by Mike McCrary
I’m worried.
Really worried.
I’m not a genius, but one of the few things I’ve been good at is reading people. Being able to make a quick assessment of someone, sometimes just looking at them, and usually being right. Often being dead-on. Not saying I’m a mind reader, but I can tell pretty quickly if someone is full of shit, an asshole or if he or she is all right. Gordo seemed like he was somewhere between full of shit and asshole the moment I met him, but I felt Jonathan was all right when I met him months ago. Now, I don’t really know.
I feel adrift on this one.
Feels like I just signed my life away without knowing the fine print. Wasn’t much of a life to sign away, frankly, but it was the one I have. All I have. I tell myself that my options were shit and I made the best of a bad situation. Which is all any of us can really do, I suppose. Still, everything feels off.
I have the driver (Bear Boy) stop at the first ATM he finds.
“You sure?” Bear Boy asks.
“Yeah.”
“The first one?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little edge to my voice.
Bear Boy walks with me into a strip joint called The Landing Strip. There’s an ATM in the back. It’s kind of sweet that Bear Boy is uncomfortable in here. He’s actually nervous, trying to keep his eyes from looking at the boobs and such. I cut through the nudity and semi-erect males en route to a small ATM near the bathrooms.
“Shake It Off” roars like an anthem from the heavens. Joint smells of booze, sweat, regret and pussy looking for profit. I know their angle. I could never do it, but there ain’t no shame in it. I’ve been offered no less than three dances since I walked in.
The big guy can watch, they all said.
I’ve been called Honey, Darling, Sugar and Sugar Tits. All flattering, to be sure, but all I want is to get to that damn ATM to see if the trust money hit my account. Could use the verification that I’m not getting conned on this deal with Gordo and Jonathan. I’m getting all kinds of looks from the men as well. Which makes no sense considering I’m fully dressed and these pretty ladies are naked as the day they were born. I guess I seem more accessible for some reason.
I’m not, for the record.
I giggle to myself for a second, can’t believe I didn’t think of this before now.
I’m now a trust fund baby.
I’ve become what I hated about the UT kids who came to the bar. The frat and sorority kids with their BMWs, their name-brand clothes, their high-dollar rental homes, their condescending bullshit, not to mention their lives. Once I enter my PIN, will I be one of them?
Fuck, I hope so.
It looks kinda nice. I’ll skip the condescending bullshit, I promise.
I slide my card in and out and punch in the numbers. Bear Boy steps behind with his back to me, shielding me from the others. That Bear Boy is all right. I press balance. It asks if I’ll pay the three-fifty fee. For a balance? You shittin’ me? Damn strip joints, man. I press yes, not completely sure if I’ve even got the three-fifty in there.
It only takes a few seconds, but it seems like forever. I can see myself in the glass. My eyes actually pop and my mouth opens wide. There’s over half a million dollars in my account. My brain needs to look it over two, three times before it truly sinks in. I stare at the comma. I lean in, trying to cover the screen. I don’t want anybody else to know. I feel like I need to protect this knowledge for some reason.
I withdraw the max.
It spits out an avalanche of twenties that seems to last forever. I’d rather it didn’t, but I’ll take it. I attempt to count them as they come out, but they’re moving so damn fast and there are so damn many of them I lose track. Try to give Bear Boy a few hundred but he refuses.
I give two hundred to a dancer on the way out the door. She takes it without a moment of pause. I kiss the unicorn tat on her right boob, just feels like the thing to do. She takes a swing at me. Bear Boy gets involved. We get thrown out.
So this is what wealth feels like. I get it now. It’s pretty awesome.
My world just got a reset button.
Life starts now.
Chapter 13
Bear Boy drops me off at a swank tower a few blocks over from 6th street.
One of the nicest apartment buildings I’ve seen in town.
Could be condos. I really don’t know the difference.
Let’s go with condos. “Condos” sounds better.
