Chasing the Sandman

by Meyers, Brandon

  Twitching his feet nervously, he very briefly considered going back to the front of the store to buy a new pack, but instead planted his head in his arms and sighed. He hummed softly to drown out the harping gossip, and found that fortune had at least smiled upon him in the way of silence as Marcee and Alicia went back on the clock.

  Just as he was fighting the urge to nod off, Rick became aware of another presence in the smoking room.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a light, there, would you partner?” The sparkling eyes of an aging gentleman looked back at him from across the table. He was leaning back in his chair and smiling through a well-kept beard. The newcomer must have been a recent hire, because Rick didn’t recognize his face. And he wasn’t wearing the standard Tippy Mart red vest, but a black button-up shirt and beaten up old cowboy hat to match.

  The man’s voice had taken Rick by surprise, and he slid back in his chair.

  “Easy there, kid,” the man laughed. “Just came in for a smoke.”

  “I’m-a, I’m-a…I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The man chuckled. “Looked like you were snoozing.”

  “Oh, er…yeah. Hey, man, please don’t tell Mr. Irving, will ya? If he hears I was sleepin’ in the break—”

  “Secret’s safe with me,” the man said. “Now, how ‘bout that light?”

  Rick pulled the lighter automatically from his shirt pocket and handed it over. The man smiled as he lit up and passed the lighter back.

  “You, uh…you know, new here?” Rick asked lamely.

  “I guess you could say that,” the man said, puffing a smoke ring carefully into the air. “Then again, take a look at me, kid. It look much to you like I’d really be new anyplace?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, I mean, I just haven’t seen ya—”

  “Jesus, kid. No wonder those two harpies bag on you so much. You gotta put a single damn thought together and spit it all out at once. Otherwise people are apt to think you a damn fool.”

  “Well, I, see—”

  The man pounded the table with his fist, sending the ashtray into a totter, and made Rick bounce back in surprise.

  “Out with it,” he ordered.

  By some small miracle, Rick’s next sentence happened to string itself together completely before crossing his lips. “Say, you don’t s’pose I could get one of them squares off ya?”

  The man grinned and reached into his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes with a label that Rick had never seen before.

  Rick inspected the box before reaching out to accept a cigarette. “Hmmph, never heard of that brand.”

  “Reckon you mustn’t have,” the man said. “These are the best damn lung-pluggers this side of South Carolina.” Geometry had never been Rick’s strong suit, and he therefore nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Damn near worth your deepest wish, these are.” He rolled it around carefully in his fingers before sliding it over to Rick.

  Without much thought, Rick plopped it into his mouth and spun the wheel on his Bic. “Wish I had more balls,” Rick said, blowing out a stream of pungent and aromatic smoke. Alicia’s grinning face looked back at him hauntingly from recent memory. “More marbles, y’know?”

  “Never too late, is it?” the man said.

  They sat in silence for the next minute, until the man stood to leave. “Well, break’s over for me, kid. Enjoy.” With that he slid open the door and left through the hardly better-ventilated break room.

  Rick leaned back and puffed at his smoke. He couldn’t say for sure—because his memory wasn’t too keen—but he may have been smoking the best tasting cigarette he’d ever had in his life. It was even better than that pack of Benson and Hedges he’d stolen from the front counter one night when Irving had left the cage unlocked and Rick was sure no one had been looking.

  Blowing a feeble smoke ring into the air, Rick considered his brief turn of fortune. He’d managed to score a square (and a damn good one at that), and he was feeling a nicotine high like he had not had since he’d first picked up the habit. The feeling took him back to that very first cigarette he’d tried at fifteen; it brought the strange combination of immense clarity and lightheadedness rushing back to him.

  He snuffed out the embers when the cherry got down to his fingertips and became too hot to hold. No filter on this baby. After a few deep breaths, and with a smile on his face, he rose and pushed the chair back. The moment that his nicotine-stained fingers brushed the wood, the chair collapsed into a thousand clattering glass marbles onto the smoke room floor. Rick would have screamed, but found himself slipping on the slick, rolling surface, landing fortunately on the table top.

