FALSE FRONT

by Ry Eph

  He stops at the charcoal floral-carved door.

  “That’s right. I got no problem shooting one of you Marsh addicts.”

  He opens the door, steps in, and slams it behind him.

  “You son of a bitch,” says the neighbor, digging into his periwinkle upper-thigh-high shorts, yanking out his cell phone and walking up the steps of his front porch.

  When he steps back outside he’s yelling at someone about his neighbor’s house being robbed. He tells her he’s carrying a .12 gauge and he plans on using it.

  Tony ends the call and starts whispering to himself as he jogs towards his neighbor’s house, saying, “What? You want Tony to stand here and watch his neighbor’s house get robbed? Not how Tony rolls. Tony won’t sit here and let it go down like that. Tony is neighborhood watch.” He spits on the ground. “What kind of shit does this guy think he’s pulling on Tony’s watch? I’ll show this son of a bitch who’s boss. Good for nothing Vivacity police.” He racks the .12 gauge. “Go time, Tony. You’re a fucking brave bear.”

  Tony hunches over, like you would see television cops do when they’re ready to bust into a house, and darts towards the door. He stops and presses his ear against the wood. Stepping back from it and then launching himself forward, he brings his leg up and slams the sole of his white shoe into the center of the door. He flops back like a sloppy puffer fish out of water, flailing around on the ground until he gathers himself back to his feet. Frowning at the still shut door, he reaches out and shakes the handle and twists it. The door opens, and Tony whispers, “Shit. Come on, Tony.” He takes a few deep calming breaths before he steps inside.

  “I’ll shoot,” Tony says, as he roams up the stairs of the split-level home, peeking up and around every opening. He stops at the top of the dark wooden stairs to the living room and spots the lawless man sitting next to someone else. He reverses back down, ducking, twisting, turning, and trying to hide behind the iron railing. Peeking the barrel of the shotgun through every opening between bars at the man, he walks back up the last few steps.

  “What are you doing?” the man says from the chair.

  “Nowhere to go. All this ends now. I got no issue pumping you full of buck shot,” Tony says, his voice full of gulp.

  He chuckles and says, “I don’t think you will.”

  Tony walks into the living room, glancing behind him down a dark, empty hallway. A few doors are open on either side. He turns his attention back to the man.

  The mask clings tightly around the man’s face, cutting into his sharp cheekbones. His face is ridged, like one seen on a NYC runway show. He sits in a wooden chair with a person in matching clothes in a matching chair next to him, stiff and leaning over. The room is filled with soggy ceiling-high stacks of books. Empty bottles of Wild Turkey are strewed and tipped all over the wooden floor. One of them still dripping liquor from its open rim. The man lifts a thick cigar and bottle of Johnny Walker Blue off the ledge of the fireplace behind him.

  “You’re fucking with my tale, Tony.”

  Tony sniffs at the air, keeping the shotgun aimed at the man and says, “Why does it smell like a distillery in here?”

  “I didn’t get to unload the van. These books are from yesterday’s heist,” the man says.

  “Did you sauce the place?”

  He folds half the bandana up, revealing a smooth lined jaw, and twists the top of the bottle. He tilts the opening toward Tony.

  “Stop that.”

  “You sure?”

  “I'm not messing arou—“

  “Suit yourself,” he says, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a pull. He leans down, setting the bottle next to the leg of the chair. He places the cigar between two marble lips. A crack from the tiny torch sparks a blue flame, and he holds it under the end of the cigar, puffing on it. But instead of the place smelling of rich tobacco, it reeks of whiskey.

  “Who’s your friend there?”

  The torch’s flame goes out. He draws on the cigar, and smoke climbs around his face.

  “Him?” The man points at the person in the chair next to him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not my friend. I never had a chance to ask him his name.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Why?”

  “Your voice.”

  “You shouldn’t have entered this story, Tony”

  “How do you know my name?”

  A smile grows around the cigar in the man’s mouth.

  “Air is that you? Are you hurt? What did he do to you?”

  “He can’t answer you.”

  Tony peeks behind himself again and then looks back at the unknown man with his head sagging forward. He takes a few more steps into the room, holding the shotgun on the man and says, “Why can’t he answer?”

  “Cause he’s dead.”

  “You killed him?” He lifts the shotgun higher, aiming it at the man.

  “No. I mean, not really.”

  “You can settle that part with the cops. Now put your hands up and get down on the ground.”

  “Confusing. I know.”

  Tony crouches a bit, bouncing himself up and down at the thighs. He lowers his face toward the chrome weapon and says, “Get on the ground.”

  “Citizen’s arrest?”

  “Down.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “I said down.”

  “They’ll all read the book after this story gets out.”

  “What?”

  He pulls the cigar from his lips, and a hint of his silver-capped canine tooth shines from his mouth.

  “I’m not playing games,” Tony says, taking another step toward him.

  “Okay. Okay. Okay,” says the man, lifting the cigar above his head. Smoke dances toward the ceiling.

