But Leon was working on the guy—pulling off his gold watch, a diamond- studded ring, ripping the inside pocket of his coat to grab his wallet. Then he dropped the stuff into the full bag, left it there, and backed up to the bar, while I returned to where I'd been. Leon's eyes were still hard. I knew he didn't want to let that guy spoil his plans.
"C'mon,” I said, grabbing the bag filled with loot and taking a step back toward the kitchen. “I'm going."
He turned the gun on me, and we stared at each other. It got so quiet I could hear my own breathing. I knew Leon would rather die where he stood than let anybody tell him what to do. But I also knew if I waited and let him think about what was happening, he'd come around.
The police siren made it all pointless.
I looked through the shutters. A squad car pulled up to the curb opposite the door, then a second, coming the other way, parked in the middle of the street.
As I backed away toward the kitchen, Leon stared at the five employees behind the bar. “I'm gonna need somebody—"
Before he could finish, one of the waiters, a dark-haired kid, pushed past the others and started back with Leon. I guess the waiter either was more scared than the others or maybe wanted to be some kind of hero. Either way, we had a hostage.
I covered Leon until he and the kid got past me, then all three of us backed away toward the kitchen. Before we could get out, the cops came pouring through the door. Customers started ducking under the tables. I knew we was finished, so I started to drop my gun, when I heard a shot and felt my right side on fire as I hit the wall and slunk to the floor. I would've fallen over except for the duffel bag full of loot that propped me up.
But Leon wasn't done yet. He pushed the waiter in front of him, holding his gun to the kid's head.
"Hold your fire,” one of the cops said. Then to Leon, “There's no place you can go. We've got men coming through the alley."
There was shouting from the kitchen.
Leon looked at me, and I sensed that, behind his mask, he was smiling. Then he shot up at the ceiling. When everybody ducked, including the cops, he pushed the waiter away and turned toward the steps. Just as one of the cops took aim, the waiter moved back toward Leon, directly in the line of fire. The cop shot, and the kid went down hard a few feet from me. Without looking back, Leon ran up the stairs.
"Where the hell's he going!” one of the cops yelled.
There was more shouting, but I wasn't paying it no mind. I wasn't even worrying about the blood running down my side. I was smiling at how at least Leon had gotten away. I looked over at the kid, who was smiling too. A soft smile with that real gentle look in his eyes as he lowered his lashes.
"Squeak,” I whispered.
He didn't hear me. He didn't hear nothing no more.
Eddie gave up without a fight—he got smart for once in his life. They fixed me up all right in the prison hospital. We pled guilty to attempted armed robbery and got ten-to-twenty in the same prison.
As for Leon—well, the rest of it we heard from Kevin and our lawyer. Leon got away like he'd said, driving the cops crazy. He ran upstairs, through a window, and up the fire escape to the roof. He jumped a narrow alley to another roof, climbed down its fire escape to Milwaukee Avenue, where he walked into the “L” station and caught a train downtown. Then he disappeared for a couple of weeks. Me and Eddie wouldn't rat him out, but the cops knew where he hung out. Besides, a witness had seen Charlene dropping us off across from the restaurant. They squeezed her hard, and she popped like a zit.
Two weeks after the robbery, Leon called her—he needed money to go south until the heat was off. They arranged to meet early one morning in a coffee shop not far from Mickey's. She was waiting in a booth by the window. The other half-dozen customers and the waitress behind the counter were all cops. Leon walked up to the door, smelled a trap, and started moving away before two cops dressed as cabbies got out of their taxis and told him to stop. Nobody told Leon nothing. He drew his gun, and they cut him down dead.
After that, Charlene stopped coming around Mickey's. Then she quit her job and left town. Maybe she was afraid of what Eddie and me would do to her once we got out, but there was no need to worry. Guess you can't blame somebody for looking after number one. That we could understand.
What we couldn't understand—and Eddie and me talked a lot about this while walking around the exercise yard—was what Squeak had done. We figured she'd given Leon the idea of robbing the place where she worked—given him the layout, best time for the heist, and the escape route. She was probably getting a cut to use for that operation she needed.
I remember Eddie asking, “Why did she jump in front of Leon? Did she get mixed up, or did she think the cops wouldn't shoot?"
I think we both knew the answer, but neither of us was man enough to say it.
