by TJ Vargo
Fitz pointed at Duck.
“Call me Terry one more time, Duck, and see what happens. My dad’s been dead thirteen years, you old fucking geezer.”
“Oh. That’s right,” said Duck, sitting down. He shook a cigarette out of his pack of Pall Malls and tapped it on the table before sticking it in his mouth and giving it a twist across his tongue. He leaned across the table. His baldheaded, gray mustached pal, Artie, bent a match around the outside of a match book and flicked it. Flame popped and he lit Duck’s cigarette. A shallow inhale was all Duck could muster, then he pointed the cigarette at Artie. “Now I remember. Terry Fitzsimmons and Mickey Monroe. Got in with that Barry fella. You remember, Artie?”
“Sure do,” said Artie, tearing the burnt match out of the match book and tossing it in the ash tray.
“My mind must be going,” said Duck. “How did I forget? Remember how Terry Fitzsimmons got all burned up and died? That was bad business.”
Artie nodded, said, “Uh huh,” and shuffled his cards.
Fitz plucked the cigarette from Duck’s mouth and crumbled it. Smoke leaked from between his fingers and burning embers dropped on the table and floor. He dropped the cigarette, grabbed the deck of cards from Artie and shoved them in Duck’s face.
“One more word about my dad and I’ll jam these down your throat,” he said.
Duck straightened and looked at Artie.
“Did you see that? He took my cigarette and smashed it in his hand.”
“I’ll bet it burned,” said Artie.
Duck looked at Fitz.
“Did that burn?”
Fitz dropped the cards on the table and turned to Sonny.
“Get me away from them before I kill ‘em,” he said, gritting his teeth.
Sonny pulled him back to their table at the back corner of the bar. Next thing Fitz knew, the blonde’s head was on his shoulder and her hand was in his lap. A shot glass appeared in front of him. He tilted it back and felt a molten slug of heat unfold in his chest. He looked at Sonny sitting across from him. The dark-haired girl with piercings laughed and ran her hands through Sonny’s wavy black hair. She whispered in Sonny’s ear and Sonny smiled. Fitz wondered what the girl could’ve said to pull a smile out of Sonny. His mind filled with the image of her lips brushing Sonny’s ear lobe as she whispered.
“Remember how Terry Fitzsimmons got all burned up and died? That was bad business.”
Fitz banged his shot glass on the table. It fell to the floor and broke. He picked up his beer and held it across the table toward Sonny.
“C’mon, let’s drink,” he said.
“What are we drinking to?” said Sonny, lifting his cup.
“How ’bout bad business? You up for it?”
Fitz tapped Sonny’s cup. He watched Sonny chug his beer and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Didn’t know there was any other kind, brother,” said Sonny. “Bring it on.”
Chapter Six
The Honda 600 motorcycle was dented enough to be war issue. Specks, blots and gouged furrows of rust overran the bike’s original black paint. By the looks of it, Curtis thought the previous rider must have laid it down doing seventy. He smoothed his hand over the gas tank, feeling the pits and grooves scarring the metal. The old owner no doubt walked with a cane to this very day. But, crappy as the bike was, Angel sold it for five-hundred bucks three years ago, and it had run without a hiccup since. Having a motorcycle as reliable and cheap as this made up for the ugly.
Curtis bowed his head, feeling the engine vibrate through the seat of his jeans into his thighs. His sinus pain spiked at the shriek of a fire engine rushing by his left shoulder, a draft of hot, diesel-drenched air billowing over him as it passed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, clenching his eyes shut, then opened his eyes slowly, letting his Ray-Bans give his eyes a chance to adjust to the afternoon sun. Tooling around town on this bike was a festival of noise and light that roused the pain behind his right eye, but the perc was blunting it enough to function. He revved the engine. The back wheel kicked cinders, pushing him into the intersection. He punched through a couple of gears and hit Middle Bellville Road, riding in the wake of the fire engine’s dying siren.
