by Mike McCrary
Open if you want to stay alive.
Instructions don’t get much simpler.
Looking around the room, I notice I was incorrect when I walked in.
The place is not completely empty. There’s a cushy-looking brown leather recliner by the window. I pick up the two envelopes and move over to the chair. Setting them down on the cushion of the chair I take a moment. I know as soon as I look them over my life will change forever.
Actually, I know it already has changed, but this feels like the real point of no return-style shit. Of course my life tilted the second Gordo walked into the bar, and then it flipped completely upside down when I signed whatever I signed. Not that my life didn’t need a change, God knows that it did, but I’d like to know if it‘s changed for the better or if I’ve signed my death warrant.
Did I see dollar signs and dive in like an idiot without thinking clearly?
Blinded by my number?
I feel myself fading away. Peeling from the planet. My stomach sinks through the floor as I come to grips with the fact I’ve possibly made the biggest mistake I could have ever made. I’ve released control of my life for the promise of money. Sold my soul for that illusive pot of gold you hear so much about. Sold it for that bullshit daydream called happiness. I know the pitch. I’ve pitched it. A sales pitch spoken by those with something to gain off people who hold on tightly to a need. The need to believe that something out there will make everything okay.
Make this life better.
The pitch that makes them feel better about themselves, about their place in the world, if only for a little while. Everything from politicians to quick weight loss to plastic surgery to colleges to penis enlargement pills to terrorists to religion to Sandy have all pitched the same pitch.
The pitch is hope.
The hope things can be better. Hope is a powerful marketing plan and it’s tested well over the centuries across all demographics. I wouldn’t be the first person in history to get sucked in, and probably won’t be the last.
But let’s make no mistake, I fell for it.
Really pissed off I fell so deep, so fast. Two questions still gnaw at me, some things that don’t make any sense here.
What is Gordo and Jonathan’s angle here?
What do they have to gain off of me?
Can’t see their upside in doing all this. At least not yet.
I’m hungry. I decide to check the fridge first before opening that damn scary envelope that will probably outline exactly how fucked I truly am.
Chapter 15
There’s some beer, along with a pizza box that has a receipt from two days ago taped to the grease-stained lid.
Guessing Gordo, with some help from Bear Boy, put this all together before Gordo stopped by the bar the other night. I’ll give them credit, they are good. In the fridge is a six of Dos Equis and a pepperoni and mushroom from Home Slice. It’s nice they know me so well.
Also creepy as shit.
After taking down a slice, okay two slices, of pie I crack open a beer. The first sip is amazing. I chug some more as my eyes slip over to the chair. It’s calling me. Mocking me. This chair that holds some things I think I’d rather not see. Information I’d rather not know. Leaving the pizza and my bat on the kitchen island, I walk over to the table again. Want to get another look, as if it’ll help in some way. I scan over the cash, the phones, the prepaid Visas and, oh yes, the weapons. Running my fingertips over the guns I try to imagine what is in those envelopes.
What are they going to tell me?
The one about saving my life in particular.
Only one way to find out.
I chug the rest of my beer and walk over to the kitchen, grab another. Enough dicking around. While cracking open the fresh beer I charge toward the chair. I’m a girl who likes bad news first.
I tear open the stay alive envelope.
It contains only a few pages with a simple staple in the top corner. First page is a typed letter with the signature of Jonathan McCluskey at the bottom. I decide I want to hear the letter out loud. I feel I need to hear the words rather than float them past my brain while reading silently. Maybe I’ll read it in a British accent. Someone from Game of Thrones? That might help. Make it easier to deal with the scary.
Make it less real, perhaps. Like it’s written for someone else.
Doing my best Sansa Stark, I read aloud, “Dear Teddy, you’re reading this letter because you’ve accepted my offer. I hope you won’t be disappointed. This will not be easy, but if you persevere I truly believe you will be better for it. You are now one of six beneficiaries assigned to my survivor’s trust. Please read over the trust documents and consult your attorney if you need any clarification. To summarize, you, along with my wife and four sons, are beneficiaries of all I am leaving behind after my death.”
I grab another beer.
Chug.
Breathe.
Start again.
“Real estate, stock, bonds, cash and other earthly possessions are all under the umbrella of this trust. I am very sick, so unfortunately my death will be sooner rather than later, but I deeply want something good to come from the things I’ve done during my time in this world. Something decent to come from what I’m leaving behind. I won’t lie to you, I’m not a good man. I’ve done a lot to be ashamed of. The money I’ve made during my life was earned by way of some unpleasant things. I come from a family of horrific people. My mother drank herself into madness and my father died from a beating he received in prison. My other three brothers are criminals and have caused the world a great deal of pain. All for money.
“Money.
“I’m so tired of money and what it does. My wife and children are much like my brothers. Please take this opportunity and make the most of it, make me proud. Fight hard. Do good with this money. I know you will. The next few pages will outline the things that will give you the best chance for survival during the challenging days ahead. Best, John McCluskey.”
What in the sweet mother of fuck did I just read?
I try reading it silently.
