” he said, baring his teeth and pressing the jacket and cap against Vithu’s chest.

  “A chance for you to show courage. It’s time for Channary to come home.”

  ****

  Pon squeezed black greasepaint from a tube, and his fingertips rubbed the waxy paste on Samay’s face. Pon whispered.

  “Bravery sleeps in all of us, Samay. We just need to wake it.”

  He smeared the paint across Samay’s forehead and temples, the strong fingers avoiding the cuts and bruises Vithu had inflicted. When he ran some across the upper lip, the smell of the sweet goo filled his nostrils. Soon after Pon finished, the greasepaint began to harden like a mask. Pon fit a wool cap on Samay’s head.

  “Wake your bravery and embrace it, my brother.”

  The hypnotic voice seemed to ease his pain and steel his mind. It still echoed at midnight, as Samay huddled behind a garage, arms crossed, hands clutching shoulders, and waited for Vithu. The narrow space was dark, and when he moved, an earthy smell rose from wet leaves, the damp smell of decay.

  The journey across Ocean Park Harbor had been frightening. He and Vithu had travelled an ink-black sea in a twelve-foot boat, and near the edge of the harbor they’d almost been sucked to the open ocean by angry whitecaps.

  Vithu’s reaction? He stared straight ahead, worked the bow into waves, and ignored the frigid spray that showered them. When they finally docked, Samay felt as if he’d escaped a cyclone.

  He dreaded the return trip. He dreaded Vithu.

  “Samay,” Vithu growled from the other side of the garage, an urgent whisper. “It’s time. Come.”

  Samay pushed himself away from the wall and trudged through fetid leaves. Vithu led the way across a lawn, past a grill and patio chairs stacked against the back of a house. They fought through thickets and crossed two more well-tended yards. Colorful window boxes decorated the fairy tale houses, scalloped wood trim hung under the fascia, flat stones lined paths to manicured gardens.

  At the back of one they came to a natural wall of stone, its jagged crags barely lit by weak moonlight. The wall rose twenty feet, until the chain link fence at its top extended the rampart another eight. They stuffed gloves in pockets and laid into the rock, found handholds, set toeholds, and started to climb. Samay was faster, his wiry frame and long arms and legs dancing like a spider’s. He climbed easily, his skinny frame no burden as he walked the wall, as if Pon’s deft touch and encouragement had also soothed his stiff, aching muscles.

  Vithu’s method was to attack the cliff. His strong hands clutched the stone, punished it, forcing his muscular body upward.

  Samay stopped halfway to wait for his companion, and looked over his shoulder at the yellow ribbon of light the moon laid across the dark sea. Dangling almost twenty feet up, he felt safe here, a master of the earth, a conqueror.

  They reached the top where rock gave way to steel fence. The house loomed into view, a dark square with a single lighted window. Their fingers and toes poked through the chain link triangles until they were one with the swaying wall of metal. Samay reached the top first, swung his leg silently over pipe and sharp barbs, and crept down this final obstacle. He studied the house as Vithu dropped next to him.

  Vithu reached into his black police jacket, drew out the folded baseball cap with NAHANT emblazoned across it in gold letters, the clothes Pon had bought from the Ocean Park cop. He pulled the cap low, almost to his eyes.

  Samay watched him don the disguise, watched Vithu fish a silver badge out of his pocket and pin it over his heart. He turned to Samay when he was done, and lifted his chin twice. Samay hid behind a bush next to the house, and watched as Vithu climbed the two-step porch and rapped on the back door.

  Another knock, harder this time. Samay knew it was being answered because Vithu’s face turned upward. A black man with a haunting white eye appeared, curling the shade aside. Pon had said Channary’s caretaker would welcome them. How did Pon know? Was it because he knew the man? Or because he knew mankind?

  Vithu saluted, pointed at the doorknob, and made a turning motion with his fingers. The caretaker held up a cell phone.

  Vithu patted his pockets and shook his head no.

  The caretaker pocketed the phone, walked to a box on the wall, punched buttons, and opened the door. Samay came out from the bush.

  “Your back. Watch your back,” the caretaker suddenly shouted to Vithu and fumbled for the gun in his holster.

  Vithu drew his gun, the SIG Sauer. Its black muzzle breathed fire as the SIG barked.

  The caretaker fell to the floor. Samay and Vithu hurried into the dark kitchen and stood over him, listening.

  “I’m sorry, Channary,” the caretaker said to no one. “So sorry.” Dark blood pooled under him and spread on the tile floor.

  “Lloyd?” a woman called.

  The caretaker groaned and narrowed his eyes. His hand covered his chest, and blood began to bubble and stream from his mouth.

  “Why did you shoot him?” Samay asked and pushed Vithu toward the wall, surprised at his own bravery.

  Vithu pinned him against the wall with his forearm. The heat of the gun warmed Samay’s cheeks, the smell of cordite filled his nostrils. At the front of the house there were footsteps on the porch and pounding on the door. Police were coming. Time was running out.

  “Your courage has failed you again,” Vithu said. “I can always count on your fear.” He poi
nted the gun at Samay’s nose.

  A black woman walked in, her sleepy eyes squinting in the darkness. She looked at the caretaker, gasped, and knelt next to him.

  Vithu swung the gun toward her.

  She glared back at him. “You the boy they send to threaten women and children?”

  Vithu smiled. He extended his arm, trigger finger white.

  Suddenly Channary walked into the kitchen, half asleep—until her eyes widened and she whispered, “Kendricks?”

  She screamed when Samay lifted her over his shoulder and bolted for the door, she pounded his back and fought to get free. The woman fought him too, but Vithu smashed the SIG against the side of her head, and she sprawled on the floor next to the caretaker. Samay sprinted to the fence, Channary’s cries ringing in his ears.

  Chapter 36

  The shrill cry of bagpipes rolled across green meadows—meadows pocked with gray headstones. The wail tumbled through skeletons formed by oak and elm branches still bare from winter, and sifted through a dense copse of pines. The music propelled an army in dark uniform, somber policemen whose black shoes whispered across the green, green grass. A copper sun in a cloudless sky played on buttons and badges as the sad-faced warriors marched down a winding blacktop lane.

  Marched toward Lloyd Kendricks’ bronze-colored coffin.

  Conley stood at the head of the casket, still holding the gold carrying handle. Mazzarelli wheezed from the exertion of carrying the coffin. Stefanos manned the other side. His face seemed softer today. Jaw line wasn’t so hard, eyes were glassy.

  They stared in the general direction of Madie Kendricks and her boys—Madie in her long black dress and hat, dark lace covering her face, Kit and Leshawn in tailored black suits that looked sacrilegious on mourners so young.

  The boys wore green carnations. Placing Kit’s at the funeral home hadn’t been easy. Leshawn tried to plug one in his younger brother’s lapel, but Kit pushed him away. A tussle ensued that ended when Leshawn explained “It’s for Dad.”