The Assigned

by A. D. Smith

  “Hey Lou,” I say, getting the bartenders attention. “Tell the one in that low-cut yellow top …” Lou points the woman out sitting on the other side of the bar.

  “… yeah her. Let her know, drinks on me.”

  “Gotcha, TNT.”

  Lou walks over to relay the message. The co-ed grins as she looks my way. Freckles are barely noticeable under her machine-tanned skin. Her long blonde hair hides any evidence of its original color. Just like I like em. After a few moments she flirtingly waves. Nonchalantly, I turn my head as I finish my drink. Never let on too quickly. After all, it’s just a game. No different than the football field.

  I take one more look in low-cut yellow top’s direction. She’s still looking. Briefly I smile back before pretending to engulf myself in my smartphone. She motions for Lou. Perfect …

  I can see her whispering something to the husky bartender out the corner of my eye, though I pretend not to notice. She must have given him a message for me as he walks back towards my direction. Just as Lou is about to gesture for my attention, something catches his attention. He pauses as he gazes over my head. Must be a woman, I smile, as I turn around to see the distraction. Guess I was right … sort of.

  Definitely a woman, but wearing a steel-colored pantsuit with an egg-shell ruffled collar and ruffle sleeves protruding from her suit coat, this one definitely sticks out at the modern pub. Her attire is a mix of the Victorian Age and “The Matrix”. She has to be in her late fifties, early sixties. Long, ultra-straight, platinum gray hair drops below her shoulders. Her fair skin tinges with warm hints of brown. It’s hard to tell her background under that coat of hair. Maybe Middle Eastern, Brazilian, Creole? I don’t recall ever laying eyes on this woman before, but there’s still something oddly familiar about her.

  She peers around the bar until her eyes find … me, surprisingly. We stare for a brief moment before I pretend to get a text message. Not really wanting to know more about the mystery woman, I turn back around on my swivel bar chair. Out the corner of my eye, I notice she is now standing right beside me. It’s as if her eyes pierce through my skin. Others notice as well.

  “Uhh, yeah whada it be?” Lou asks the woman, attempting to end the eerie moment. She says nothing. I can still fill her eyes penetrating the side of my face. Finally, I’ve had enough. “Something I can help you with?” I say, somewhat crude.

  What’s with this lady? She continues to stare. People around the bar wait for a response. I smirk at the crowd before addressing the obviously crazed woman.

  “He-he-he-hellooooo?” I mouth, insinuating the woman is slow. People laugh as I take another sip of my act out juice. Lou tries to intervene once more. “Look ma’am, you’re gonna have to buy something or I’ma have to ask you to leave.”

  Then just like that, the woman turns around and heads for the exit. After a few steps, though, she stops. It looks as if her eyes glaze over, but it’s hard to tell in this light. Suddenly she rushes back to the bar. Lou frowns as the persistent lady beckons for him to come closer.

  “Look, are you gonna buy something this time?” He asks, thoroughly annoyed now. The strange woman continues to motion for Lou with her hand. He stands arms folded, resisting. She smiles, her head slightly tilted. Lou finally lets down his guard and leans over to see what the woman wants. She waits a moment before softly saying, “May you use the rest of your time wisely.”

  Confused, Lou stares at the woman, his tall frame still hunched over. Then comes the sound …

  ZZZIPPPPP … CRRACCKK!!!

  An errant dart flies over Lou’s head and crashes straight into a huge display bottle on the bar counter. It shoots through the container like a bullet. Red liquid bursts from the bottle, soaking those closest to it, including me. I can’t believe this! Do they know how much this shirt costs?—Wait a minute … I notice something odd. The placement of Lou’s head—now standing straight up—and the contact spot of the dart on the bottle are nearly identical. The tall server instinctively rubs the side of his temple. Did—did she just save his life? Hell, did she just save mine? From where I’m sitting the dart could have just as easily hit me. I turn to see the woman’s reaction but she is nowhere to be found. Nah … can’t be.

  “Sorry about that, TNT,” says Lou while handing me a towel.