I read it once more aloud in my normal speaking voice.
I try it again as Christopher Walken.
Then Jack Nicholson.
Sponge Bob.
It never gets any better.
Chapter 16
Page two doesn’t help either.
There’s a list of five names:
Patricia (Patty) McCluskey – wife
Malik McCluskey – son
Major McCluskey – son
Marcus McCluskey – son
Moses McCluskey – son
The all-caps title above the names reads: PEOPLE WHO ARE COMING TO KILL YOU.
A list of my fellow beneficiaries, who all wish me dead. This does explain the contents on the table. All the weapons. Now I’m not sure there’s enough. Can’t help but wonder if these people received a similar document with only one name on page two. My name. Does the title say, PERSON YOU SHOULD THINK ABOUT KILLING?
I bet it does.
Assholes.
Page one said his wife and sons were like the rest of his family. Sansa Stark said they were criminals. Christopher Walken said they were murders. Jack said “challenging days ahead.” Sponge Bob said “fight hard.” I read the part again about doing good with the money. I shoot up from the chair, mind on fire. I think of how Jonathan McCluskey wants good to happen with his money. The nice older man who came into my bar and didn’t eyeball Sandy. My vision blurs in and out of focus. Gordo. Fucking Gordo coming to whisk me off to NYC so I could sign up for money and mayhem.
I feel sick.
Won’t let myself throw up, nope, even though it would be well within my rights. News of a family death squad coming after you, combined with the whiskey, beer and aging pizza would cause even the toughest of guts to churn. However, I will not let that happen. I will not allow the universe that little laugh at my expense.
I begin pacing, racing back and forth, tryi
ng to process while rubbing my temples as if trying to help the gears turn. There’s been a lot to take in on pages one and two, but I know I need to see three and four.
Rather not.
I’d rather take everything and run. Run as fast and as far as I can. I know I can’t. Something tells me that’s not going to work. Have a sneaking suspicion my fellow beneficiaries will track me down to the ends of the Earth. I don’t know them, but they strike me as the driven kind. Also, there’s a helpful little handwritten note at the bottom of page two that says, Don’t run. They will find you.
Could have sworn the envelope said something about me living.
Page three.
Not much here. There’s another name.
Elizabeth (Lizzy) Long.
Under her name it says, Go see this person. She will show you how to use the items on the table. She will also show you how to stay alive. Memorize the address below and use the lighter and silver tray to burn these pages.
The address is outside Austin quite a few miles west, out in the country. This is insane. Who is this woman, this Lizzy? Who are these people? This family? What the hell have I stepped in? I close my eyes. I can feel the panic bubbling.
Walls closing in.
Guts twisting tighter and tighter.
“Stop!” I scream.
Opening my eyes, I realize I’m on the floor in a fetal position of sorts. The silence is deafening. My heavy breathing is the only sound. I put my shaking hands out in front of me, shake them hard. They stop. My breathing is slowing. I have to think. Panic never solves anything. Think. What are the facts? What do I really know? I have nothing concrete to go on here. This might all be complete bullshit. Could be one big joke.
Again, what do I really know about any of this?
Not much.
However, I know deep inside of me this isn’t bullshit.
These people are not blowing smoke. I’ve seen them at work at the hotel kitchen, the private plane, seen the place in New York, the money they transferred to my account like it was nothing, and I’ve seen this condo. They may not be telling me everything with absolute open honesty, but one thing is certain: these people can do some serious shit. I have to take them at their word. Really not much of a choice.
Studying the address under the name I commit it to memory. I read it over and over, burning it into my busted brain. Giving it one last look, I light it on fire and drop it onto the silver tray. Just like I was told. Watching the flames flicker, I’m starting to feel the booze take some of the edge off. Not too much, but it’s softening me up. Smoothing the rough spots.
The page curls and smokes before turning black then crumbling. The whiskey and beer can’t take it all away however. My stomach still tingles and flutters, and not in the first-kiss kind of way either. More in a family-of-assholes-are-coming-to-kill-you-because-someone-you-barely-know-just-gave-away-the-family-fortune kind of stomach tingle way.
A true survivor’s trust.
There’s a bone-jarring slam at the front door.
I damn near jump out of my skin.
Slam.
Chapter 17
Another and another and another.
That is no knock.
That’s someone who’s simply going to come in. One way or another.
I grab my bat.
Another slam at the door. I bounce back on my heels. That last one was harder. The door jamb is showing cracks near the deadbolt. The door will be giving up soon. He, she, they or it will be in here with me in a matter of seconds. Spinning around, I look for something. A way out. Anything. Escape is not possible. The window only leads to a thirty-floor drop to certain death. One way in and one way out.
That door.
Slam.
I grab the Beretta. Not completely sure how to use it, but having it in hand has to be better than not having it. Wrapping my fingers around the grip I try to get comfortable with it. It’s loaded, that much I know. I checked it.
Slam.
I see a large, empty North Face bag near my suitcases on the floor. Looking to the table, I realize I may not get a chance to pack later. Sliding the gun into the front waistband of my jeans, I start stuffing the bag with everything I can. The cash, the car keys, cells, prepaid cards, bullets, shotgun, all of it.
