by Brian Keene
“This is Sherm's play. Don't fuck it up. Just keep quiet and don't do or say anything, okay?”
He nodded.
We followed along behind Sherm and approached the alley. Two black guys, both a few years younger than us, guarded the entrance like it was a pirate's cave.
“Be cool,” I reminded John.
“Like ice.”
Sherm held his hands out to the two guys and grinned.
“What up, Markus? Yo, Kelvin, how they hanging?”
They shrugged.
“What up, Sherm? Who your friends? They five-oh?”
Sherm laughed. “No dog, this is Tommy and John, my boys from out in Hanover. They're cool. They got some business with the man and shit. He knows we're coming. I hit him on the cell earlier.”
“Yeah,” Kelvin nodded. “He said you was coming by. Didn't think you'd have company though. You usually flying solo.”
“Not tonight. These guys are the ones buying. I'm just making the introductions and shit.”
“Hi.” John offered his hand, and was answered with noncommittal stares.
Sherm lit up a cigarette. “So—is Wallace around?”
“He in the house watching TV with his baby girl,” Markus responded. “I'll let him know you're here.”
He sidled off and into the house. Kelvin motioned for us to follow him into the alley. It was dark between the buildings, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I lit up a cigarette and the darkness seemed to surround the flame, engulfing it, trying to extinguish the glow. The alley smelled like stale piss and rotten garbage, and there was something sticky beneath my feet, clutching at my sneakers like glue. I didn't want to imagine what it was, and I tried not to look down. As we walked, John tried to make small talk with Kelvin, but Kelvin just ignored him.
A door slammed and then the light at the end of the alley was blocked as two more figures entered: Markus, and a guy that I assumed must be Wallace. He was huge; at least six-three and probably two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it hard, chiseled muscle. His shaved head gleamed in the darkness and a gold hoop earring hung from each ear. He carried a cardboard box under one bulging arm. Silently, he appraised us.
“You check them?” he asked Kelvin, pointing to John and me.
“Not yet.”
“Well what the fuck are you doing, nigga? Don't just stand there! Pat them down!”
“It's cool, Wallace. They with Sherm. He vouched for them and shit. Sherm wouldn't flip on us.”
“I don't give a damn if they with the Pope. Check their shit now!”
Rough hands patted us down.
“Hey—” John started to protest but a warning glance from Sherm shut him up.
Markus stepped back. “They're clean.”
“You five-oh?” Wallace asked me, inches from my face.
“No, I'm not a cop. I—I work in the foundry, out in Hanover. I make molds. Well, I did anyway.”
He grinned, then chuckled, and began to laugh, loud and hearty. After a moment, Markus and Kelvin laughed along with him, joined finally by Sherm, then John, who decided to go with the flow. Personally, I didn't get the joke.
Wallace wiped his eyes. “The foundry, huh? Man, that shit will kill a nigga. I couldn't work a job like that. Know what I'm saying?”
“I wouldn't either,” I said, “but I gotta feed my wife and kid.”
His hard face softened.
“Word. I know what you mean, dog. I'm in the same exact situation. You got to take care of your kids. They all that's important. What's your name, man?”
“Tommy.”
“A'ight, Tommy. You cool, I can tell. Irish, like your boy Sherm here, right?”
I nodded.
He turned to Markus and Kelvin. “Irish is the white niggaz. They were slaves too. The white man called them indentured servants, but it was the same shit. If you'd have stayed in school, you'd know that. Ya'll want to talk about a revolution? The motherfucking Irish was off the hook. Still are, with that Republican Army and shit.”
I said nothing. Wallace relaxed.
“Sherm says you're looking to buy some handguns.”
I shuffled my feet, hesitating. Now that it came down to it, I didn't want to say it out loud. It seemed like another act of finality.
“Yeah, I need two. They're for—”
“No”—he held up a hand—“don't tell me what they're for, dog! The less I know, the better. That way I can't flip on you, and it don't come back to me.”
I nodded.
“Those are nice shoes,” John said to Markus. “I need a pair like that. Where'd you get them?”