  “This is a $600 dollar shirt,” I grumble as I continue to wipe the strawberry flavored beverage from my clothes.

  “I know ,” says Lou. “Those college kids always in here throwing darts all over the place, like it’s funny or somethin’.” Lou reaches for the side of his head again. “They done it this time!”

  Just then my phone rings. Frown lines set in as I notice the number. Better be good …

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  A voice whispers on the other end, “Tre … Tre … ’that you?”

  “Of course it’s me,” I say. “You called my phone didn’t cha? And why are you whispering, T-Mart?”

  My younger brother, Martin, doesn’t sound like himself. “I—I need your help, Tre.”

  “Speak up! I can’t hear you!” The background music of the bar drowns out his voice. “And where have you been? Mom and Dad have been blowing up my phone worried about you.”

  “I—I need some help, bruh,” he murmurs.

  “Look, just ‘cause I got money don’t mean I’ma give it to you to go on one of your binges.”

  “It’s not like that,” he says. “Look man, I just need—”

  I cut him off as I can hear the desperation in his voice. “Oh no, you not getting a dime from me T-Mart. You still owe me for—”

  “I don’t want your money!” he screams through the phone. “I need your help, please!”

  This desperation is not addiction-related. I can hear it in his voice. No, this is something different. Fear. I make my way to the bathroom, away from the noise.

  “Okay Martin, tell me what’s going on.”

  Martin’s deep breathing bellows through the phone. Standing six-feet with dreadlocks and tattoos, my brother isn’t the type to scare easily. A few moments go by before he begins.

  “Remember when Dad used to say in his sermons, when you’re around true evil, you’ll know?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well these people, man. They’re evil. I can feel it!”

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “Slow down—back up. What people?”

  Martin continues. “Mannnn, I got myself into something, Tre. A dude by the name of Los introduced me to these real business-like cats. At first they had us doing a couple of small jobs, setting up meetings with these computer geeks, roughing them up if they didn’t do the work. Nothing major. They always paid us good, and I’m not gon lie, they made sure we had something to smoke. I mean, just one big party. Then they said they could make us feel like we were on a never-ending high. They got me to recruit my boys and everything. But somethin not right wit them cats.”

  “They sound like drug dealers, Martin. What do you expect?”

  “No, it’s not that …” Martin hesitates. “They’re—they’re some kind of cult or something—look Tre, I know this must sound crazy, but I’m not high. These dudes are evil. I mean Lucifer type evil. I’ve seen stuff …”

  “What kind of stuff?” I ask.

  “Tre, I just need to get out of here. Please. Just come get me. I can’t trust any of my crew now. I’m the only one who hasn’t drank the kool-aid. Just come pick me up, PLEASE!”

  “Okay, okay. Fine. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be somewhere near that old dry cleaners on Bering. Uhhh, 242 Bering Ave. I’ll see ya when you pull up.”

  I program the address in my phone. “242 Bering Ave. Got it. I’m on the way.”

  “Thanks man.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And Tre …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Love ya, bruh.”

  His words catch me off guard. I don’t know how to respond. No one in my entire family, especially Martin, has talked like that
in years. “Yeah man, I’ll be there shortly,” is the best I manage to get out. The call ends.

  I stand motionless away from the bar for a moment as I try to process the conversation. The level of difficulty is increased due to the alcohol I’ve consumed. Not sure what to make of all this. Martin’s usually the one dishing out fear, not the other way around. Walking back, I decide to stop the analytical processing going on before my brain explodes.

  “Hey Lou, I gotta make a stop. Put it on my tab.”

  “Sure thing, Tre.”

  “Going so soon?” asks a soft voice to my right—the low-cut yellow top girl. She pouts with pink colored lips as her right index finger gently brushes against my shoulder. Man, she looks even better close up. My eyes capture a head to toe image before responding. “Yeah, I’ve got to make a quick stop.”

  “Come on. Stay,” she mouths. “Next rounds on me.”

  The offer is appealing. I take another head-to-toe glance. Very appealing.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “My friends call me Bree.”