Slam.
Running over to the chair, I jam the two envelopes into the bag as well.
Door jamb splinters.
I sling the North Face bag over my shoulder and rush back to the table.
The chain catches the door, clinging to keep it from flying open. A hand with bright red painted fingernails slides in, gripping tight on the inside of the door.
I pull my gun with one hand, ready my bat in the other.
With a final whack at the door, the chain finally gives way, exploding off to the right as the door swings open wide. The chain clanks as it bounces off the hardwood floor.
In step a man and a woman.
He is a young man, looks to be in his twenties, and good foot taller than me. Also probably weighs about a hundred pounds more. Dressed in expensive slob-chic, he might as well have Tool tattooed on his forehead. He’s also got a stupid look on his face I’d like to remove with my bat.
The woman is fortyish, mean-looking attorney vibe, but carries herself with a lot of style. Dressed in a nice black business suit with an open jacket showing off a string of pearls and a cream top that covers what I’m guessing is a boob job. They look perky, solid. Not judging, somewhat jealous.
Best guess, this is Patty McCluskey and one of the M-sons.
No one says a thing. I point my gun, alternating between them. They stare back at me. Not their first time for this sort of thing. M-son flashes a gun of his own he’s got tucked in the front of his designer jeans under his shirt. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, Me too.
Patty blinks, shuts what’s left of the door and simply says, “Hi.”
“Hello,” I say, adjusting my sweaty grip on the gun. The weight of the North Face bag is starting to cut into my shoulder.
“Your name is Teddy, right?” she asks.
“No, sorry. You’ve busted down the wrong door. She’s down the hall.”
“Cute.” She takes her place next to her boy. “Let’s make this easy on everybody. Especially you. You can keep whatever money they gave you and you can take this.” She moves toward me, reaching into her jacket.
I point my gun at her. “Don’t.”
“Relax, little girl.” She’s paying my gun no mind as she lays a check down on the far end of the table. She taps the check while making continuous eye contact with me. “That’s from the trust. It’s made out to you for two hundred and fifty thousand. That ups your take a quarter of a million dollars plus whatever you already have. All you need to do, is sign these and walk the hell away.”
She gives M-Son a nod and takes his gun from him, keeping it pointed down toward the floor. Never breaks eye contact. There’s a level anger behind those eyes. A contained bit of something nasty. Something I feel I’d rather not see.
Her boy pulls a small, folded stack of papers from his jacket along with a pen. He lays them on the table next to the check. I can see them from here. Can’t make it all out, but the check looks legit and the papers look a lot like what’s in the envelope in my bag. Top of the page reads, Trust Amendment.
“That sounds great, damn generous of you too. Damn generous. I sign those, that check bounces like a dead cat.”
She smiles, handing the gun back to her boy. “Forgive me. My name is Patty.”
“No fucking shit.”
“This is my son, Malik. We assure you the check is good—“
“Bitch. We say what happens, not you. You hearin’ me?” Malik says, cutting in.
Patty backhands the shit out of him.
Her whack sends him spinning away. As he does, she kicks him in the balls, dropping him to his knees. She kicks him again, jamming her heel hard into his chest putting him on his back. Fixing her hair, she
runs her thumb across her lips, removing the excess spit that flew while beating her son. She adjusts her suit and turns her attention back to me.
“No. I’m being straight with you. Feel free to look it all over. All legit. I only want this to be done and want my family to have what’s theirs. My husband is not well. His head isn’t well. He made a mistake with you, no offense.”
“I didn’t fuck him, lady. Is that what you think?”
“I know you didn’t. This is more about you fucking me and my family out of what’s ours.”
“Didn’t ask for this.”
“Didn’t turn it down either.”
Malik grunts, cupping his balls as he struggles to get up.
“How do I know you won’t come after me?”
“Trust?”
“You just kicked in my door then you kicked your son in the balls. His balls I could care less about, but you could’ve knocked. Talked to me, civilized-like. Just saying.”
“Didn’t think you’d let us in. Not to mention, it’s not your door. It’s ours. Just saying.”
“Yeah, I just decided I don’t trust you.”
“Yeah, I just decided that after we kill you Malik is going to cut you up in the bathtub. He’ll start at the feet. Make it easier to take out the trash.”
“That a fact?” I say, trying to hide my terror.
“That it is. Bright side? Your pathetic, sad, shitty little life of poverty will soon be over. All that living off of the scraps of society? All that struggle only to be nothing? All ends, now. That has to be of some comfort, right? However, you’re going to have to gut out a great deal of pain first.”
The terror is gone.
Replaced with a new feeling.
Anger. Blind-ass anger.
This bitch and her asshole son have done pissed me off. Reminds me of the feeling I had at the poker game. It starts in my gums, a tingling just above my teeth, then it roars like a flood overtaking the rest of me. Feels like my eyes are going to pop right out of my skull. This isn’t the worst I’ve felt of this sensation, but it’s top ten. Fine, top five.