“Ganked them from a white boy down at the mall,” Markus replied. “He looked a lot like you. Hell, coulda' been your brother.”
“Oh . . . I don't have a brother.”
“Shut up, John . . .” Sherm warned.
Wallace opened the shoe box. Two pistols lay inside.
“These here are Smith & Wesson .357s. You can load a .38 special or .357 magnum round in them. Depending on what you're using them for, I'd go with the magnum round. Shoot a guy in the back of the head with that, and the motherfucker's spine will come out his nose and shit. Ain't no safety on these; they're revolvers, so don't shoot your dick off if you're sagging. They've got an exposed hammer, so you can thumb it back for a real easy shot. Two hundred. Cash up front. No checks or credit cards accepted.”
“What about ammunition?” I asked.
He grinned. “I look like Walmart to you, dog? Any store like that will have ammo. Ain't you got hunting stores out there in Hanover—all them crazy redneck motherfuckers running around shooting at deer and rabbits and shit?”
“Squeal like a pig, boy,” Kelvin drawled.
“Yeah, we do. We've got all kinds of places to buy ammo. I'm just a little low on cash right now, is all.”
“Come on, Wallace,” Sherm urged, “hook us up, man. All the business I've given you, why you want to do us like that? Shit, I've practically paid for your last year's rent!”
He grinned, considered it, then shrugged. “A'ight, but only because you're a good customer, Sherm, and because I like your boy Tommy here. Those are six-shooters. They're fully loaded. You all can keep what's in 'em. You need more than that, though, it'll cost you extra.”
“No, twelve rounds should be all right,” I said. “Hopefully, we won't have to fire them at all.”
“These are just insurance,” Sherm explained.
“Whatever, dog. Like I said, I don't want to know. Less I know the better. Just make damn sure you understand the drill. You didn't get them from me and I never heard of any of you. The serial numbers have been filed down, and I wiped the prints off before I put them in the box. They all yours now.”
I handed him the money and he handed me the box. For one crazy instant, I wanted to reach out and snatch the money back from him, tell him that I'd changed my mind and it was all just a terrible mistake. But I didn't. Instead, I accepted the box. It was heavier than I'd thought it would be.
Wallace counted the money, folded it, and stuffed the wad into his pocket.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
“A'ight, Wallace, we out.” Sherm rapped fists with him and turned to leave. “I'll catch you next week, yo.”
“Later, Holmes.”
He turned to me, presented his fist, and I rapped it.
“You're okay, Tommy. For real. It was cool doing business with you. Come on back again sometime and we'll chill. Maybe play some chess and shit. You play chess?”
“Yeah—a little. Learned it when I spent a weekend in County for unpaid speeding tickets.”
“There ya go. Jailhouse chess—the same thing I play. We cool then. Later, dog.”
“Thanks.”
I trailed along behind Sherm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John stop. Saw him turn to the three of them. Saw him smile. Saw his hand wave slowly. Saw his mouth open and say . . .
“Later my niggaz. Peace out.”
<
br /> I froze, cringing at what I'd just heard.
Wincing, Sherm whipped around. Still smiling, John turned toward us, saw the horrified expression on our faces, and stopped.
“What? What are you guys looking at? What did I do wrong?”
“Say what?” Markus spat. His face was ashen. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Wallace took a step forward. “Somebody please tell me that this stupid motherfucker did not just drop the N-bomb.”
“You're damn straight he did,” Kelvin growled. He reached inside his baggy pants pocket, and I saw him clench something. I knew what it was before he pulled it out. Without thinking, I ripped the lid off the box and reached inside.
“Hold up!” Sherm stepped between us, hands outstretched. “Just hold up a fucking minute. Let's not do something stupid, ya'll.”
“Stupid? STUPID?” Wallace pulled a gun of his own. “You hear what that racist piece of shit said? How'd you like it if we called you a honky or a wigger? Get your skinny Irish ass out of the way, Sherm!”