  “Ok, Bree—you’re gorgeous by the way—but listen. I have to go make this one stop and then I’ll be back and I’ll buy you and your girls all the drinks you want. Don’t worry about buying me a drink. I’m Tre “TNT” Turner.”

  The seductive twenty-something licks her lips as she answers. “ONE, I know who you are. And TWO, I didn’t say I’d buy you a drink. I said … NEXT ROUND’S ON ME!”

  The cute blond runs to the bar—hops on top—grabs a shot glass—lies down—raises the bottom of her shirt a few inches and places the shot glass on her bare stomach.

  She then points towards me for approval. “Well …”

  A small crowd gathers as everyone waits for my response.

  Gotta give the people what they want, right?

  “Now THAT’S what I’m talking about!” I shout to the crowd. “BODY SHOTS!”

  The place erupts. It’s as if—wait a minute—Martin.

  The girl—what’s her name—it doesn’t come right to mind, but her actions nearly cause me to forget why I was leaving in the first place. But I can’t leave now. The people are depending on TNT Turner. Besides, what’s a few more minutes?

  Chapter 6

  “What are you doing Zeek?” Alicia asks. I barely notice her question as I scour through tattered pieces of the lint encrusted paper that line my pockets.

  “Hunh,” I mumble. “Thomas from the temp agency said he’d call me back in an hour. That sorry son of a—”

  “Zeek, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy!” Alicia shouts.

  “I need to be working!” I shout back. “We’re up the creek either way!” Alicia’s entire face drops. The words, now freed from my mouth, seem to echo in the confined concrete reformatory. It’s not so much about the job as it is keeping busy. Alicia stares at me as she gauges what I really meant.

  “We’ll get through it,” she assures me.

  Alicia and I have grown close since the tragedy four years earlier. Surprisingly, she never blamed me for the accident. She knows all too well the anguish I carry inside. I guess she figured no need to add to it. Not that there was any room left.

  “I’m gonna go down to the cafeteria,” I say. “Get a paper. See if I can find something in the help-wanteds.” I don’t clarify my earlier statement but Alicia knows me well enough now. She knows how I cope. “You okay for a minute?” I ask. She nods. Christina rests, her eyes closed. Walking out the door, a news story on the television above the bed catches my eye.

  “The man that promises 3,000 jobs for Memphis is due to make his arrival any minute,” says a young reporter. “That’s right. We’re here live at the Peabody Hotel downtown, and we’re told that Jason Bale and his entourage will be arriving any moment,” the reporter continues, trying to hide his own excitement. “As you can see, hundreds have gathered to get a glimpse of the unconventional celebrity.”

  Police barricades line the streets as people anxiously gather in front of the hotel. Some raise “We Love You Bale!” signs as a white limousine approaches.

  The reporter touches his earpiece and squints as he attempts to hear over the growing roar of the crowd. “Wait! My producers are telling me … YES! The white limo is not a ruse. Jason Bale is about to be escorted in! Let’s—”

  The reporter and his camera crew take off towards the limo. Running, the news staff looks almost as fanatical as the crowd. They scurry around the corner just in time. Cameras flash a near blinding light as the chauffeur opens the rear door. Three men dressed in custom-tailored white suits emerge from the vehicle. Like most bodyguards, sunglasses hide their eyes. Suspiciously, they survey their surroundings, seeming to watch the crowd’s every move from behind darkened specs. Their suits are impeccable, all-white from head to toe. And although the same color, each suit is designed differently. Too grand for my own simple tastes, but I can’t deny their impressiveness.

  Just as the suits vary, so do the men in height and ethnicity. One guy looks way too short for what seems to be a security detail. Bearing features of Asian descent, the grimace on his face more than makes up for his stature. A fourth man steps from the limo. Reporters close in to take shots of the most unusually dressed of the group. Sleeves from the high-priced suit have been torn off revealing two extensively tattooed arms. A smashed-in white cowboy hat sits cocked to the side over his brow. His ears reveal several piercings. Whoever this guy is, I like his style. Reporters snap away. The oddity licks his tongue out, rock star style, as the horde of fans eat it up. The people on the corner can barely move now, the crowd and reporters tightening their stance. The police are having an increasingly hard time keeping order.

