Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4)

by Nick Pirog

  “Sure,” Randall said. “I’ll bet a few bucks.”

  “Let’s just play for fun,” I said brusquely, perhaps more brusquely than I intended. Forcing a smile, I added, “I won’t sleep tonight knowing I took your guys’ money.”

  They both laughed and we compromised on a small wager of five dollars for whoever bowled the high score over the course of the night.

  Alexa overhead our banter and said, “Wait, I want in on this.”

  “Let’s play couples,” Wheeler offered.

  So we made a second bet. But this one wasn’t for money. Losing couple of each game had to buy shots.

  A few minutes later, the food came. After eating healthy for over a month, my stomach churned at the bombardment of grease, but everything tasted so delicious that I powered through.

  “All right,” Alexa said, after ten minutes of chowing down. “Let’s do this thing.”

  Four of my first six balls were gutter balls. Things started to come around for me the second half of the game, and I ended up tied for fourth. Alexa rolled the best game, a 157. Jerry second best at 146. Wheeler third with 121. Joan and I tied with 97. And Randall brought up the rear with a measly 84.

  As the losing couple, Wheeler and I were on the hook for shots. I hadn’t seen our waitress in close to half an hour and I made my way to the bar at back where the crowd had doubled since we first arrived. Fifty people were spread between a handful of tables, three pool tables, a dart board, and three Big Buck Hunter machines.

  I wormed my way through the standing crowd, then plopped down on the only open stool. A moment later, I ordered six shots of tequila from a bartender with a man bun.

  “Looky here,” a voice shot from behind me.

  I turned.

  It was Officer Matt Miller.

  It was the first time I’d seen him out of his police uniform. He was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, flip-flops, and a trucker hat. His hat was lifted up a few inches, his curly hair flopped sideways across his forehead, and his cheeks had a rosy, alcohol-fueled glow. He looked like a kid on Spring Break in Daytona.

  We were nearly eye level with my being seated and I stood up. “Hey, shithead,” I said.

  It was dark, so I’m not sure he noticed that one of my chins had dissolved since he’d last seen me.

  “What are you doing here?” he spat.

  “Bowling with your ex-fiancé,” I grinned. “Sorry, your ex-ex-fiancé.”

  I probably wouldn’t have said this if it weren’t for the three beers I drank.

  Then again.

  He craned his head back and peered through the glass partition of the bar. He squinted, then said, “Ah, and I see you brought your big nigger friend with you.”

  I’d heard the n-word plenty on the basketball court. I’d even had a number of assholes I was arresting call me the n-word. But I’d never heard the n-word directed toward a black person whom I knew personally.

  “What the fuck did you just say?” I demanded.

  He grinned.

  A few bar patrons had taken notice of our exchange and turned around. I pondered cold-clocking Miller in the face, but that’s exactly what he wanted. He was a cop. Even off-duty, he couldn’t throw the first punch. But he sure as shit could throw the second, fifth, and thirtieth.

  Luckily, Man Bun finished pouring my shots, and in the time it took for me to grab cash from my wallet and pay, I talked myself down.

  I took the tray of shots, pushed past Miller with a sneer, then made my way back to our bowling lane.

  After the six of us toasted and drank our shots, I beckoned Wheeler toward the bathrooms and told her what happened.

  “He actually said the word?”

  I nodded, then asked, “Did you know he was a racist piece of shit when you dated him?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, then nodded. “It comes out when he’s drunk.”

  “You knew and you still dated him? You still got engaged to him?”

  “He hid it pretty well. He never said anything around me, but a couple years ago I saw a video his buddy took of him when he was wasted and saying all sorts of terrible things. I broke the engagement off with him the next day.” She crossed her arms and silently dared me to criticize her.

  I was unfairly judging her and I said, “I’m sorry.”

  She nearly started to cry and I pulled her into a hug.

  “I love Randall,” she said.

  “I know,” I said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I do too.”