John was terrified. “I'm s-sorry, you guys! I didn't think it was a big deal. You call each other that all the time on the radio. I was just being friendly.”
“Oh what, so now you Eminem, you punk-ass bitch?” Kelvin stalked toward him, pistol in hand. I don't know what kind it was, but it was big, bigger than the one I was holding.
“Wallace”—Sherm placed his hand on the man's chest—“he's retarded, man. Slow. He don't know what he's saying. He's got like a fourth-grade reading level and shit. Let's just let it drop, okay? You and me are cool, and you seen for yourself that Tommy is cool, right? Do you really think we'd bring a fucking Klansman around?”
Seething, Wallace glanced from Markus and Kelvin, pointing their guns at John and me, and then to me, pointing my gun at Kelvin. He looked down at Sherm's hand, and Sherm pulled it away. Slowly, his scowl vanished and Wallace actually grinned.
“Look's like we got us a Mexican standoff, boys. Chill out, ya'll.”
Kelvin didn't move. “You heard what this punk-ass, motherfucking, cocksucking wigger said.”
“And I said chill the fuck out, goddamn it. You step the fuck off right now, Kelvin, or I'll bust a cap in your ass instead. Don't you go forgetting who's in charge here. I'm the one that's deep in this street. You work for me.”
Shaking, Kelvin's eyes never left John's. Only his nostrils twitched, flaring in the dim light. He seemed frozen with rage.
Wallace glanced at Sherm.
“Don't bring that motherfucker back here, Sherm,” he warned. “Not ever. If Kelvin and Markus don't kill him, I damn sure will. I don't want to see him in my hood again. Not anywhere near here.”
“I hear you, man. Don't sweat it, Wallace. You won't be seeing him again, I swear. You know my word's good. We cool?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and spat on the cracked pavement. “We cool.”
“Better hope I don't see you on the streets,” Kelvin threatened John a final time. “If I do, that's it for your ass!”
They stood down, lowering their pistols. All three men were shaking with rage. I lowered my own gun, and it was only then that I realized I'd forgotten to cock the hammer.
Ouch! Cut it out, Sherm!”
John took one hand off the wheel and rubbed the knot on his head.
“Why'd you hit me, dammit?”
“Because you're a dumb ass,” Sherm shouted, leaning forward to smack him again.
“Ouch! Knock it the fuck off, Sherm. You're gonna make me wreck.”
I'd sat quietly, simmering. Finally, I could keep my mouth shut no more.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? ‘Later my niggaz'? The fuck is that? You actually said that shit. What the hell were you thinking? Why not just go down there dressed in a fucking white sheet and burn a cross in their yard while you were at it?”
“You know I ain't like that, Tommy. I ain't no racist. I said niggaz, not niggers. There's a difference. They say it in the songs all the time. I didn't think it was a big deal.”
I was so angry I couldn't even respond.
Sherm smacked him again. “We told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Why couldn't you just do that?”
John pouted. “I was just trying to be friendly. That's all. I like black people and they seemed like cool guys to hang out with. Remember when I was going out with Rhonda? She was black, and I never said anything wrong to her. I didn't mean to offend nobody. Honest!”
And that's the thing. He really hadn't meant to offend anybody. He'd genuinely been trying to be friendly. John didn't have a racist bone in his body. He was just John. Big, simple, stupid John.
And he was going to drive the getaway car . . .
I leaned back in the seat and rubbed my temples. My head was killing me. Well, actually, it was the cancer that was killing me, but the headache was helping it along quite nicely. I sighed, wondering if my friends would beat both the disease and my head to the punch, and do the cancer's work themselves. At the rate we were going, it was a distinct possibility.
We were quiet for a while. John sulked and Sherm smoked and I massaged my head. My eyes grew heavy. It had been a long night and I was exhausted. Daylight was just a few hours away, and Michelle would be wondering where I'd been all night. I wasn't sure what I'd tell her.
After a while, I spoke. “You guys want to hear something weird? Back there in the alley, when things got tense? I felt alive. For a few moments, I forgot all about the disease. I forgot that I was dying.”