  Now a fifth man emerges from the limo. Reporters pause as their eyes pan from ground level to the sky. What some would call a man stands before the crowd. He has to be at least 7 feet tall, I’d say 350—400 lbs, although this does little to describe the monster. He breathes hard as he stares at the mob. Muscles protrude from every limb of his body, even his neck. I’ve never backed down from a fight in my life, but I’d hate to tumble with that beast. His suit has to be tailored-made. Not wearing sunglasses like the others, his narrow eyes pierce through the crowd causing people to immediately back up. One happy-go-lucky cameraman snaps a shot right in the giant’s face. Startled, he covers his eyes from the light. The huge man quickly detects the culprit from the swarm of reporters, stares him down, and lets out a bellowing grunt. The cameraman steps back, tripping over his own cord. No one dares snap his picture after that. After surveying the crowd once more, the fifth and largest of the men in white leans back into the limo. As his large frame reemerges, so does a sixth man. He’s dressed in all-white, as the others, but the roar of the crowd signifies his importance.

  The dapper cat is in his early forties, stands about 6’1”, and looks to be in great shape. His brownish-blonde hair is cropped low, showing signs of a slight recede. Combined with a rugged 5 o’clock shadow, however, gives him a look of mystery and prestige. Now here’s the kind of guy that tries hard for that “I don’t care” look.

  Untanned, his skin is neither overtly pale. His eyes could be grey, perhaps blue? They seem to change with every light that’s flashed. Mr. Perfection’s smile beams as bystanders take his picture. He seems to welcome the fanfare. I’m sure women, and young girls alike would consider him handsome. The fancy celebrity continues to wave to the crowd as the five men escort him through the press towards the hotel lobby. A chant of “Bale! Bale! Bale!” erupts from the masses as the reporter restarts his news feed. I retake my seat at the edge of Christina’s bed as the news report continues.

  “… and as you can see, Jason Bale has just made his way into the Peabody Hotel. That’s right. Jason Bale himself is in our fine city. Of course he is accompanied by his elite detail of bodyguards he refers to as his ‘Angels’. And if you know anything about Jason Bale, you know those guys are always with him.”

  A newscaster at the studio respond
s. “Wow, that’s great, Ted. It seems to be pandemonium down there. I’m surprised Mr. Bale didn’t try to sneak in during the middle of the night.”

  “You know Sharon, that’s a great point, but once again, if you know anything about Jason Bale, or ‘Bale’, as he likes to be called, you know he does nothing of the norm. This guy really loves interacting with the fans up close and personal. But not to worry, those bodyguards do not look like they play so …”

  The studio newscaster lets out a forced laugh. The two go back and forth until the time for the segment has just about elapsed.

  “… and remember Entertainment Tonight is on location as well, right here in our very city. They’ll be interviewing Bale as he talks about his latest movie, his expanding business venture, Bale Media, and those 3,000 jobs he’s promised Memphis. I tell you Sharon, this is a great day to be a Memphian.”

  “You’ve got that right, Ted. Remember, you can tune in right here to get caught up on all the latest Jason Bale news …”

  I finally turn off the television, not wanting to disturb Chrissy Pooh. Finally some good news, I think to myself. I’m actually impressed by this Jason Bale guy. A lot of people talk about change, but this guy looks like he’s putting his money where his mouth is. Although I’ve never been a big fan of his movies, (cheesy, over-budgeted, summertime popcorn flicks) he’s at least brought some hope to this dying city. Impressed, I turn to Alicia. “Wow, wish I could work for that guy,” I smile. She smirks and shrugs her shoulders, I guess not so impressed. Maybe she didn’t see the same thing and needs a little clarification. “I mean think about it—”

  My sentence is cut short by a loud beeping sound. The kind of sound that signals emergency. I immediately turn my attention towards Christina. Her heart monitor shows one elongated line streaming across the green tinted screen … flatline.

  Alicia jumps up from the chair as I rush towards the top of the bed grabbing my baby’s hand. “Chrissy!”