Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games

by Menapace, Jeff

  “You awake, partner?” Bob asked Patrick with a nudge.

  Patrick’s daze broke. “Huh?”

  The bartender, a balding, heavy-set man with hairy forearms below the curled sleeves of a stained white button-down (complete with damp moons under both pits, rag over the shoulder, and if smoking had not been banned in Pennsylvania bars, Patrick would have bet his life a chewed cigar would have been jammed into one corner of the guy’s mouth) was leaning forward on the bar, staring at Patrick.

  Bob laughed. “What do you want to drink, space cadet?”

  Patrick smiled at the bartender. “Sorry.” The bartender nodded back, neither annoyed nor pleasant, just busy. Patrick quickly turned to Bob. “I don’t—what are you having, Bob?”

  “Whiskey and beer.” His curt reply held a self-evidence that was akin to asking Cookie Monster what he wanted to eat.

  “That’s fine, I’m good with that,” Patrick said.

  The bartender went to work on their drinks.

  “You alright?” Bob asked.

  “I can’t get over this.”

  “What?”

  Patrick waved a hand around the packed bar. “This. You can literally feel the energy in this place.”

  Bob smiled proudly as though his own child had been praised. The bartender reappeared and placed two neat bourbons and two bottles of beer in front of them. Both men took sips of their bourbon and chased it with a swig from their beers.

  “People ever get rowdy?” Patrick asked.

  “Oh hell yeah. But no fights. Never any fights.”

  “Never?”

  “No way. You don’t disrespect Gilley’s, and especially the Bears by fighting on a game night. That’d get you black-balled. People would sooner have their legs cut off than be black-balled from Gilley’s on game night.”

  Patrick smiled and took another sip of his beer. “I wish Philly fans could take a cue from this place.”

  “What you got in Philly aren’t fans …” And then, as though he had somehow timed his statement to coincide exactly with the start of the game, the bar erupted as the Hershey Bears skated onto the ice. Bob grinned and shouted: “These are fans!”

  Patrick smiled wide. He then followed his father-in-law’s lead and drained his whiskey (the grimace that instantly began the moment the abundance of warm whiskey hit his throat had no chance of reaching his face in a place like this, at a time like this—sorry, face), clinked bottles necks with him, then happily doused the fire in his throat and belly with a deep swig of his icy beer.

  Bob let out a satisfied gasp, wiped his beard, and immediately signaled the bartender for an encore.

  *

  The Hershey Bears defeated the Norfolk Admirals 4-1 in an experience Patrick wouldn’t soon forget. He screamed and cheered until his voice was raw, drank a heck of a lot (although he did have the presence of mind to ask the bartender to find a subtle way to stop sending him whiskey with his beer the moment Bob finally left for the toilet), and seemed to befriend every resident of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in the span of three hours.

  With the game now an hour gone, the patrons at Gilley’s were filtering out. Some stayed behind, recapping the highlights of the game with mimic vigor, and some stayed to chase the liquid buzz they had so delightfully acquired during all three periods.

  Bob Corcoran was part of the latter. He waved the bartender over and motioned to both he and Patrick. Patrick eyed the bartender, who returned a faint nod before returning moments later with two beers and only one whiskey. Bob instantly leaned into the bar to object, but Patrick put a hand on his shoulder, patted it, and pulled him back.

  “It’s alright, Bob, I’m fine with just beer.”

  “That’s about the fifth time he dicked you on whiskey.” His voice was slurred, his eyes rimmed red and droopy.

  “It’s fine, Bob, really. Besides, someone’s gotta drive us home.”

  “Call Amy, she’ll pick us up.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Just how well do you know your daughter?”

  Bob burst out laughing. “She’s got you by the short and curlies, doesn’t she?”

  “If I call her now and ask her to pick our drunken asses up, she will.”

  Bob gulped his whiskey like it was iced tea and looked straight ahead. “That’s my little girl …” He took a big pull on his beer, gasped, “… tough as nails.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, my friend.”

  Bob went suddenly quiet, his garrulous, drunken manner vanishing in an instant. “I’ve still got her,” he said.

