Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  What a load of shit. Brodie and the sheriff were absolutely hooking up. The rumors were well past the cloudy phase—both Brodie and the Sheriff were seen leaving each other’s homes at odd hours for over two years. No use bringing that up, though. Erica nodded. “What now?” She wanted to change the subject. Brodie always got defensive about his relationship with Sheriff Nancy Burns. As if confirmation would light his ass on fire.

  Brodie fished in his pocket and pulled a single key on a bottle opener key ring into view. “Take this. I got an apartment over on Errol and 4th Street—right on the corner—4D. You chill. Eat. Play some video games. I’ll hit you up for events and personally chauffeur your ass.”

  Erica snatched the key and laughed. “So now I’m like some kind of kept woman? Why don’t you make the speeches yourself? Shit, I’ll happily sell tee shirts and whatever for you. I’ll walk up and down every block in this town collecting signatures.”

  “Hey, you called me for help. And besides, nobody’s going to listen to my old ass. I’m irrelevant and I’m ex-FBI. Not a damn soul would trust me in the first place.” Brodie leaned in, his eyes wide. “This is a young person’s game on the surface, but we work together with my experience, my connections, we can make a real difference out there. We can accomplish big things.”

  His enthusiasm felt sincere and while Erica didn’t understand why they couldn’t join up with other entities or social justice initiatives, she did value the idea of having some control over what she worked towards. “Fair points.” Erica looked out the window. “You think we can make it through this?”

  “No idea, but we gotta try. Only real choice there is. Folks have weathered worse.”

  “And what about if they keep going after other people? What if it gets violent? Can’t we just do like a press release or some shit? Why do we need to keep putting people in harm’s way?”

  Brodie nodded. “A lot of people willfully do it. Right now, you’re standing. Tell that to all the people coming together in places because a black man or a black woman is under the fucking ground, man. You can actually speak for yourself. That’s a big deal.”

  “And I am speaking for myself. Shit should be squashed. I don’t need anybody else getting hurt because of my mistakes.”

  “The mistake is staying silent. Either way, I have something in mind to get some of that heat off you.” Brodie put the car back into drive and started down the road again. “Don’t worry about shit. I got a few angles I can still work—favors to call in.”

  #

  After dropping Erica off at the new apartment, Brodie idled across the street in his car. He leaned over the center console and opened his glove box. Inside; a collection of old cell phones—all flip-style. He pulled one open and was relieved when it turned on. Brodie couldn’t remember the last time he actually used one of these. Taking the precaution to first plug the stupid thing in with a universal charger he had on hand, he then went into the contacts and pulled up ‘AG’. He dialed the number and waited.

  After five rings the call connected. “Jesus fuck, who is this and do you know how terrible you are for waking me up?”

  “Tony—Tony Grumo?”

  “You got this number, so you know it’s me. Who is this?”

  “Brodie Kimbo.”

  A choke. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

  Brodie grimaced. “If the sound of my name evokes that kind of reaction, you’re gonna hate why I called.”

  “Aw fuck. Please, please, please, please—I added a fourth one. Don’t say it. Just hang up. We can pretend this was a nightmare butt-dial.”

  “Tony. Be rational man.”

  “You realize I don’t need to guess someone is absolutely listening in on this, right?”

  “Tony.”

  “God damn it. This is not how I planned to start my day.”

  Brodie checked his watch, it was 3:45 PM EST. Hell of a late start to a day. “How’s the family, Tony?”

  “Assholes, Brodie. They’re fucking assholes, but not the bleeding, hemorrhoid-ridden sphincter that you can be.”

  Brodie had to laugh. “Good fucking lord I missed you.”

  “Didn’t miss you.”

  Brodie took a long breath. “That’s fine and good. I need a small favor. I got a little issue you might be able to help me with considering your nerd skillset.”

  Tony sighed deep. “I fucking hate you. I truly do. I know I’ve struggled to make that point clear and all, though.”