  Tony stops just a few feet away from him.

  “I have a gun in my waist. Don’t shoot me. I will remove it and get on the ground.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Leave your hands so I can see them. No one else needs to die today.”

  “Today?”

  Tony’s eyes drag to the dead man.

  “Him?” He flicks his fingers at the end of the cigar, and ash flutters onto him like speckles of snow at the end of a storm. “He didn’t die today.”

  Tony’s hands tremble for the first time since entering the house.

  “This was not how this was supposed to happen. But good writers know an outline can’t predict every future scene. I didn't think about my over-eager, gun-wielding neighbor entering into the drama. But plot twists are inevitable. An unpredictable story is a good story. Agree?”

  “What?”

  He lowers the cigar to his mouth.

  Tony brushes sweat out of his eyes and keeps the shotgun aimed at the man who smiles at him between inhales. He watches the man study a copy of the book next to him, examining the cover and says, “You said you would get on the ground.”

  “Ever read it?”

  “What?”

  “The book.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I usually get that response when I talk about the book to strangers, but I didn’t expect that from you, Tony. You know me. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Tony says, tightening his grip. He grows nervous as the man shifts around in the chair, folding one thin leg over the other and says, “I don’t think you should be moving around with this aimed at your head.”

  “Why not? You won’t do anything.”

  “I’ll shoot.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “I admire your desire to be a hero. But you don’t possess true courage. Maybe dumb guts. But whatever bravery you had turned around midway up those stairs when it realized this was real and ran back to your boring pathetic garden, leaving you quivering all alone. You’re not a hero, Tony. You’re a Cub Scout leader. You’re the only person on the neighborhood watch group that you started.”

  “Who are you?” />
  The man chuckles and says, “You want to protect my property, but seem to have never read my book, which affords my property? Maybe you didn’t hear about it. I was promised this and that, but the publishing house did nothing for the book. It’s a good book. Maybe brilliant. You know how these things go.”

  “What the hell did this book do to you?”

  “It’s what it didn’t do for me,” he says, grabbing a book with the hand holding the cigar and lobbing it at Tony’s feet. It lands with a clap against the wood floor. Tony’s finger partially squeezes on the trigger, but then relaxes.

  “Calm down, Tony. Reflexes can make us do things we regret.”

  Tony takes a deep breath, but his finger still twitches at the trigger.

  “Just a gift offering.”

  Tony gulps hard.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Cops will be here soon.”

  “This will be the last place you ever go,” he says, drawing on the cigar.

  “What does that mean?”

  He looks over at the slumped body next to him and says, “I found him mostly dead. I didn’t kill him. I’m assuming a drug overdose, or maybe he froze to death. It gets cold in the Marsh at night. I know you know that’s not Air. You’re dumb, but not that dumb.”

  “I’m not dumb,” Tony says, and he clenches his jaw as he peeks out the large living room window. “What’s taking them so fucking long?”

  “It’s not a movie, Tony. Cops don’t show up in real life. All those action movies are the reason you got yourself in this situation.”

  “Stop with your bullshit.”

  “I was just saying that I’m using one person’s tragedy to remedy another’s struggle. This dead guy here will lead to more production today than he probably produced in his entire life. Everyone will read it now because of him. The book really is better than 90% of the shit on the bestselling list. It just needs attention.”

  “Want me to read Air’s book? Is that what you want? I’ll read it. I’ll read it if you promise to end all this and come outside with me. How does that sound?”

  The man chuckles, puffs his cigar, and a huge heavy cloud blossoms around his face.

  “How about it?”

  “That would be a premature ending to the story.”

  “This isn’t some story, man.”

  “No? What do you think this is all about?”

  “About?”

  “Life is story.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe. But you’re dim. You entered a new narrative when you stepped through that front door. A story you had no idea you’d be a part of this morning. You had totally different plans for life.”

  “Stop it,” Tony says, coming a bit closer.

  “Maybe this is all just for attention.”

  “Attention?”

  “I read somewhere once, I don’t demand much. All I expect is for you to love me so much you kill yourself just to get my attention.”

  “I want you to stop talking.”

  He reaches over and pats the dead body propped up in the chair next to him and says, “Or kill yourself to help me get attention.”

  “No more talk. Get down on the floor now, or I will shoot you,” says Tony.

  “We’ve already had this dialogue.”

  He lowers the gun a bit so it would explode in the chest of the cigar-puffing man.

  “I’m going to take this off.” He grins at Tony, dropping the bandana from his face and pulling off his sunglasses.

  “Air?”

  “Surprise.”

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “You really didn’t know it was me?”

  The shotgun shakes in his hands.

  “Damn. I guess this could have ended better for you. But now.”

  “What?”

  “And I don’t want her getting in trouble,” he says, pointing behind Tony.

  “Huh?”

  “My love.”

  Puzzlement crosses Tony’s face, his eyes widen, and he turns back, going stiff after a cracking sound goes off against his head. He crashes to the wooden floor, and a delicious blonde woman stands above him holding an aluminum bat. She shutters, drops the bat, and it rings against the floor.