The papers made Squeak out to be a “hero hostage.” I suppose her parents could've sued the cops about shooting her, but they didn't make no stink. It probably would've come out that Squeak was a he-she, and that would've embarrassed the hell out of them. Better she died a hero. Better they got to bury her in a nice new suit.
Eddie said, “I never thought much of Squeak, but she turned out to be a stand-up guy."
Remembering her soft smile and the way her eyes fluttered shut that last time, I said, “Yeah, she sure was."
Copyright © 2010 Ronald Levitsky
[Back to Table of Contents]
Black Mask: BEERSHEBA by Joyce Carol Oates
* * * *
* * * *
Speaking at a gathering of the MWA this past January, Joyce Carol Oates said, “We are all consumed by mystery, and mystery—detective fiction, suspense—is the most primeval of the works of literary art.” Mystery and crime have certainly been central to the Princeton author's celebrated work, not only in the novels she's written under a pseudonym reserved for suspense, Rosamond Smith, but in the mainstream novels for which she has received the highest literary acclaim. Her new book is Sourland: Stories, to be released by Ecco this month.
©2010 by Joyce Carol Oates. Black Mask Magazine title, logo & mask device copyright 2010 by Keith Alan Deutsch. Licensed by written permission.
Just injected the shot—the insulin—when the phone rang—as if whoever was calling was being courteous, or mock-courteous, and had waited until he'd retracted the needle—and he'd answered grunting “Yeh? Who's it?"—he wasn't expecting any calls, this time of evening. And the voice on the line was a female voice—a woman, or a girl—familiar—but hushed, breathless—"Brad Shifke?—is that you?"
"Sure is. Who's this?"
A moment's hesitation—as if whoever it was had to consider this question seriously—then the voice turned coy, playful—"Guess!"
"Guess? I can't."
"Hey, Brad c'mon—you're not even trying, man."
His heart gave a little kick. So quickly the voice had lurched into a teasing sort of reproach—sounding more familiar now—someone he'd known well? Someone—intimate?
Whoever it was wasn't from any recent time in his life, Brad was sure. Not one of the women he'd known these past five, six years—the women still speaking to him—would be addressing him like this.
Those years in his younger life—mid twenties to thirty-eight, -nine—there'd been women who'd addressed Brad in such a tone. He'd married young, and separated; divorced, and married again; and in the interstices of domestic life in Florida and upstate New York, for which he'd been no more suited than a wild animal—raccoon, chimp—that can't be tamed, he'd seen women in secret. Over all, he'd had a good time. He'd taken for granted that women liked him, and liked what he did with them, and probably it could be said he'd had the whip-hand in any relationship. First he'd been stationed at the Pensacola naval base, where it was discovered he was good with computers, then after his discharge moved north to Carthage, New York, which was close by his hometown, but not too close he had to see his family often. But girls he'd known from high school and afte
r—plenty of these. And this woman—girl—definitely, he knew her. The teasing way she was speaking like ghost fingers stroking his hair, the nape of his neck which no woman had touched in a long time.
"C'mon try to guess, Brad—there was a time you'd know me right off."
"You going to give me some hint? Like—how long ago?"
"How long ago'—you tell me."
"Or—you don't live around here, you're back visiting? That's it?"
"What about you, Brad?"
"Me? What's there about me?—you're the subject."
"Nooo Brad, c'mon, man—you're the subject. That's why I called you, man."
What all this was about, Brad couldn't guess. All he knew, he was becoming excited, aroused. The woman—or girl—had to be a mature woman, he supposed—but sounded like a girl, breathy and giggly—was saying she'd called him hoping he'd remember her name at least and she'd been thinking if so, if Brad remembered her name, that would be a sign she should see him, and she'd been wanting to see him for a long time: She'd come to Carthage to look him up, or—maybe not entirely just for him—but she'd made a long drive and was staying at a motel out on Route 11 and for sure, Brad Shifke was a primary reason she'd come but now—well, now she didn't know what to think—"Seems like you don't have a clue who I am, Brad."
"Well—your voice is familiar. It's a voice—I know."
"But not my name, huh?"
"Well—almost. I can almost—"
"Your voice is a voice I know, Brad. Your voice is a voice in my dreams, I would not likely forget."