“You ask me,” Sherm replied, “and that's how I'd rather go out. Given a choice between dying in some crummy hospital bed or being gunned down in a blaze of glory—I'd pick the gunfight every time. And I'd pump some slugs in the motherfuckers before I was gone. I'd kill everyone in sight. I'd . . .”
He kept talking, but I fell asleep in the middle of it. Looking back now, I wish I'd stayed awake and listened.
Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
I was at a funeral. I didn't know whose. It must have been for somebody important because the turnout was enormous. For some reason, it wasn't taking place inside a church. Instead, we were at the old, abandoned movie theater downtown, the one where little Kaitlin Roberts had been killed about ten years ago. I was fifteen when that happened. They found her body, along with the bodies of a homeless guy and a mailman inside the vacant theater, which had closed down a year earlier when the multiplex opened across town. Their killer was never caught and their deaths haunted the town to this day.
That was how I knew it was a dream. Who in their right mind would hold a funeral at the location of a series of grisly murders?
Disembodied, I floated above the proceedings, watching as the crowd of people filed by a coffin made out of solid gold. The coffin lid was closed, and I wondered who lay inside. I listened to the hushed murmurs and whispers of the crowd below, but couldn't make out anything other than sobs. Just by willing it to happen, I drifted down for a closer look.
Michelle and T. J. were there, which surprised me. Michelle looked beautiful in her black dress—not the type from Wal-Mart or Target or the Goodwill store. No, this was something you'd see on television, a gown you could picture Julia Roberts promenading around in at an awards show. A huge diamond sparkled on her finger, and a matching set dangled from her ears and around her neck. T. J.'s hair was slicked back and he wore a little black suit and tie, with matching black shoes. This outfit was new as well. His Sunday clothes (when Michelle's mother took him to church) had consisted of a pair of tan Osh Kosh and a fraying sweater. I couldn't believe how great they looked. This was the kind of clothing they'd always deserved, the kind I could never provide. Expensive. Brand-name. I figured they must be happy now.
But when I looked closer, I saw that they were crying. Black mascara streaked down Michelle's face, making her look like a raccoon. T. J.'s little Adam's apple bobbed frantically as he battled one great sob after another. T
he grief looked too big for his tiny frame. My heart broke to see them like this, in pain when they should have been happy. Judging by their appearance, they had everything in the world. Why were they so sad? Who had died? Who was in the coffin? Michelle's mom? No, I spied her in the crowd, coming toward T. J. She picked him up in her arms and held him close.
I started to go to Michelle, but Sherm and John pushed past me—through me. A shiver ran through my body. Sherm was decked out in gold chains, and several fat gold rings adorned his fingers. John was actually wearing a tuxedo, something he hadn't been able to afford even for our high school prom. John was crying too, as hard as Michelle, and Sherm held them both. But I noticed that he held Michelle a little too tight, and that she let him, and for one second, I was insanely jealous.
None of them seemed to notice me.
That was when I understood. The clothing. The gold casket. Even the money it must have cost to rent out the old movie theater. We'd done it. We'd pulled off the bank job without a hitch, and now my wife and son were taken care of. Sure they were sad, but grief passes; passes quickly if the bills are paid. They'd be okay in the long run.
I smiled, a sense of peaceful satisfaction engulfing me.
A silver and red-gilded banner hung over the casket.
I have gone out to find myself.
If I should get here before I return,
please hold me until I get back.
I floated toward the coffin, figuring I might as well pay my respects to myself. After all, this was a dream. No telling what would happen when the real thing came. There might not be a bright light or a chance to look down on my loved ones from above. Better to do it now, while I still could. Besides, who ever gets the chance to visit their own funeral?
The coffin was amazing. The softly flickering candles reflected on its surface. Etched in calligraphy was my name: THOMAS WILLIAM O'BRIEN followed by my date of birth and date of death. Below that, it said simply: Beloved Husband and Father. I put my hands on the lid, and though I was a ghost, it felt solid enough, cool to the touch. I opened it, grunting with the effort—and then looked down.