  “You’re saying you can’t help me? Even if it means a nice bit of change your way? Shit when was the last time you got paid for a gig like this man? It’s easy cash. An hour of your time at the most.”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying I hate you.” Tony cleared his throat. “Send an email to gringostarr@grumo.com. Give me all the info you have there and I’ll see what I can turn up.” He took a deep breath. “I’m fighting better judgement here.”

  Brodie smiled. “Excellent man, excellent. It’s tough getting my head around this shit. Hell, internet down in Tennessee ain’t the best to begin with; well in a Podunk town like this it’s shitty.”

  “That’s a surprising place for a guy like you to be living.”

  “Ain’t it. Say, before I let you go, you hear anything from you-know-who lately? Had a few agents around here a few months ago asking my ass questions.”

  Tony snorted. “Shit man, last I heard that idiot was still running around and blowing things up. Apparently, he burned an entire town in Florida to the ground around Christmas.”

  Brodie laughed. “That sounds about right.” He blinked. “Hold up, Florida?”

  “Yep.”

  “So he’s down south?”

  “I don’t know, I mean, it was a few months ago. Can’t imagine he’d be so stupid as to be anywhere near…” Tony chuckled. “Yeah, there’s probably a damn good chance he’s someplace in the Deep South.”

  “You got a way to get in touch with him?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Tony.”

  “I said no, man.”

  “Tony.” Brodie almost sang the name.

  Silence.

  “Come on, brother, you scratch my balls and I’ll tickle the shaft. What’s the number?”

  More silence.

  “One more chance, Tony, or maybe I make a few calls and get that store of yours a little unwanted attention. Damn sure running numbers is still within the realm of criminal behavior.”

  “Fucking shit. Shouldn’t have picked up the phone.”

  Brodie grinned. “Maybe, but hey, life’s funny that way.”

  Click here to learn more about Blacky Jaguar Against the Cool Clux Cult by Angel Luis Colón.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from American Static, a crime novel by Tom Pitts…

  Chapter One

  It came as soon as he touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. Like a brick to the back of his head. The pain was searing, white-hot. For a split-second he thought he’d been struck with an aneurysm, but he saw his cigarette fly out in front of him and he knew that he’d been punched.

  He crumpled toward the ground, powerless to the pain. The shock of it paralyzing his senses. He lay there confused, not knowing what was happening to him. “Gimme the bag, motherfucker.”

  Then a kick. A hard one, into his right kidney. Then another at the base of his spine.

  “Give me the fuckin’ bag.”

  The bag was a knapsack, a backpack tightly secured around his shoulders. He folded his arms into his chest and pulled himself into a fetal position. Whoever his attacker was, they circled round in front of him. He could see feet now, boots. Two more sloppy kicks to his stomach. He felt the bag being pulled from his back. Instinctively, his arms locked onto one another and held tight. There was a strong torque in his shoulders as the straps dug in, followed by the sound of the assailant’s labored grunts. When they pulled the bag, his body moved with it, sliding across the gravel.

  There were two
of them, maybe more. One in front, kicking with those big black boots, and one behind, pulling at the bag. He held as still as he could, willing the attack to end through inaction. He waited for more blows. And they came. Kicks to his legs now, his lower back again, and to his head and face. He was sure they’d broken his nose. The pointed kicks turned to heeled stomps and, finally, he gave in. His arms let go as his mind flicked on and off in solids of white and black. He felt the bag being roughly yanked away.

  He thought maybe he was unconscious, but he heard the crunch of boot steps on gravel departing. He lay warm in the sun, hot where the contusions throbbed, wet where blood trickled. In front of him he saw his cigarette, barely burning, a fine wisp of smoke curling up from its resting spot. He watched it, wanting it more than anything.

  ***

  “What the hell’s a matter with you, son?”

  Steven opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The sun reflected off them just right. It sent a piercing ray into his retinas. Fucking cops.