  “What?”

  Bob turned to Patrick. His eyes, still droopy and red from drink, now shined with a glassy coat of tears. “I’ve still got my daughter. I’ve got her because of you.”

  Even if Patrick had the words—and he didn’t—he knew they’d never find a way out of his mouth. At least not at this precise moment. The incident at Crescent Lake had already been discussed. Some details withheld, some not. Hugs and more hugs had been given. Audrey Corcoran had cried. Amy’s older brother Eric had cried. But a man’s man like Bob Corcoran? Crying? Patrick wasn’t sure a man like Bob even knew how. Yet here he was, on the verge of real tears. Sure, the excessive booze was the likely catalyst, but since the day he met the man, Patrick imagined it would take a freaking crack pipe to burst his father-in-law’s dam.

  “Bob, I…”

  Bob put his thick hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed hard. The dam cracked, and tears rolled down his cheeks, catching on his beard. “I’ve still got her because of you.”

  The words came to Patrick now. “You’ve got her because of me and her. She saved my ass just as much as I saved hers.”

  Bob took his hand off Patrick’s shoulder and wiped his eyes. “Yeah?”

  The Lamberts had told the Corcorans about Amy holding a kitchen knife to Maria Fannelli’s throat, threatening her life in front of Arty Fannelli in exchange for the freedom of her family. Unfortunately, the threat had backfired and resulted in gunfire—Arty shooting both Amy and his adopted mother. Amy had survived the wound thanks to Patrick’s appearance moments later, where he dispatched both Arty and Jim Fannelli in such brutal fashion that he often shuddered at the memory, sometimes genuinely questioning whether or not he had truly done such things to another man.

  But he was getting side-tracked now, letting his mind slip into that dark place he was constantly trying to avoid. He was here, at Gilley’s, about to divulge something to his father-in-law that he had never told anyone before. Amy would be pissed, but so be it. It was necessary. Yes he was buzzed, but he was not drunk like Bob. And Patrick felt—or at least his buzz felt—that Bob needed to know what his daughter had done. How if it had not been for Amy, his entire family would likely be dead. Patrick may have done the grisly work at the end, but Amy sure as hell did some grisly work of her own. Work that many would think even grislier—at least most men would.

  “If it wasn’t for Amy, I would have never been able to take those two guys out,” Patrick said.

  Bob gave a final wipe of his eyes and gulped his beer. He burped under his breath and said, “You mean when she pulled the knife on the mother? Made that threat?”

  “No—before that.”

  Bob frowned.

  Patrick swigged hard on his beer, second-guessing his decision to divulge.

  Fuck it.

  “She stuck a big metal nail file into one of the brother’s balls. That’s how she was able to get free.”

  Bob’s face dropped.

  Patrick leaned back on his stool, steeling himself for whatever may come … and it sure as hell seemed to take its time.

  And then finally, thankfully, an incredulous smile. “She did what?!”

  Patrick, relieved Bob’s reaction was seemingly one of delight, still found himself leaning forward quickly for a respectful shushing. Bob Corcoran was the antithesis of subtlety, and this was not a conversation that needed broadcasting. Patrick put a subtle finger to his lips then patt
ed the air. “Keep it down, Bob. This is stuff even the media doesn’t know about.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me any of this?”

  “I imagine it’s not the kind of thing you voluntarily tell your father.”

  “Tell me everything.” Bob was beaming, and Patrick felt some discomfort from his father-in-law’s sudden zeal for the grisly report. Still, the man wanted to know, and his response to the previous information could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  So Patrick told as much as he could, with as little detail as he could. After all, despite Bob’s insistence on hearing “everything,” and despite Bob’s apparent show of pride for his daughter’s ass-kicking abilities, Patrick was sure Bob would not want to hear the intricate details of how Amy was forced to give Jim Fannelli a blowjob. Her secret intention of biting his dick off. The plan backfiring horribly. Amy then finding herself being forcefully stripped and bent over a dresser where the savior nail file clattered free, magically presenting itself for insertion into said nut sack. Patrick did, however, happily tell Bob that after Jim doubled over, gripping his wounded balls in agony, Amy hoisted a heavy lamp over her head and brought it crashing down onto Jim’s skull, knocking him “the fuck out.”