The steamy summer air buffeted his face and blew his long hair back. Curtis figured he’d have his hands on Sonny or Fitz before the end of the night. Angel didn’t give up where they were, but he’d said to be careful, which meant they were still in town. Curtis touched his pocket where he’d put the check he’d picked up from Angel. Five hundred and twenty-three bucks. Until he found out where the marlin was, this paycheck and a checking account with a little over seven hundred bucks was all the cash he had in the world. Between paying the hospital, his rent and buying food, he’d be back to zero by next week.
He motored through a patchwork of sun and shade that painted the road, thinking over his situation.
Fitz probably paid off his gambling debt to Barry with his money and was sitting on whatever was left. And knowing Sonny, he was along for the ride. He had to get his hands on them before his money was gone.
He plunged down a hill, his stomach weightless. Trees laced their branches overhead, turning the road into a cool green tunnel. He downshifted and roared up a steep incline toward the sun.
“If I don’t get my money back, I’m gonna be stuck here fixing cars and drinking beers with thieves and scumbags forever,” he thought, opening up the throttle.
He hit the top of the hill and caught air, his face bathed in sunlight. The tires chirped as the bike hit pavement. He poured on the gas, accelerating to catch the fire truck churning up a steep upgrade, chugging past ranch homes and small split levels that needed paint jobs ten years ago. He downshifted, his engine whining as he caught up to the truck’s bumper, then broke left on Karlson Road.
He rode easy down the empty street, passing a red Ford pickup with a plastic sheet duct taped over the driver’s side window. Banking around the truck, he turned right on Dougwood and slow-rolled to Sonny Bomba’s house on the corner—a red ranch with wood siding. A ratty crabapple tree dirtied the front lawn. Unplugged Christmas lights dangled from its white gutters. Curtis cut the engine and rolled into the ranch’s rear driveway.
The two-story, back side of the ranch was built on a hill that sloped to Fox Glenn Park. A staircase led up to a dark brown deck over two white garage doors. Curtis thought the deck looked like a miniature version of the ski chalet deck at Snow Trails. He never skied, but the bartenders took care of them out there and the winter crowd was packed with out-of-town girls. Cheap booze and girls was always a good combination.
He got off the bike, hooked his sunglasses on the neck of his tee shirt, and walked toward the staircase, knowing he’d see Sonny sacked out in front of the television when he went up the stairs to the deck and looked inside. Sonny was going to tell him where his money was or get tossed off the deck. He put a hand on the railing and stopped. Pain ballooned behind his right eye. He touched the bridge of his nose. It couldn’t go that way. He exhaled and looked up the steps.
If he was going to get Sonny on his side, he needed to stay calm. Sonny was just pissed about the whole moving-to-Savannah thing. He had to explain to Sonny how they’d be friends even if he moved. Hell, Sonny could even come with him.
Curtis smiled.
He was going to need help on the fishing boat. It would be fun having Sonny around. But, if Sonny didn’t want to tell him where his money was, there was always Plan B. If Sonny got hard-headed, he’d take what was coming to him. Nobody was getting a pass.
The staircase creaked as he put his weight on the first step.
“That you, Sonny?”
The sound of Mona’s voice froze Curtis. She walked into view in a bright yellow bikini at the top of the stairs. Her dark skin gleamed with suntan lotion. She and Sonny definitely came from the same parents, with wide builds, black wavy hair, and dark complexions, but Mona exercised, dieted and worked her tan hard. She was three years y
ounger than Sonny, but she looked more polished. In the right clothes she could’ve passed for a sexed-up lawyer or a hot teacher. It was only up close—when she looked at you with the same dead eyes as Sonny—that you started to worry about what she was capable of.
Curtis watched her put her hands on the stair rails and lean down, pushing her cleavage together.
“Well, look who it is,” she said. “An asshole.”
“Is Sonny here?”
She rose up on her toes.
“Not even a hello for me?”
Curtis thought about putting on a smile and playing the game. A beat of pain behind his eye cut the thought short.
“Is he here or not.”
“Seeing as how you asked so nice, fuck off,” she said.
He climbed the stairs and watched her walk toward a lounge chair. The smell of coconut hung in the air as he stopped at the top of the stairs.