  The man behind the sunglasses said, “Don’t you know that smoking can be detrimental to your health?”

  A set of near-perfect white teeth appeared below the sunglasses and out came a chuckle. Not a self-aggrandizing laugh, but a cool chuckle. Steven tried to focus and saw the man was wearing a dark brown leather jacket and jeans. Not a cop. Probably not, anyway. A hand came out and pulled Steven’s forearm and he straightened himself up, the axis of the earth still pitching and tilting.

  “Shit, son. They got you good, didn’t they?”

  Steven wasn’t sure if he’d made a sound or just nodded.

  “You gonna make it? You want me to call an ambulance…or a priest?” There went the laugh again. “You waitin’ on the bus? Or just got off?”

  “I got off to have a smoke. They took a ten-minute bathroom break. Thing hadn’t stopped since Eureka. All I wanted was a smoke.” Steven heard his own voice quiver.

  The stranger reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a box of Marlboro red, flipped the top, and shook one out. “Here, kid. You look like you could use it.”

  Steven took the smoke and allowed the man to light it for him. The man squatted down on his haunches and Steven sat with his legs splayed out in front of him. They stayed still and quiet for a moment, Steven smoking and letting the air pass between them.

  “Where were you headin’?”

  “San Francisco.” Steven’s head throbbed and the knots on his forehead felt heavy and swollen.

  “You know who it was that fucked you up?”

  “I think it was two Mexican guys from the bus. Got on in Eureka.”

  “What’d they get?”

  “My backpack. Everything. All I had was in there.” Steven breathed out through his nose as the reality of what he was saying sunk in. “Fuck.”

  “You think they got back on the bus?”

  Steven was sure they did. They’d been eyeballing him since they got on up north. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  Steven admitted, “No.”

  “Willits ain’t too big a town.” The man flicked a thumb behind him toward the 101, the only real artery running though the tiny burg. “Tell you what, get up, we’ll take a quick cruise round. See if we see ’em.” The stranger once again held out his hand. Steven took it. He pulled Steven to his feet. “If not, maybe we can catch up to that bus of yours.”

  Steven was sore and stiff from the beating and moved slow behind the man. “Where’s your car?”

  “Right there,” the man said, pointing at a cherry red 1966 Mustang parked across the street.

  “Nice ride.”

  “I’m just fuckin’ with ya. My truck is over there.” He swung his index finger to the right and pointed at a well-worn, gray Ford F-150. “Nineteen ninety-four. Nothing fancy, bare bones. But it gets the job done. Let’s go.”

  First they headed south on the 101 as far as Brown’s Gas Station, where the town began to thin out, then they looped around and drove north up the same stretch, all the way to Willits High School.

  “See anything?”

  “No,” Steven said. The sad futility in his statement was hard to hide.

  “What was in the bag?”

  “I told you, everything. My money, my phone, my ID, even my bus ticket. Everything.”

  “Everything, huh?”

  The cynical tone in the man’s voice made Steven think he didn’t believe him. Steven said, “Yeah, everything. I don’t know what I’m gonna do now. I’m fucked.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t we grab some lunch. I’m buying. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

  “I thought we were gonna catch the Greyhound?”

  “Trust me, we got time. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  ***

  They drove directly to a spot on the southern edge of town, a diner. As they walked toward the front door, Steven wondered if it was one of those retro joints or just old. When they entered the dusty place, poorly lit and choked with greasy smoke, Steven decided it was just old. They sat in a vinyl booth with a scratched Formica table between them. The vinyl bench was worn and cracked and pinched Steven’s ass when he sat down.

  A waitress stood near the cash register calculating and recalculating a bill. She waved at the two as they took their seats. “I’ll be right with y’all.”

  The man waved back. “Take your time, sweetheart.” He removed his sunglasses, folded them, and took a menu from its cradle behind the napkin dispenser and dropped it on the table. “My name’s Quinn, by the way.”