  His left palm ached from bracing his fall. He pulled his right hand forward to press himself back into a standing position, but the second he felt the cool, composite surface of the table, it too went crashing to the floor in the form of tiny crystal balls. Rick found himself struggling to his feet with burning knees.

  “Help,” he called out. When no answer came from the other side of the door, Rick took a few wobbly steps forward and slammed into it, stumbling into the main break room, where at last his feet found solid ground. “Help,” he murmured, much softer now, as he stared at his hand in amazement. Normally it would have taken Rick much longer to make a deduction about any given situation, but somehow the clarity given by the cigarette had granted him a few fresh mental connections. His mind replayed the scene that had taken place moments ago with the stranger and the fantastic cigarette.

  “More marbles,” he said with a laugh. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Some awakened part of Rick’s brain told him that he might still be snoozing on the smoking room table, living in an extremely unusual lucid dream. With trembling fingertips, Rick reached slowly with his right hand for the door handle. It dissolved and clattered across the floor. At once, his mind’s eye showed him walking into the foyer of the First National down the street and disintegrating the heavy bank vault door like it was nothing.

  Rick grinned and kicked the break room door wide.

  He was washed in the sensory deadening luminescence of overhead fluorescent bulbs. Someone at the front of the store was hailing the manager for a price check. Two elderly women were sifting through the bargain bin in the Fabrics department right across the aisle. Somewhere nearby a child was throwing a tantrum. Rick took it all in through bright eyes. How in the hell had he managed to work in this soul-sucking, big-box garbage outlet for as long as he had without finding himself dangling from the end of a belt in the shower?

  Marcee walked across the far end of the aisle and gave Rick a brief smile. The sight of her jarred him from his disgusted point of observation and he called out to her. “Marcee!” He started down the aisle at a quick trot. If only he could show her what he was capable of now, Rick just knew that she would want to talk to him. No, she would want to be with him.

  He had just about emerged from the aisle when Tommy Irving moved his bulk into Rick’s path. As store managers went, Tommy was a Grade-A prick. He knew the boundaries of his authority as well as others did, but worked hard to stretch them long enough to strangle his underlings with.

  “Wellings, just where in the hell have you been? You went on break half an hour ago. I don’t know what world you’re living in today,” he said, tapping the side of Rick’s skull, “but you need a serious reality-check, mister. We here at Tipp—”

  “It’s Wellington, Tommy,” Rick said.

  Irving gave Rick an astonished look and pulled in closer so that no one else could hear. “Well, excuse me, Mister Fucking Wellington. I wasn’t aware that you’d woken up with anything but dogshit between those ears this morning. Now I don’t give a damn what the hell—”

  Rick leaned forward. “Get out of my way, you fat bastard.”

  Fury flooded Tommy Irving’s rather sizable face. He began shaking visibly; his fists pumped wildly at his sides.

  “Fat ba…You—get—the—fuck—out.”

  “Fuck you, Tommy. I qui
t.” Rick raised his middle finger in salute. “Fuck this place!” he shouted. That must have been the last straw for Irving, because he cocked back one of his balled fists and prepared to swing. But Rick had known all along what it was going to come to. He grinned and brought his own fist around rather clumsily to connect with Irving’s neck. The foul-mouthed manager sounded a hollow scream as he was sprayed across the front of the store in a shower of marbles. Most were blood red, but an organic rainbow of bone white and muscly pink ones rained down upon Rick’s feet as well.

  Two nearby children scrambled to the floor and began picking up the sparkling trinkets, shoving them by the handful into their pockets.

  Rick laughed. He looked around for Marcee, and not seeing any sign, continued in the direction in which he had seen her walking. Passing an aisle, Rick reached out and slapped the steel girders that made up its hundred-foot length.

  The explosion was immense. Immediately, Rick found himself again planted on the floor. Marbles coated every surface of the linoleum, bouncing noisily this way and that.