  “Are you gonna tell him?”

  I was guessing it would make Alexa far more upset than it would Randall. “Not tonight,” I said.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing Jerry fifty bucks.

  Jerry rolled the high score of the night—a 188. I rolled a bit better the second game, a 121. And Randall finally broke a hundred, actually he rolled exactly 100, but by the little dance he did at the end you would have thought he rolled a 250. As for the women, the two martinis and the shots of tequila did both Alexa and Joan in, and both women rolled scores in the fifties. It was almost hard to watch. Wheeler, who apparently had a higher tolerance than the two mothers, beat me by two pins.

  “What’s this for?” Jerry asked. “We only bet five bucks.”

  “I owed you forty-five from our golf game.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, pocketing the cash.

  Technically, Randall and Alexa were responsible for buying another round of shots, but Alexa was having trouble getting her bowling shoes off, and no one else seemed eager to consume any more alcohol.

  Ten minutes later, our group shuffled our way to the front desk to return our shoes.

  I plopped mine down on the counter. That’s when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was returning from the bathroom, flip-flopping his way in our direction.

  Wheeler followed my gaze and I could feel her tense up next to me.

  “Hey guys,” Miller said as he came to within ten feet. “Did you all have a fun night of bowling?”

  “We did,” Joan replied drunkenly.

  Randall was behind me, and I instinctively turned and glanced at him. He was the only other person who knew about Wheeler’s history with Miller. He might even know that Officer Miller wasn’t the most tolerant of folks. I tried to read his expression, but for the moment, he seemed undeterred by the little guy’s presence.

  “How’d you bowl, Wheeler?” Miller said, taking a drink of what I guessed to be a gin and tonic. “You bowl good?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Been awhile.”

  “Yeah, probably not since the last time we came together. What, like two years ago, was it?”

  Jerry, Joan, and Alexa all glanced at one another as they realized this wasn’t just a friendly bar patron stopping for conversation. I wondered if they knew Miller was a police officer. With only five officers in town, I was sure they did.

  Wheeler didn’t answer.

  I was about to say something when Jerry took a step forward and said, “Why don’t you keep it moving, buddy?”

  “First, my name isn’t buddy, it’s Officer Miller. And second, fuck off.”

  “Come on, Miller, there’s no need for that,” Randall said calmly.

  I willed him to say it, to call Randall a nigger to his face so I’d have a reason to beat on him. Or attempt to at any rate.

  Miller glared at me, then back to Randall. He didn’t have the balls to do it.

  Coward.

  He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, then started past us. But he kept close, too close, to within a couple feet. When he was parallel with Wheeler and me, he turned on his heel and flung his drink. I’m not sure if he was aiming for me or Wheeler, but Wheeler took the brunt of the drink in the face.

  Jerry was the closest one to Miller and he lunged forward to grab him. Miller easily sidestepped him and pushed him to the ground.

  Randall went after him next, but with the same result.

  I took two steps forward. I didn’t know what t
o say, so I said the first thing that came to my mind.

  “I volunteer as Tribute.”

  Miller grinned.

  This was what he wanted the whole time. Everything he did was to provoke me into this showdown. So he could kick the shit out of me in front of Wheeler.

  “Don’t,” Wheeler said, pulling at my arm. Her hair and face were wet, her mascara beginning to run from her eyes. “He’s not worth it,” she said.

  “Of course he’s not,” I said with a sneer. “But you are.”

  Someone from the bar must have heard the commotion because half the patrons had spilled out and surrounded us.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Randall whispered in my direction. “You remember what happened last time?”

  Yeah, I sure did.

  And so did nine million YouTube viewers.

  “Get your phone out,” I told Jerry.

  He did.

  The crowd circled around Miller and myself. No one appeared remotely interested in stopping the fight. In fact, all the bowling alley employees had joined the group of onlookers.