  Steven didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say pleased to meet you, or what. After a few seconds of the man staring at him with his cool blue eyes, he said, “Steven.”

  “What’re ya havin’, Steven?”

  “I dunno. A cheeseburger, I guess.” Steven looked out the window at the cars streaming by on Highway 101.

  “Look, don’t be so anxious. They’re on a bus that stops every twenty minutes. We can catch ’em. We only need a schedule. You got a phone?”

  “No, they took everything, I told you. No phone, no contacts.”

  “Right. Well, I do. We’ll use mine.”

  Quinn pulled a flat black cell from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Let’s see, Greyhound schedule. Where the fuck are we again? Willits, California?” He tapped in the letters, mumbling to himself.

  Before he could complete the search, the waitress approached with two glasses of water and Quinn set the phone down to his right. “How’re ya doing, sweetie? What’s good here?”

  The waitress blushed but managed to come back with, “Other than me?”

  She chuckled and Quinn chuckled and she said, “The country-fried steak is good. Our gravy is the best in the county.”

  “You have any documentation to back that up?”

  “Oh, sugar, you just get whatever you want, and we’ll make sure it’s the best.”

  Quinn ordered a cheeseburger for Steven and the country-fried steak for himself. “With the gravy on the side. I’m watchin’ my figure,” he said with a wink.

  When the waitress had tottered back toward the kitchen, Steven said, “Friendly sort.”

  “What can I tell you, people love me.”

  They ate in silence. Steven was having a tough time chewing. His jaw hurt and every time he bit down sharp pains rocketed up his cheek into his eye socket. He swished water around in his cheeks to help aid the breakdown of the burger. He tasted blood in his mouth, but he forced back the nutrition, reminding himself he didn’t know where his next meal would come from.

  Quinn watched him while he ate, smiling at Steven while chewing his country-fried streak. Amused, but sizing him up, too. He picked up the small porcelain cup full of white gravy and poured a dollop over his steak. “How’s your burger?”

  “S’good.” Steven nodded. He knew he was being scrutinized and stayed focused on his food.


  “Gravy’s excellent. Hard to find good gravy out of the South. You wanna dip your burger in?”

  Steven shook his head.

  There were a few more moments of silence. The only sounds were Quinn’s cutlery and the hollow noises from the kitchen. Finally: “You better hurry up and finish if you wanna catch up to that bus.”

  ***

  They were back in the truck. The interior was bare except for a single roll of paper towels on the floorboard. No personal items, no tiny statue of a saint stuck to the dashboard. It was clean. Steven wondered if it had been rented.

  Quinn started it up and put it in gear. The wheels spat gravel as he accelerated out of the diner’s parking lot. As soon as they were traveling south on the 101, Quinn asked Steven if he wanted another cigarette.

  “Sure,” Steven said, taking one from the flip-top box. “You haven’t smoked one yet. You keep these just for giving out?”

  “Nah, I smoke ’em. I’m trying to cut back, though. I usually don’t have one ’til I’ve had a drink.”

  Their speed was increasing. From his vantage point, Steven watched the speedometer climb above eighty.

  “But if it makes you feel any better, pop open the glove box.”

  Steven opened the box; inside was a pint-sized bottle of Jack Daniels sitting beside a chrome-plated .45.

  “Pass that over. The bottle, not the gun.”

  Quinn took the bottle from Steven, unscrewed the cap with his teeth, and took a hardy swallow. He put the cap back on and passed Steven the bottle. “You wanna hit?”

  Steven shook his head.

  “Time for that cigarette,” Quinn said.

  ***

  The countryside flew by as they smoked. Steven peeked again at the speedometer. Ninety-five. He gripped the door handle with his right hand and fought the urge to brace himself on the dashboard with his left. He turned and looked at Quinn who looked relaxed, head tilted back, nodding his chin to a private beat that bumped on in his head. Steven couldn’t decide if the man were deliberately trying to terrify him or just didn’t give a shit.