  Bob threw his head back and barked a laugh that made the remaining patrons jump. He slapped Patrick’s shoulder. “Then what?”

  Patrick shrugged. “You know the rest. She went downstairs, held the knife to the mother’s throat …”

  “And then got shot,” Bob said flatly, his smile gone.

  Patrick nodded slowly, confused. He couldn’t read his father-in-law’s sudden shift in demeanor. Surely it’s not accusatory? he thought. Not after the emotional thanks earlier?

  “That’s right,” Patrick said.

  “And then you showed up.”

  Patrick sipped his beer and nodded.

  “You were upstairs?”

  “That’s right. I was bound to a chair. Carrie cut me loose. We were all heroes that night, Bob. Me, Amy, and the kids.”

  “So you were cut free, came downstairs and … ?”

  Bob already knew this part, knew practically all of it, but much like an unforgettable night on the town, the desire for a second telling—and likely a third, and a fourth, and so on—seemed to change the status of events from utterly horrific to a celluloid gallantry. Patrick didn’t like it. It was all starting to play back in his head with a cruel clarity that defied time or alcohol—right down to the last spatter of blood and flesh that flecked his face as he murdered one man, and critically wounded another. His earlier hopes of avoiding the dark place were fading. He needed to end this soon. Amy’s bit had been told. No need to go further.

  Bob nudged him. “And … ?”

  Patrick took a deep breath, let it out slow, and in what was nearly a whisper said: “And I took care of the guy.”

  “Two guys,” Bob said. He seemed proud again. Proud of his son-in-law.

  “Well not at the same time. It was kind of one after the other.”

  “How’d you do it?” Bob asked.

  “What?”

  “How’d you take ’em out?” He held up a pair of fists and made a playful fighting gesture, nearly toppling off his stool in the process.

  Patrick reached out with a hand to steady him. “You know this already, Bob. Hell, it seems like the whole country knows.”

  Bob smiled. “Yeah, but no one knew about Amy and the nail file in the balls … ”

  Patrick sighed again. “I stabbed one and shot one,” he said quickly.

  Bob cocked his head, made a disappointed yet friendly face that asked for more. “Come on …” he crooned.

  Give him something, Patrick. Christ, anything so we can squash this.

  Patrick leaned in and whispered: “I bit one guy’s nose off.”

  Bob’s drunken slits for eyes popped wide. “You what?”

  Patrick looked around, saw that no eyes were on him, then lifted his shirt and showed the thick purple scar on his abdomen. Bob’s eyes zeroed in on it like it was a pair of tits. “I had just been stabbed; I was full of adrenaline … so I just grabbed the guy, bit his nose off, then threw him to the floor and shot him to death.”

  “Jesus …”

  Let it go now, Bob. Please.

  “I think you need a drink,” Bob said.

  Patrick held up his beer. “Got one.”

  “A real goddamned drink. A drink to pay my respects to you for saving my daughter’s life.”

  Bob’s voice was loud and it made Patrick cringe. He scanned the room quickly to see if anyone had heard. With the exception of a few locals clinging to the bar, and a big man sitting alone with a beer at a corner table, the place was fairly empty. No one seemed to have heard.

  Patrick leaned into Bob’s ear and spoke softly. “Okay—one last drink. Then I’m taking us home.”

  Bob slammed his hand on the bar and hollered for two shots of whiskey. The bartender gave Patrick a subtle glance, and Patrick returned a subtle nod. The bartender shrugged and poured their shots.

  Bob pulled out a wad of bills.

  “I got this, Bob,” Patrick said, shifting on the stool and reaching for his own wallet.

  Bob waived his hand away with the grace of a gorilla. “No way. You’re in my town. Your money’s no good here.”

  Patrick didn’t object.

  Let him pay. Just do the damn shots and go. Speaking of which …

  “Can I have the keys to the car, Bob?”

  Bob looked genuinely surprised when Patrick asked. “What for?”

