by Keith Knapp
CODA
Keith Knapp
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described here are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher.
“Coda”
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2019 Keith Knapp
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover by Alison Brown
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For Leslie.
INTRO
Even if it killed him, Mike Randal swore that one day he would nail the part on the piano. Today wouldn’t be that day. His fingers fumbled and hit more wrong notes than right ones.
“Dammit,” he said and stopped playing.
“Don’t stress over it,” Alison, his wife of five years, told him. She sat next to him on the bench in front of their Steinway and Sons grand piano, acting as teacher to his student. “The beginning’s always the hardest part.”
“I always figured a boogie-woogie solo would be the hardest part.”
“By the time you get to that,” she said, “it’ll be easier than this.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she said with a smile. “Now, fingers at the ready and let’s try again.”
THE FREEWAY
1.
Chu-chunk.
Frank Bancroft now knew what a shotgun being cocked sounded like in real life. It wasn’t like it was on TV or in the movies. It was louder. He didn’t know what kind of shotgun it was, but when something like that is aimed at your head, the manufacturer is the last thing on your mind. The weapon was held by one of two gunmen (gunpeople—one of them had breasts) wearing black ski-masks standing just on the other side of the counter in his quaint—and up until eighty-three seconds ago, quiet—convenience store.
With the investing assistance of his brother George, a retired cop who was spending his last few years alone in Encino, Frank had opened up Start-N-Go a little over two years ago. Old George’s wife had kicked the bucket not long after the grand opening (thanks to a bout she lost with the Cancer Man), and ever since then the guy had kept to himself. Frank was understandably worried; long isolations like the one George was going through just weren’t healthy, but Frank respected his brother’s privacy. It was an unspoken bond between brothers, George assumed. Or best friends, of which they were both.
The clientele of the store grew day by day during that first year. From kids buying packs of cigarettes (Frank knew that they’d find a way to get them anyway, so he might as well make some scratch from it instead of some other schmuck) to guys he was sure were well on their way to becoming full-fledged alcoholics, business had been steady.
It was during the second year that things started to go south. More and more chain stores were popping up all over the Valley, the kinds with numbers in their names that Frank couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, sometimes no more than a block from one another. Usually by a Starbucks, too. So Frank had watched his volume of customers slowly dwindle, and with that, his income. Stores that could afford to employ enough people to stay open twenty-four-seven would always outdo the little guy. And apparently the chains had no problem selling Marlboros to kids; Frank hadn’t seen a youngster come in for anything more than a pack of JuJuBees in well over six months.
Now, on this scorching summer day in Van Nuys, California, Frank found himself relieved by his declining business. It was the middle of the afternoon and right now the only customers in Start-N-Go were two people with guns designed to blow his brains out if he didn’t empty the register. His bad business meant no innocent bystanders would be hurt. It also meant it didn’t have much to rob.
“Look guys, I don’t-” Frank started, then realized from the look in their eyes that it didn’t matter what he said next. These people were already in a bad mood, or maybe just crazy. Or both.
George had recommended he keep a gun behind the counter, just under the register—out of sight but within easy reach. Frank had scoffed at the idea but now he was kicking his own ass in his head. He should’ve listened to his big brother.
The male robber, the one with the shotgun pointed at Frank’s nose, stood six feet tall and looked like he hadn’t missed a day at Gold’s Gym in his life. The shotgun looked small in his hands, his index finger barely fitting between the trigger and the guard. Mr. Pumped-Up turned to face the female robber and nodded.
Keeping her own gun, some sort of small caliber automatic (again, guns weren’t Frank’s thing), she pulled a Hefty bag from her back pocket and dropped it on the counter. Her gaze met Frank’s through the mask’s eyeholes. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
Frank reached for the bag with one hand and opened up the register with the other. The tiny bell inside the machine went ding, and he wondered if this would be the last time he heard that noise. As he emptied the twenties, all three of them, his eyes fell on the small white button just below the drawer. He hadn’t gotten a gun, but he had splurged for an alarm system. All he had to do was move his hand down an extra half-inch, press that little white button, and-
“Don’t.”
Mr. Pumped-Up glared at him, the cannon in his hand moving closer to Frank’s nose. He could smell the oil. Frank nodded solemnly, silently admitting to himself that activating the alarm was a very bad idea. He kicked his ass in his head a little bit more as he pulled the tens, of which there were five, from their home and dropped them in the Hefty.