  “Marcee!” Rick shouted, still laughing. “Marcee, I can’t find you.” But you couldn’t fault him for a lack of trying. Rick reached forward and collapsed the next adjoining aisle. Amid the thunderous clatter of marbles, the various items that had previously called the shelving a home spilled onto the floor. Rick scrambled on his hands and knees and continued forward, breaking down one aisle after another.

  “Marcee! Goddammit, where are you?”

  People were screaming now. A few had spotted Rick and his destructive power and were fleeing for the exits. Others were slipping on the dangerous surface of the floor. Toilet paper and paper towels rained down on Rick’s head as he tried to stand.

  “Come here, you fuckin’ freak,” a familiar voice spat from behind him. Rick turned his grinning face just in time to see Alicia swinging the bottom of a broom handle right into the side of his head. Rick’s world turned hazy as pain exploded behind his eyes.

  “Fuckin’ weirdo piece of shit.” Alicia swung again and again, this time pounding Rick’s shoulder and neck. “Always knew you’d pull some kind of schizo shit like—”

  Rick raised his hand in defense and the broom disappeared from Alicia’s grip, tinkling down to the floor. Her jaw dropped and she took a step backward, landing quickly on her rear.

  Rick growled and clambered toward her. Feeling his head continue to swim, he mumbled something incoherent at Alicia, who was clawing futilely to get purchase on solid ground. Rick grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her backward. She screamed as Rick slurred something like “Sowhutvirgin,” and clouted her across the back of the head with his right hand. The next moment, she was no longer in one single definite shape.

  “Rick!”

  Rick turned his head to see Marcee standing at the perimeter of the disaster, near one of the sliding glass doors. “Mer-ceeee,” he mumbled, trying to smile. He threw his arms wide and tried to stand, having finally found his goal.

  “What have you done?” Marcee said, shaking and sobbing. Rick’s ears registered the fire alarm blaring overhead. “What have you done?”

  “Mer-cee,” Rick said, in an attempt to relate an explanation of his newfound greatness. Oh, how he was going to show her the great things that he would be able to do. He was going to give her everything she had ever dreamed of. Just as soon as he got rid of this damned headache. The clarity granted by the cigarette seemed to be wearing off, or maybe it was just the result of the traumatic blow his cranium had sustained.

  Either way, Rick managed to crawl to the doorway. Marcee shrieked and ran out into the night. Sirens were becoming louder in the distance.

  “No!” Rick cried. He climbed to his feet, swaying unsteadily out to the night air.

  “Hey, you! Stop!” A man rushed up behind him and seized Rick by the right hand. By the time Rick had turned to look, the man was spread all across the concrete entrance to the parking lot in a rolling matrix of glassy orbs. The woman who had been with him screamed.

  With only thoughts of the glorious fortune that awaited him and Marcee, Rick staggered down the sidewalk toward the bank, which sat at the end of the shopping center. As soon as he had money, he thought, he would be able to win her over. She could stop pretending that she didn’t like him now that Alicia was out of the picture.

  “Fuck-oo, Leesha,” Rick laughed. His foot hit an upset in the concrete and he took a short tumble, stopping himself with his good hand on a glass window. The sirens had finally arrived at the Tippy Mart. Rick turned to see a fleet of police cars and fire trucks storm the parking lot. He ambled forward a little faster.

  “Bank,” he said. “With-draw-eral.” And then he heard the shouting. Someone was shouting at him from behind.

  “Fuck-oo!” he shouted and loped the last few feet toward the reinforced glass window that read First National Bank of Brighton, in stylistic letters. The shouting intensified, and though Rick couldn’t understand it, he knew that it was not good. A few moments later, shots began to ring out. Something hot took Rick’s balance out from under his left leg and he stumbled, pressing both hands against the window. He fell inward among raining marbles. Blood was flowing freely from his leg as he crawled toward the front counter and around it, cursing the whole time. A new alarm sounded, and was much more intense than the one in the Tippy Mart. The noise was so loud in Rick’s hypersensitive ears that he thought his eardrums would explode.