This stilted manner of speech was familiar, too—made him uneasy, recalling—not a recent memory but one that stirred him. He was wondering—was this woman taunting him? Some woman who'd had a disagreement with him, or a misunderstanding he'd forgotten? He'd been accused of careless behavior, from women. Not mean or malicious—he'd never lay hands on any woman, no matter how provoked—but more like thoughtless, hurried in his manner—pushy, bossy—but good-hearted, protective—he'd had a drinking problem since high school—that was under control. Until he'd put on weight in his forties he'd been what you'd call fit—chiseled chest, biceps, and upper arms—wore his faded carrot-color hair in a crewcut—good posture from his Navy days and not bad-looking when he took time to shower and shave and wear clean clothes, which, being chief computer techie at the community college, and pretty much his own boss, he could skip sometimes.
"How're you doing, Brad?” the woman was asking and Brad said, “Good. I'm doing good,” and the woman said, “Really—I want to know, Brad. I heard some things,” and with a quick laugh Brad said, “Heard some things from—who? Somebody stalking me?"
This annoyed him. Any thought of people discussing him. Worse yet feeling sorry for him.
Brad was on his feet now. He'd heaved himself up from the sofa sculpted to his heavy body, clicked the TV on mute. It was his cordless phone he had where the caller ID revealed Wireless caller NY—not much help. He was beginning to feel edgy, anxious—what had this woman been hearing about him?—couldn't be the drinking, that was five-six years back—the DWI and the other, a bullshit charge of second-degree assault—later dropped—had to be the diabetes—that was what the woman meant. He felt a flamey sensation of shame, fury—what right did she have, whoever it was, a stranger to him—alluding to that? Brad didn't discuss his goddamn health with anyone, even his family, friends. Zero interest he had in that.
Early last year, he'd been diagnosed—after he'd blacked out more than once, and the last time while driving his SUV on the thruway—what the doctor told him felt like the dull edge of an ax slammed against his head when he hadn't been prepared for such a blow, but insulin injections kept it under control, insulin lispro was what the doctor prescribed for him, the fast-acting insulin so you don't have to plan too much about when you're eating. Hated injecting himself like some strung-out junkie but he'd learned to prepare the shot, sink the syringe needle into his midriff, fatty-flaccid flesh straining against his belt—even with shedding thirty pounds, he was still overweight—and after eighteen months still his fingers were clumsy as hell, it was easy to screw up, drop the needle into his crotch or onto the floor cursing Jesus! This is not me. So ashamed, embarrassed he'd never told his closest friends or any woman about the diabetes but at his mother's house he didn't hesitate to lift his T-shirt and inject the needle in the living room watching TV or even at the dinner table with people looking on—"Uncle Brad that's gross.” He'd just laugh, what the hell—it was a vague simmering resentment of his, he'd inherited the condition from his mother's side of the family where all the years he'd been growing up he'd hear of older relatives—uncles, aunts—with some weird infirmity called sugar diabetes.
Now came a surprise. Just when he'd been worried the woman was going to hang up on him suddenly her voice dropped, drawled—"Well Brad my man—why I'm calling—how'd you like to get together tonight? Or—you tied up tonight?"
"Sure. I mean—no."
"There's nobody there?"
"No. There's nobody here."
"Heard you got married—more than once, was it?"
"That was awhile back."
"No kids?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Jesus yes—I'm sure."
"No kids you know of, you're saying."
Brad came to a full stop. Gripping the phone against his ear. Was this some kind of joke? Some girl calling him claiming she's his daughter?
"Hey Brad—you still there?"
"Sure . . . “
"Didn't mean to scare you, man. I'm not any kid of yours or anything nor am I aware of any kid of Brad Shifke. I'm just, like—y'know—making inquiries. What you know."
"What I know? About—what?"
"About whatever subject this is, Brad, we're talking about."
"You said—you wanted to get together?"
"Yes! That's what I said."