He hands me a key for the condo along with a security card for the elevator and the building’s front door. I know he won’t tell me shit, but I ask him what’s up there. He only smiles and tells me to take care of myself and to be well. I ask if he’s upset about the stripper brawl. He says he isn’t, but I’m pretty sure he could have lived without it.
I loved it.
As I watch Bear Boy drive off I feel a twist in my stomach. This is the first time it occurs to me. First time it registers with me that I’m all by myself. Being alone I’m used to, but alone and pushing through the unknown is not. Can’t say I’m enjoying it, either. Guess most folks don’t. Craning my neck skyward I take in the tower. My key says 3022. Maybe not the penthouse, but thirtieth floor has to be damn close.
Deluxe apartment in the sky.
Pardon me, condo in the sky.
This guy steps out of a car behind me. Young dude, maybe slightly younger than me. Nice-looking, cute, but skinny. Looks like he would fall over if you tapped him too hard. He’s dressed like a kid who hasn’t been around too many cool kids. White button-down shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, no belt, and a pair of knock-off Converse. He stands a few feet behind me, looking the tower up and down much like I did seconds ago.
Feels like he’s watching me.
Probably catching a cheap eyeful of Teddy’s sexy, but it feels different than that. I’m probably getting paranoid because of the cash I’m holding, but I can’t resist and turn back to him, giving him some stink eye. He’s staring right at me, but quickly looks down at his phone, trying to play it cool.
Pervert.
I enter the building and it’s what I expected: nice as shit. Reminds me of Jonathan’s place in New York. Similar cool, fancy-pants style trying hard not to look like it’s expensive, though you know damn well it’s damn expensive as hell. There’s a bubbly blonde chick at a counter who smiles and asks me about my day.
I smile back and tell her, “I’m living a dream.”
She gives me a polite laugh and says that’s funny, as if she had to explain to me that she thought it was funny.
As I enter the elevator the tall columns of numbered buttons wait for me. I push thirty but nothing happens. I hit it again harder.
“You have to use your card, I think.”
Spinning around I see it’s the young, skinny dude from out front. He’s in the elevator with me now.
“Thanks, man,” I say, a little creeped out. I pull the card Bear Boy gave me from my pocket, swipe it and press thirty. Works like a charm.
“What floor?” I ask him.
“I’m going to thirty too. Not thirty-two. I mean, I’m headed to thirty as well. Like you.”
I stare at him.
Who is this guy? Is he with the guys who busted up my game the other night? One of Gordo’s boys? Jonathan McCluskey’s people? Looks too frail to be with any of those crews, but who the hell knows at this point?
I keep my eyes forward, wishing I had my bat. The elevator announces the passing floors, giving us a soft dinging blip one after another. Time is crawling. Seems like it’s taking forever. He’s staring forward as well, looking to his shoes every so often. Sweat is starting to form inside my balled up fists.
Ding. 16.
He’s not a massive dude, but big enough for a bitch of a tussle. Scrawny ones always put up a scrap.
Ding. 20.
Already decided if it comes down to it I’m going for his nuts, kneecaps and eyes. In no particular order. Watch, he’ll be a full-on MMA guy.
; Ding. 23.
He shifts his weight. I shift mine. Feet apart shoulder width, setting a strong stance for me to counter whatever he’s got.
Ding. 30.
The doors open. I motion for him to go ahead of me.
“Oh no, please,” he says, offering me first exit.
Murderer or polite guy? Hard to tell. Feels like an hour has passed since the elevator stopped. I nod, thanking him, and step out into the hallway. He follows me. I can feel him behind me, keeping up with me step for step. I’d glance back, but I don’t want to let him know that I’m on to him. That bit of surprise is really all I’ve got. If Gordo is telling the truth, then my bat is waiting for me up ahead. My heart is pounding, my sweat-fists still tight and ready to strike.
This is the longest hall in history.
I try not to rush, but it’s hard not to break into an all-out sprint to my new home.
To my bat.