  Shattering one locked door to the back room, Rick found himself face-to-face with the cast-iron vault entrance. Pushing through his pain temporarily, he grinned. He pushed the door, reducing it to little more than tiny lead-hued balls of crystal.

  Rick pulled himself into the vault and looked around. Instead of the mounds of cash he had been expecting, he saw only rows and rows of numbered drawers. The pain in his head again demanded all attention and he howled.

  A thoughtless glance around showed only one small bag shoved into the corner of the vault. Rick seized the bag, dumping its contents onto the floor. Grabbing frantically at the money, Rick cried out as it too turned into hundreds of tiny greenish-white spheres.

  Rick wailed as the shapes of police officers filled the vault doorway.

  “Hands up, hands up, get your damn hands up!” a helmeted voice commanded. It pounded inside his head along with the alarm, driving like a spike deep into his brain, scouring away all but one thought. The pain was unbearable.

  Rick wailed.

  “Mer-cee!” If only she were there, she could make the hurting stop.

  “Mer-ceee!”

  He grabbed his head with both hands and the pain vanished.

  Nicky’s Show

  Wiping a few flecks of blood from his face, Nicky slipped the shifter into third and guided the sleek blue ’68 Mustang onto the dusty highway.

  The sun beat down overhead and on the radio some idiot prattled on about a local car dealership that was slashing prices to prolong its inevitable floundering. Nicky cranked the dial so sharply that the plastic cap snapped off. He dropped it, not watching as his tremulous hand made its way back to the steering wheel.

  “Bout enough of that shit.” He flexed his fingers, breathed deeply. “This is my show. Nicky’s show, baby.” He shot himself a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror and ran a fast hand through his dark hair.

  After a few minutes and a dozen miles had passed, his nerves had settled a little and he began to laugh. At first, it was simply the release of pent-up adrenaline, but it quickly transitioned into ecstatic relief. He allowed himself to glance down at the hefty duffel bag resting on the floor of the passenger seat. For a second, he couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. Shit had gotten pretty hairy back there in the warehouse, and when it did, he’d handled himself like a true fucking professional.

  “My show, baby.”

  Only fifteen minutes prior, he had echoed those exact words from the walls of the concrete storage facility that now served as a temporary mausoleum for the th
ree men who had died at his hands.

  Nicky Montblanc was ambitious. For the previous three years he had climbed his way up the greasy ladder from being a low-level enforcer and shipment runner to one of the most reputable hired guns in the Midwest. He had racked up nine contract kills (not counting today) from coast to coast, and was good enough that he’d never had to go around advertising the fact. In Nicky’s business, ongoing reputation was everything. That, and not getting your own head blown off by way of shotgun on the average workday.

  On this particular job, he had been hired by a man named Svaroski to do the job in Roswell. Though the man had kept himself well out of the equation, Nicky had come to know people with good sources of information. Apparently, the guy was an upcoming big shot from overseas who was muscling his way into the Vegas scene by force, eating up failing properties in the tough economy and planning large-scale building contracts for the future. As for how the investor had come upon his fortune, Nicky’s contacts were unable to say for sure, but a lot of his money was supposedly tied up in software development.

  Regardless of where the client’s money came from, he had found Nicky through the channels that only such connected men are privy to, and had made him a handsome offer.

  It had been, by far, the largest single hit that Nicky had ever accepted. And everything had gone exactly as planned. The provided intelligence had been flawless. Those poor bastards had never known what hit them. The automatic weapon had been hidden inside the empty aluminum case that was supposed to be full of Svaroski’s money, and had gone completely unchecked by their metal detectors.

  Once inside, Nicky had played along and inspected the merchandise. When it came time to hand over the money, he had pulled the silenced .45 from its holster and put two bullets into each of the men.

  Nicky laughed again. “Stupid bastards. Jesus, what a bunch of amateurs.” The roadside sign informed him that he was leaving the Roswell city limits. In two hours, he would be back in the nowhere town of Vaughn, for his rendezvous with Svaroski’s men. Another couple of hours after that he would be back to civilization, sixty grand richer. And hopefully he’d be able to find a clinic that would still be open, maybe even a hospital.