* * * *
The plan was to meet at the Star Lake Inn, which was about five miles from Brad's place in Carthage and a place where people tended to know Brad Shifke, or had known him when he'd gone out drinking more, and Star Lake was one of his weekend stops. In the bar he didn't see her—a solitary woman—figured she'd be a good-looking woman but all of these he saw were with guys or other people and out back on the veranda which was where you could sit with drinks if you bought them inside there was a woman smiling at him—hands on her hips as in a pose, backs of her hands resting against her hips which were fleshy, solid—and her head tilted to one side, where a thick glossy braid fell over her shoulders. “Brad Shifke—that's you? Hi!” Before Brad could register any reaction except a startled smile the woman stepped forward and thrust out her hand to be shaken, her fingers were solid and strong, handshake firm as a man's and the way she presented herself before him, bemused and open-faced, feet apart, looking him in the eye, reminded him of a man. He thought, Is this someone I know? It is not. Trying not to show the disappointment he was feeling the woman wasn't very attractive—not like what her voice had hinted—though she was young, in her twenties—a large-boned girl with a head that looked small, hair pulled back tight into the coarse braid, plain darkish-tan face like an Indian-girl face, broad mouth and heavy eyebrows, ironic eyes and skin roughened at the hairline as if with a rash or the remnants of acne. As they shook hands—exchanged bantering greetings—Brad saw that the girl had unusually large breasts—watermelon-breasts—straining at the fabric of an ice-blue satin T-shirt with a man's face on it—Hispanic-looking, with a moustache—some kind of guerilla cap, uniform—a T-shirt face or tattoo-face familiar as Elvis but Brad couldn't place it—and the girl's jeans were designer jeans with brass studs. She had broad hips, thighs. On her large splayed bare feet were leather sandals durable enough for hiking but her toenails were painted frosted-green—meant to be playful, Brad supposed. Her ears were intricately pierced, there was a curved glinting pin in her left eyebrow and another in her upper lip. Some kind of New Age hippie, the
kind Brad and his friends sneered at, seeing on TV. In person you rarely saw them in this part of the Adirondacks.
"Still don't recognize me, Brad?—now I'm kind of hurt."
Brad stared at the girl. Those eyes—did he know them? Hazel-brown with thick lashes. She was laughing, her face was mottled with heat. It did seem to be so, Brad's confusion about who she was seemed to hurt her, unless she was pretending. Warmly Brad said, “Let me get us drinks, okay? Beers? You're not underage—are you?"
"Underage? Hell, no. I'm a big girl all growed up, Daddy."
At this—Daddy—Brad stopped dead in his tracks. Took a second look at the girl and saw—Jesus, was this Stacy Lynn? The daughter of Linda Gutshalk, who'd been Brad's second wife? Now it made some kind of sense—the mysterious girl resembled Linda, to a degree. It was coming back to Brad now—Linda had died in a car wreck, he'd been out of her life by that time. Stacy Lynn was just a little girl then. Linda's parents had taken her and had custody of her—she'd been theirs, and not Brad's. Brad had only been step-Daddy. And Brad hadn't been a very devoted step-Daddy during the four or five years he'd been married to Linda—the role had not come easily to him, no more than the husband role had.
The girl was laughing, breathless. Wiping tears from her cheeks with both hands. Brad saw that her body wasn't fat so much as solid-packed like hard rubber. Sure she had to be someone worked out in a gym—he'd watched girls like this, half-repelled, fascinated by the way they inhabited bodies that, if a man woke up in, Jesus he'd blow off his head with a shotgun.
"Oh hey, Brad. You didn't remember Stacy Lynn'—did you?"
"Hell yes. I did—I do. Just, you took me by surprise . . . “
Brad covered his embarrassment by hugging the girl. Her body was just as hard-rubbery as he'd thought but the big breasts were soft, like milk-filled sacs. Coming so close to her was disconcerting. Awkward. True that Brad hadn't remembered her—not exactly. But he'd been remembering her mother, hearing the girl's voice on the phone. Why he'd been feeling both excitement and anxious. Sexual excitement yet wariness, apprehension. Linda Gutshalk! Linda was one of the women he didn't care to think about, especially when he was in a down mood like tonight. Like lots of nights recently. Most he had to do—most important thing—was to remember to take his insulin at the right time, which was an indication of how things stood with Brad Shifke these days, he didn't care to think about. Linda Gutshalk was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in actual life when he'd first met her, he had to concede that. Both of them drunk they'd gotten married in Niagara Falls one weekend shortly after he'd been discharged from the Navy and moved back north—it hadn't exactly sunk in on him, Linda had been married before and had a little girl—some sort of learning-disabled little girl. Still less had Brad grasped that Linda was difficult to live with, to put it mildly—she hadn't liked being touched in any way she considered “over-familiar"—a problem in a marriage. And in the close quarters in which they'd had to live in Chautauqua Falls, in a mobile home.
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 25