  Matt Miller was ten feet away from me. He’d thrown his hat to the ground and kicked off his flip-flops. He didn’t do any stretches or any fancy MMA pre-fight bullshit. He just stared me down.

  I closed my eyes and tried to teleport. When I opened them, I was still in the bowling alley.

  Dang it.

  I reminded myself that I wasn’t the same guy I was six weeks earlier. That was Fat Thomas. Slow Thomas. Weenie Thomas. Now I was Fit Thomas. Strong Thomas. Hero Thomas.

  Miller took a couple steps forward. I matched him. Four feet separated us. He moved his right foot back into a fighting stance. I glanced down at his foot. At the foot that had turned me into the Elephant Man.

  I thought back to all the videos of Miller I watched. All his fights. He had two knockout moves. One was a left hook. The other, a spinning back kick, the same one he’d used on me.

  I found my fighting stance. I knew he would wait. Wait for me to make the first move.

  I took a step forward and threw an overhand right. Miller ducked it and hit me with a left hook to the liver. It knocked the wind out of me and I doubled over.

  I forced the pain away and lunged forward with an upper cut. I grazed Miller’s cheek. He countered with a straight right into my ribs.

  There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as I fell to my knees.

  He was toying with me.

  A cat with its prey.

  I fought back the rising bile in my throat.

  Come on, you can do this.

  You’re Thomas Fucking Prescott.

  I pushed myself up.

  I glanced back at Wheeler. She looked like she’d just eaten some two-week-old gas station sushi.

  There was no way I could compete with Miller in these normal exchanges. He was too quick. Everything I threw was telegraphed. Fighting was a science to him. If I did this, he would counter with that.

  I needed him mad. I needed him to go for the knockout.

  “What did you do with the rings?” I said.

  He eyes flickered.

  “Did you get your money back at least?” I prodded. “Or do you sleep with them under your pillow?”

  I took a step forward.

  I watched his feet.

  His toes flexed.

  And he spun.

  It was lightning quick.

  A beat quicker than the last time if that’s possible.

  Luckily, I started ducking when I took a step toward him. Still, his foot only missed my head by half an inch.

  As Miller planted from his failed kick, my arm was already in motion. I pushed down on my back foot, the power coming from my legs and hips, channeled through my shoulder and into my fist.

  Miller’s head whipped around, his eyes open wide as my right fist smashed into his jaw.

  If I had a thousand punches, I couldn’t have hit him with a more pure, more powerful punch.

  I heard his jaw crack.

  He fell to the carpet, his eyes rolling backward. His mouth was open and one of his front teeth was chipped in half.

  Everyone was silent as I took the card from my wallet, the one Dr. Roberts D.D.S. had given me, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The receptionist’s eyes opened wide at the sight of me. I half expected her to have resigned from her post. But apparently, she decided she wasn’t to blame for Mike Zernan’s murder. Or she buried the guilt down somewhere where only three glasses of wine could find it.

  I didn’t tell her why I was there or whom I came to see. I simply strolled past her desk and made my way to the back of the room.

  Sitting at a desk, halfway to the back, was none other than Officer Matt Miller. Apparently, he was confined to desk duty for the immediate future.

  It had been four days since I clobbered him in the face.

  There was a smoothie cup next to his computer with a straw, which made sense as I’d heard through the grapevine that his jaw had been wired shut.

  I sidled up to his desk and said, “How ya feeling, Champ?”

  He glared at me, but said nothing.

  I didn’t blame him.

  “Did you get a chance to watch the video yet?” Guy Gets Revenge on Cop had over fifteen million views on YouTube. I added, “There’s a nice remix where you can see part of your tooth fly out in slow motion.”

  He mumbled something through his caged mouth that sounded like, “Rugg Goo.”

  I gave him a good Ice Man chomp, which had the added bonus of showing him what teeth are supposed to look like, then I continued to the Chief’s office at back.

  The door was slightly ajar and I pushed it open. Eccleston was sitting behind his desk. He looked up, spit into a cup, and said, “What do you want?”