  “Did I kil—”

  “No, love.”

  “I’ve never hit someone before.”

  “Thanks, darling.”

  Composing herself, she smoothes her flesh-tight grey dress down her waist and winks a thick-lashed eye, kissing at him. She resembles a sort of new-age version of a pinup girl.

  His eyes seem to admire how the cloth hugs each ample curve. He stands and walks over to her, wrapping his hand in hers.

  “What are we going to do with him?”

  “He’s a slight alteration from our plan, but we stick to our story. Nothing changes. Maybe a bit heightened. Plot twist. Always be ready to change your draft.”

  “What are we going to do? You promised no one would get hurt.”

  “Tony hurt himself. He should have just called the cops and enjoyed the drama.”

  “Air?”

  “I’m sure they will rescue him when we run out of the house. He’ll be okay.”

  “He’s a nice guy. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

  “He would have hurt me, love.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “That things could have ended different for him.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just stalling him.”

  “Air?”

  “You said the guy was only half dead?”

  “That guy,” Air says, pointing at the body in the chair.

  “Yes. That guy.”

  “I told you I found him while driving home one night. Had a needle hanging out of his vein. We’re not doing anything wrong. I mean, seriously wrong,” he says, and winks at her.

  “Okay,” she says, pinching the collar of his shirt, yanking him toward her, and kissing his lips.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  He kisses her again.

  “You sure this will work, Air?”

  “We don’t have a choice now. We’re in it.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “Kind of exciting.”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “He already called the police.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Good.”

  She giggles.

  “My star.”

  She smiles and says, “Born actress. This is our breakthrough. I’ve practiced my part all week. My big break. Right?”

  “Remember what to say and do?”

  She ruffles her blonde hair into a panicked frenzy and says, “Roll the cameras.”

  He leans forward and kisses her again and says, “Love me?”

  “Forever.”

  “Trust me?”

  “Always,” she says, and runs her fingers through his slick black hair.

  “Hit me.”

  Her heart-shaped upper lip pouts over the top of her equally botoxed bottom, and she says, “I hate this part.”

  He rolls his neck and hands her the handgun.

  “I hate these things,” she says.

  He places the cigar on the fireplace mantel and walks back toward her, bracing himself.

  She lifts the gun over her head and chops at his face. The gun smacks him across his protruding cheek, and she watches him stumble across the room into a large mirror hanging on the living room wall. Glass shatters against his hand, opening a laceration across his palm. She screams, moving toward him, and she hangs his arm around her neck. The impact of the handle popped his cheek open, revealing bright raw inner layers of wet meat.

  He raises a dripping hand and says, “I’m okay.”

  “Babe, I’m sorry.”

  “Damn. You hit me good.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”


  “You said we had to make it look real.”

  “It felt real,” he says, holding the side of his face. “You hit hard for a size 3.”

  “It’s these 37 inch hips and ass that help pack a punch.”

  “I guess so.”

  She clutches his chin in her hands, examining his face, and says, “I’m so sorry, babe.”

  He wraps the bandana that masked his face over his cut hand and then undresses.

  Her eyes search over his narrow, tattoo-covered body. He’s all skin and bones. She notices his sky-silver puppy-dog eyes capture her admiring stare, and they lock looks for a moment.

  On the ground, Tony begins to groan, lifting his skull out of the pool of blood gathered around his face.

  She screams, watching Tony’s head bobble up and his hand extend out to her. With the gun still in her hold, she squats down next to his head, turns her face from the bloody hand grabbing at her chest and whacks him in the skull. But his head snaps back up like one of those plastic kid punching bags with the sand in the bottom.

  “Help me,” Tony says.

  She screams again, and Tony continues to yank at her, pulling her low cut dress farther down.

  Air kicks the clawing arm off of her with such force it flops Tony onto his back. He takes a single knee next to the downed man, takes the gun from her, and with his free hand, crushes down on Tony’s throat. Tony gurgles, turns a different shade, and braces his hands around Air’s wrist.

  She falls back on her ass, scooting away from the men. She cups her hands over her mouth and tears fill her oval, lash-heavy eyes.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Tony says, his voice through a strainer.

  Air drops the corner of the pistol between Tony’s eyes, and the room fills with the echo of a bursting cantaloupe. He lifts the gun again, glaring at the fractured face below him. Tony’s eyes roll into his brain.

  “Stop, Air. Please, stop,” she says.

  He glances over at her pressing herself into the wall as if she hopes to become one with it.

  “You’ll kill him,” she says.

  “I’m sorry. I thought he hurt you.”

  She shakes her head back and forth.

  He rises from the floor, stepping over to the shaken woman, and holding out his hand. She closes her eyes, taking several deep breaths, and places her hand in his.

  “He’ll be okay?” She asks.

  “Nothing stiches won’t fix. Plus, I’m sure neighborhood watch over there will enjoy a tough-guy scar to show off when he tells his story.”