Curtis recognized Mona’s chaise lounge. It was one of the chairs he and Sonny had stolen from the Woodland Pool Club where the old money in Tombs went to sun. A leopard-print beach towel was draped over the chair. A pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suntan lotion, half a glass of iced tea and an Ipod with the ear buds coiled next to it were on a small glass table next to the chair. Mona picked up the lotion, squirted it in her hands and massaged it into the back of her bronzed thighs.
He grinned. “Need help with that?”
Her eyes darkened.
He lifted his hands and walked toward her. “Just asking.”
She put her towel over the lounge chair and laid on her stomach.
Curtis looked her over as he walked across the deck. Big sweeping curves glistening in the sun. He walked around the chair to face her, but she turned her head. The sun beat down. Pain started a slow, rolling boil behind his eye and spread through his sinus. He touched the bottle of Percocet in his pocket.
“Mona, I need to talk to Sonny. Just tell me where he is and I’ll leave.”
She flipped over and sat up, gripping the sides of the chair.
“He’s not here, so leave.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“You have to be the stupidest person I’ve ever screwed,” she said.
She tapped the polished, pink nail of her right index finger against the similarly gleaming nails of her left hand.
“I go to your apartment, you don’t answer the door. I call your work, you’re busy. I call your cell, nothing. I tell Sonny to let you know I’ll be at the Ice House, you don’t show. You don’t talk to me, you don’t call me, but now that you need Sonny you all the sudden have the balls to ask me to help you? Screw you.”
The pain started throbbing behind his eye.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said. “I told you we were done the last time we were at The Ice House.”
“You didn’t say we were done. You said you wanted a break, and I gave you one. And now you’re—” She jumped to her feet in mid-sentence. Curtis flinched as she reached for his face.
“Oh my God,” she said. “What happened?”
His pain drained away as she traced the scar above his eye. The feeling lasted a long, warm moment. He pulled her hand off his face.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Is this from when you pulled that screwdriver on Fitz and Sonny?”
An image cropped up in Curtis’s mind of Fitz running around town, buying everyone drinks with the money from Big Blue, spinning a story of how he kicked ass after having a screwdriver pulled on him. He pulled out the bottle of Percocet, shook one into his hand and grabbed Mona’s glass of iced tea. The pill washed down in a sweet, cold gulp.
“Fitz was trying to shake me down for money he owes Barry, so I picked up a screwdriver,” he said, putting the glass on the table. “But I wasn’t gonna do anything with it. I was just trying to scare him off me.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “By the way, did Sonny tell you he held me while Fitz worked me over?”
Mona shook her head. “No he didn’t.”
Curtis walked over to the rail and surveyed the sea of treetops filling Fox Glenn Park. The trees looked stunned in the heat. The deck’s railing was hot as a stovetop. He let the burn sink into his palms, listening to Mona walk up behind him.
“If Sonny did that, you did something to him,” she said. “What did you do?”
Curtis leaned on the railing and crossed his arms. Sonny was pissed about the move to Savannah, that’s why he let Fitz take that free shot. But Mona was the last person who needed to know about Savannah. She was crazy enough to follow him down there. He shrugged.
“I didn’t do nothing,” he said. “I just want them to give me back the trophy marlin they stole out of my apartment.”
The pain was finding a home now. His vision swam in and out, a wave of nausea rolling up from his stomach. Then Mona’s hands were on him, pulling him toward the chaise. He could hear her, something about him looking pale, something about sitting down. He felt her push him down on the chaise, her footsteps fading, the sliding door opening and closing, a cold glass pushed in his hand. He drank the ice water. The nausea lost some strength. Her bronzed face filled his field of vision.
“You okay?” she said, looking concerned.
He rolled the cold glass across his forehead.
“It’s just a headache,” he said.
She took the glass out of his hand.
“You know, I heard Sonny talking about your fish.”
He grabbed her arm, knocking the glass onto the deck.
“Did he say where it is?” he asked.
“No. But I can find out.”
“Mona, this is important.”
The concern in her eyes was gone. She smiled and moved an inch from his face. He could smell the cucumbers she had for lunch.
“Call me tonight around eight,” she said. “I’ll know something by then.”
Curtis stood. Mona picked up the glass and blotted water off the deck with her beach towel.