  I tossed the manila envelope on the desk in front of him. Inside were copies of all the pictures and documents Darcy Felding had given me, plus a couple other things I’d stumbled across in the past week.

  “What’s this?” he asked, the right side of his mouth lifting in a sneer.

  “Oh, just a little something I’ve been working on.”

  He picked up the folder and pulled out the contents.

  As he flipped through the pictures, it was like he was river rafting. At first it was calm waters, then I could see him stiffen as he hit a couple rapids, then he hit the waterfall: a picture of him and David Ramsey from 1992.

  He glanced up at me, his sunburned face somehow a pale ivory.

  “I know everything,” I said.

  Eccleston swallowed hard.

  I handed him a small piece of paper.

  “I’m gonna text you tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. with a meeting spot. And if everyone on that list doesn’t show up, I’m sending copies of everything in that folder to my friends at the FBI.”

  “I can’t believe this used to be a town,” Wheeler said, glancing at the forgotten, near-apocalyptic landscape.

  “Yeah,” I said, “it’s pretty depressing.”

  “This all from a dioxin spill?”

  “Some idiot sprayed nearly 160,000 gallons of Lunhill’s waste oil to keep the dust down on the streets. Then there was a horrible flood that ended up contaminating the entire town.”

  But that wasn’t why I chose Simon Beach as the location of the meeting. I chose it because it was secluded and I highly doubted anyone from Lunhill had been there in more than twenty years. And it was located roughly one hour from all parties who were invited to this little soirée.

  As for me, I’d been there three times in total, twice in the last twelve hours.

  I parked the Range Rover on the side of the road near the ancient water tower that had once been the lifeblood of the small town.

  “This is where you told them to meet?” asked Wheeler.

  I nodded.

  I’d texted Eccleston at 3:00 p.m. It was now closing in on 4:00.

  I wondered how much dialogue had p
assed between the people on the list I’d given Eccleston over the past twenty-four hours. Would everyone show? Or did a couple of them dig up their go-bags and head for South America?

  “Look,” Wheeler said.

  I glanced out the window. There was a line of five cars headed down the small street.

  Part of me wondered if they would carpool seeing as most were coming from Tarrin. It appeared they hadn’t, which boded well for the cause. They were all looking out for their own hides.

  The cars rumbled closer, then four of them stopped. Only the black Escalade in front continued down the hill and parked.

  I wasn’t surprised when my two friends stepped from the vehicle.

  “Hey, guys,” I said.

  Dolf and Snake both greeted me with a head tilt. Both men were dressed in combat fatigues. It was a power play, one to remind me of the things both men had seen and done. It was the first time I’d seen Snake up close. He had heavy brows angling toward a wide nose and, to Wheeler’s credit, there really was something reptilian about him. The scar on his left cheek was thick and raised. Whatever had happened, it was brutal.

  I cocked my head toward the SUV and said, “Looks like that fire damage buffed out nicely.”

  “It’s a different car,” Snake spat.

  Dolf glared at him and said, “He’s fucking with you.”

  Snake’s face dropped. “Oh.”

  I smiled, then said, “What’s the holdup? Why are they parked back there?”

  Dolf said, “They want to make sure you aren’t wired.”

  I’d expected as much.

  “I’m not.”

  He pulled out a scanner and ran it over my body. Then Wheeler’s. Then he ran it all over the Range Rover. After a long couple minutes, he pulled out his phone and said, “They’re clean.”

  One by one, the cars pulled back onto the road. A Porshe SUV was in front and I spotted David Ramsey behind the wheel. His car was soon followed by two trucks and a small sedan. They made their way to where we were standing, then rumbled past.

  Dolf headed back to his car and said, “Follow us.”

  I knew what they were doing. Even if I wasn’t wired, I easily could have planted small recording devices in the general vicinity and, depending on the technology, it wasn’t certain they would show up on the scanner.