Reaching the door, I pull the key from my pocket. My hands are shaking, which hasn’t happened in a long time. Turning my head to the right I see the dude is using his key on the condo next door.
Next door.
He gives me a nervous smile as he enters his place.
A shiver rips down my spine. I can’t get the door open fast enough. Flinging it open, I rush in and shut the door hard behind me. Leaning up against the door, I try to calm myself as question after question bounces in my head like popping corn.
What the hell is with the skinny dude next door?
Is he waiting to come in here?
Does he just live there and nothing more?
A coincidence?
Have I become completely paranoid?
I un-ball my fists—the first step. Get my breathing under control—the second. Third is wiping the sweat from my hands on my jeans. Closing my eyes, I try to make some sense of what just happened. The skinny dude didn’t try to touch or grab me, let alone kill me. He certainly had the opportunity. I mean, I don’t really live here. I’m the new one. I have no idea who lives next door or down the hall or anything. However, everything I’ve seen in my life has led me to believe coincidences don’t happen. I wish I thought differently, but I don’t. The guy probably has holes in the wall and is watching me right now.
Pervert.
As creepy as that was with the dude—him standing outside on the street next me, the uncomfortable elevator ride and then, of course, him living next door, all of that—what just happened merely moments ago is quickly becoming a memory, fading in importance. Fumbling down the list of jacked-up events. A memory that’s been pushed back by the confusing sight my eyes are locked on right now.
This room.
This place I’ve just walked into.
Chapter 14
This room.
This apartment.
This condo.
This whatever, is empty except for a long, large table. Looks like a dining room table made of some kind of polished stone. Something the last supper would have been served on. Or perhaps it’s more altar-like, say for some Satanic get-together, or maybe some primitive group that is yet to be named. There are no virgins or goats being sacrificed here, but the table is covered with stuff.
Stuff meant for me.
Some of it I last saw in the back of the Yukon with Gordo. My boxes of books, my pictures, my laptop are on top, with my two ratty suitcases full of clothes and my money sitting on the floor leaning up against the table’s statuesque legs. I pick up my bat so I can hold it while I process the remainder of what’s laid out across the top of the table.
My eye is immediately drawn to the four fat rolls of rubber band-bound banks. One is thick with tens, another two with twenties, and the last one is full of hundreds. No idea how much is there, but it’s no joke. I imagine laying it all out on the hardwood floor and creating a dead president mosaic, then a Steady Teddy snow angel.
Steady Money angel.
The cash here makes what I took out at the strip joint look pathetic. Makes what’s in my shitty suitcase look like a child’s piggy bank. Next to the money, the rolls that would choke an elephant, is a gun. A handgun. A black gun with the name Beretta etched into its side, along with many fully loaded clips and two boxes of bullets. There’s also a silencer. I know this because of the entertainment industry, not because I’m Special Forces. Along with the boxes of bullets next to the gun are boxes of shotgun shells and what looks like a sawed-off 12-gauge. There is also a knife. A good sized lock-blade that can be equal parts utility and violence.
I’ve fired guns before, but it’s been a long, long time and when I did it was all bullshit. A dumbass boyfriend from years ago had a deer rifle and we shot paper targets, beer bottles, cans of beans or whatever we could get our hands on before he tried to get his hands into my pants. I let him a few times. I let a few in there after the incident. Sucks to admit, but I was a bit of a cliché for a while after my parents died. After I got out of the hospital I wasn’t right.
Gordo was right.
I was a legal adult with not much in the world to speak of. I lived with a boyfriend or two for a few months. Meaningless sex, some drugs, a ton of booze and more than a little self-pity. Still have spikes of the self-pity, and I hit the bottle more than I should, but I stopped the other stuff. Random sex and drugs served its purpose and was fun for a spell, but I’m really glad I’m not dead, or alive and in jail with a fried brain, a ruined vagina and a kid running around. I’d love to have kids someday, but being a single mom might be tough given my various jobs. In the end I realized none of that post-incident, sexy-whacko behavior was helping me get to good and the drama around all that behavior caused more problems than it solved.