“Okay Mona,” he said. “I’ll call you, but you better not be screwing with me.”
Her smile was plastered on as she opened the sliding glass door, carrying the glass and towel. Sonny’s dog, an old fawn boxer named Bruno, stuck his head between Mona’s legs. Curtis petted Bruno’s big block head. The dog was Sonny’s best buddy, but was starting to look old with a touch of gray on his black muzzle.
“Back inside, Bruno,” said Mona, prodding Bruno with her knee. Bruno gave Curtis’s hand a lick and went back inside. Before Mona could close the door, Curtis grabbed her hand.
“Hey, you got any cans of soup?” he said.
She cradled the glass and towel against her chest.
“I can make you a sandwich.”
Curtis stepped back. “Nah, I gotta go. Just, you know, if you got any soup I could take, I’d appreciate it.”
“Let me check,” she said, closing the door.
Curtis wiped his forehead. These headaches were exhausting. He smiled as Mona walked out, holding a can of soup.
“I can heat it up,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he said, taking the can. Minestrone. He walked to the staircase. “I’ll call you at eight,” he said, bounding down the steps two at a time.
He put the soup in the saddlebag and wiped his hands on his jeans. He was going to smell like Mona’s coconut suntan lotion all day. He started his bike and pulled out of the drive away.
* * * *
Mona watched Curtis drive away. She waited for the sound of his motorcycle to fade before walking down to the driveway. Her bikini worked into a wedgie as she stepped down the stairs. There was going to be some serious gym time as soon as she finished tanning. A big butt was fine, but monster booty was not fine, and it wasn’t going to happen, even if it took eating nothing but celery and carrots and working out three hours a day. Small stones pinched her feet as she stepped onto the driveway and walked under the deck toward the garage door, the hot asphalt quickening her steps. She gr
abbed the handle on the garage door, pulled it open and looked at the marlin perched on a stack of old newspapers. Six inches of its nose were cracked and hanging by a thread. The bottom half of its tailfin was completely gone. A car backfired, the loud report cutting through the neighborhood. She looked over her shoulder, holding a hand against her chest while she scanned the empty street. Another backfire, this time farther away. She turned toward the trophy marlin, leaned over, and kissed the top of its head. This fish was her ticket back to Curtis.
* * * *
Curtis rode down Lexington Avenue toward downtown Tombs. He stopped at a red light and looked over the city. The bulky construction of the jail, courthouse and public administrative offices occupying the center of downtown were artless and utilitarian. Older, taller buildings circled downtown. They had some style, with stone angels, curled cornices, and marble facades. His gaze lifted to the penthouse of the Farmers Bank skyscraper. He, Fitz and Sonny had talked about leasing it and opening a bar a few years back. That was all it had been—talk—but it had been fun dreaming about doing something legitimate for once. The light turned green. He motored down into the stifling concrete bowl of downtown Tombs.
He turned into Temple Court—the old red-brick parking lot behind The Bistro restaurant, Buckeye Bread bakery, and the hair salon. The right side of Temple Court had a few older buildings that had been renovated to house the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. Everyone came here to get a license or have one renewed at some point, which kept The Ice House bar and restaurant on the other side of Temple Court busy. He rolled through the court toward the half wall of brick fencing the back patio of the Ice House.
He saw that the iron gate set in the middle of the patio wall was open. And there stood Johnny Tong—one of Barry’s guys—camped out in front of cases of beer stacked on the patio. Johnny had Samoan in his bloodline. Five-ten and thick as a stone pillar, the guy fought professionally and had fists as big as cinder blocks.
Curtis stopped behind a parked car. Johnny stared down through the gate with a beer bottle in hand. He said something to someone out of view. Curtis cut his engine and watched a big guy with cauliflower ears walk next to Johnny. It was Derek Ryder. Derek was okay. Curtis wrestled with him at Tombs High School where they both made the state championships their junior and senior years. The guy was an animal, pushing Curtis to the limit during practice. Last he’d heard, Derek was cage fighting. Hanging out with Johnny Tong meant he’d switched to working for Barry. Not a good sign, but no reason to think bad about the guy. Everyone had to survive.