  You don’t tell a man of Bob Corcoran’s ilk that he’s too drunk to drive. You’d be better off telling him he had a little dick. Patrick knew that. He weighed a response and settled on: “Because you had more to drink than I did.”

  Bob grinned. “I can make it home from Gilley’s with my friggin’ eyes closed.”

  Patrick chuckled and switched to a more placating approach. He had worked as a bouncer during his time at Penn State, and knew through experience that reasoning with a drunk was a lesson in futility. “I’m sure you can, but if we got pulled over …”

  Bob shook his head, still grinning. “We’ll take Woodmere; we’ll be fine.”

  The bartender brought the drinks, and Bob used the diversion to cut the conversation. He snatched one of the shots, handed it to Patrick, and then grabbed his own, spilling some onto his hand. He raised the glass. “To my son-in-law!”

  Patrick quickly leaned into his ear again. “Let’s just leave it at that, okay, Bob? Nothing about Amy or what happened.”

  Bob shrugged, and then once again, louder now: “To my son-in-law!”

  Patrick was not about to wait and see if Bob would leave it at that. He raised his glass and downed the shot in an instant.

  Bob gulped his own, gasped, and then slammed the glass down on the bar. He turned to Patrick and pulled him in for a titanic hug, nearly pulling Patrick clean-off his stool. “Thank you, son,” he said in his ear. And then again when they separated, both hands cupping Patrick’s face as though he meant to pull him in for a kiss: “Thank you, son.”

  Bob Corcoran had called Patrick son—something he had never done before. Son-in-law, yes, but never just son. Patrick knew Bob was very drunk, but he also knew true gratitude and sincerity when he saw it. It made his response all the more difficult; a lump had suddenly grown in his throat. “You’re very welcome,” he managed. Patrick then allowed a brief moment to pass before donning a playful smirk. “Now … can I please have the keys to the car … Dad?”

  Bob studied him.

  Patrick knew he had him on the ropes, and so he added—in the dreadful tone Amy both loathed and loved—a little Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” with extra special emphasis on Dad and borrowing car keys, to finish him off.

  Bob finally gave a hearty laugh and admitted defeat. He dug into his pocket and handed over the keys. “You are one piece of work, my boy,” he said. “Just promise me no more singing.”
<
br />   “Yup—you’re definitely Amy’s father.”

  Both men laughed then stood from their stools. Bob knocked his over and started laughing harder. Patrick picked up the stool, thanked the bartender, and guided his swaying father-in-law out of Gilley’s.

  *

  John Brooks sat alone at a corner table. He’d heard the entire conversation between Bob Corcoran and Patrick Lambert: Earlier he had planted a bugging device beneath the bar ledge where the two men had hunkered down. He had planted the device when Patrick had gotten up to use the toilet and when Bob was busy shouting at the television, just after the Admirals had scored their one and only goal.

  The conversation was minimal at first. And even if it had been substantial, little could be articulated in John’s invisible earpiece. The roar of the patrons was as good as a scrambler. But that was okay. It gave him time to study the pair; watch their body-language; observe their habits. Spot faults. Weaknesses.

  When the game ended and the crowd began to filter out, John heard more. He heard and watched it all: the Santa-looking fucker salivating with pride while Patrick told him how his cunt-of-a-daughter had jammed a nail file into his dead son’s balls. How Patrick had then bitten his son’s nose off before shooting him to death. How he had stabbed Arthur repeatedly.

  John sensed apprehension from Patrick when he had relayed the events of that night. If it wasn’t in his voice, it was in the way he shifted on his stool as he spoke. Truly he did not derive any pleasure from reliving the tragedy, contain any sense of pride for what he’d done. And that was good. It was a chink in the man’s armor. It showed a conscience. John Brooks’ only brush with conscience was when he had to spell it.

  “You want anything else?” his waitress asked.

  John shook his head and handed her two twenties. More than enough. “Keep it.”

  “Thanks, hon.”

  He waited for the waitress to disappear into the back before he stood and approached Bob’s stool. The bartender was wiping down the counter.

  “Never misses a game does he?”