Like I said, I’m a work in progress.
An unfinished novel I can’t stop rewriting.
All of this is to say that while I have shot a gun before, I’ve never shot these guns before. These guns here? These are serious weapons. Not to mention, I certainly have never had a small arsenal laid out for me by strangers before today. May you live in interesting times.
The bigger, scarier question is: why are these here?
To protect me from the A-Town underworld, or something worse?
What does Jonathan and Gordo McCluskey think is coming?
Something meaner, darker and/or unknown?
My imagination can come up with multiple terrifying possibilities as to why I would realistically need this high level of self-defense. This amount of firepower.
This amount of death power.
Gordo and Jonathan believe I should have these things or they wouldn’t be here. Those guys have used, or had people use, these instruments of mayhem before. There’s no doubt.
What do they know that I don’t?
The money on the table falls perfectly in-step with what we discussed earlier, but this, these guns, these things do not. Holding my arms out in front of me with my palms out, I watch the shaking of my fingertips. All ten moving in sync with the rest of my hand.
“Stop,” I tell them.
They don’t listen. In fact, they shake more. I could really use a drink. I crack the bottle of whiskey sitting next to the Beretta. It’s the good stuff. I let the first gulp burn, close my eyes letting in, then hit it again. Setting the bottle down, I put my hands out again for a checkup.
Hands.
Steady.
Moving on to the rest of the table.
I move from left to right away from the cash and weapons to find a neatly laid out row of cellphones. Each is labeled with a piece of tape and number with a folded piece of paper printed in a cold, stark, black font that explains these are “burners” and to switch using them as needed until it’s all over.
What’s all over?
Hit the whiskey again.
There’s a set of car keys.
Not a fob. These are to an older model car. The picture under the key stops me in my tracks. It’s a Porsche 911 Turbo. Red. I’m completely frozen. Feet stuck in the floor as my mind flips.
I’ve seen this car before.
Fumbling through my boxes of pictures I finally find the one I’m looking for. It’s of me and my daddy. I’m a baby and I’m sitting in my daddy’s lap in a car. A red Porsche 911 Turbo. The door is wide open, us sitting in the car resting in the dirt driveway of the house. From what I’ve been told from family friends, my father loved fixing up cars, Porsches in particular.
Tears well, filling the corners of my eyes.
I’m not even sure why. I don’t remember any of my daddy’s loves. I only know this is a memory I should have, but one I can only take on people’s word. I can only assume the baby in the picture is even me. People have told me it’s me, but I don’t really know. Not for sure. All I do know is Gordo must have gone through my pictures and found this.
Is this a gesture of kindness, or something to fuck with me?
To key in on my emotions, to throw me off?
Regret is staring to surge through me. I don’t like the way I’ m feeling right now. Regret from signing on the line that was dotted. Regret for taking the money. That regret is mixed with fear, mixed with anger, mixed with a few things I can’t put my finger on, and they are all running around unsupervised through my damaged head. Feels as if I’ve lost what little control I had in this world and I want to get it back. No more for me, thanks. I’d like to get off the ride now.
I take a hit of whiskey.
I grip the bat.
At the far end of the table is a pack of gum, package of peanut butter cups—my favorite—a stack of prepaid Visa cards (all for $50), a large silver tray, a lighter next to the tray and two sealed, letter-sized manila envelopes. One is neatly labeled TRUST DOCUMENTS and the other one reads OPEN IF YOU WANT TO STAY ALIVE.
I realize this is the thing that should have captured my attention when I first entered the room rather than the cash, but what can I say. Maybe I’m a material girl. I’m gripping my bat so tight my knuckles are white with light pink outlines of blood trying to creep back in. I set the whiskey down. It can’t help me anymore. My heart is beating fast, way too fast, and I don’t think I’ve taken in a breath since I read the title of that second envelope.