* * *
Brett Nickson sat in the van listening to Mariah Carey belt through another one of her hit ballads. He didn’t know how many #1 hits the lady had—they all sounded the same to him—but man, could she hit those high notes.
As Mariah’s voice rose two octaves, Brett had the inkling suspicion that something was missing. Not from the song, but something, dammit. His hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel. The parking brake was off, his right foot on the brake pedal. Just like Jimmy had told him. His brother had made him say it over and over again. Parking brake down, right foot ready to hit the gas. Parking break down, right foot ready to hit the gas. Be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
And Brett was. But something was amiss. Something just didn’t feel right.
Pulling a hand away from the steering wheel to scratch his face, which had yet to begin showing the signs of puberty, Brett went over the plan again.
1) Jimmy would drive them to Start-N-Go.
2) He and Rachel would go inside while Brett moved to the driver’s seat.
3) Leave the side door open.
4) They’d be in there for five minutes—six at the most.
5) Out they’d come and off they’d be.
It was simple. The best plans usually were.
He straightened his t-shirt, an old Star Wars number with Darth Vader on it, giving his best Uncle Sam impression: “I Want You!”
BAM.
Brett’s hand was back on the steering wheel before the sound of the shotgun blast had dissipated. His heart jumped in his chest, Mariah Carey’s tune and killer voice no longer registering in his brain.
Through the open side door barreled Jimmy and Rachel, little more than flashes in Brett’s eyes. Parts of those flashes had red in them.
&nb
sp; “Juh-Jesus, Jimmy! What happened?!?” Brett stammered.
“GO!” Jimmy shouted, slamming the door shut behind them. He whipped off his ski-mask revealing his Marine-style haircut, the kind that required upkeep once a week. He had never been in the Marines, but sure liked their look.
Chiseled on Rachel’s face was a look combining fear, confusion and outright madness. Her eyes were stuck open and she kept mouthing the words Oh my God Oh my God over and over again.
Brett whipped his head forward, gripped the wheel, moved his foot from the brake to the gas, and floored it. The van rolled forward a foot, then two, before Brett realized what it was he had forgotten.
“Bretty,” Jimmy said from the back, “I told you to keep the van running.”
“Sorry sorry sorry,” Brett said as he slammed the brake and keyed the ignition. The van roared to life, producing the sound and feel that Brett had been trying to place a few seconds ago. “I’m an idiot, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Rachel leaned against the rear door of the van, her ski-mask now a hat on her head, her shoulder-length red hair poking out from beneath it. “Oh my God Jimmy what did you do I can’t believe you did that oh my God WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!?”
The gas pedal was once again floored by Brett’s foot and this time the van triumphantly screamed forward. Brett maneuvered between cars and slid into traffic, making sure to use the turn signal. Safety first.
Rachel grabbed Jimmy by the collar and pulled him close to her face. “WHAT IN THE FUCKING WORLD DID YOU JUST DO?”
“He hit the button,” Jimmy said.
Rachel managed to roll her eyes and glare at him at the same time. “No he didn’t.”
“I saw him do it. His hand went below the counter. He hit-”
“We would’ve had five solid minutes if he had hit the alarm.” She shoved him away with one strong push, ripped the ski-mask off her head and tossed it in the back of the van. “Which he didn’t.”
“He did.”
“Jimmy,” Brett said from the front, “did you hurt the guy?”
Placing the recently used shotgun on the floor, Jimmy Nickson wiped blood off his hand and onto his shirt. “I didn’t want to, but yeah, buddy, I’m afraid I did.”
“You said no one would get hurt,” Brett murmured.
“I know, pal, but it was unavoidable.” Jimmy then eyed Rachel. “He hit the alarm.”
“We need to get off the surface streets, Bretty,” Rachel said, clearly not in an arguing mood. She ran a troubled hand through her hair, which had become matted-down like paste from the summer heat and ski-mask.
Brett couldn’t help but feel sorry for Rachel. Lately her and Jimmy’s lives had become nothing more than uncomfortable silences punctuated with a series of disputes, fights and orders. Clean the apartment. Get a real job. Take care of Brett.
It was this last one that bothered him the most.
He hated the fact that he needed people to help take care of him. Maybe “need” wasn’t the right word, but it was the word Brett always went back to, the one that felt right. He knew he was a little slow (“Slower’n some, faster’n others, that’s just how you roll,” Jimmy would often say) and more than a little forgetful. Things just had a way of slipping out of his head before he could file them away. Like tying his shoes. He was eighteen years old and still couldn’t remember if it was the rabbit in the hole, the rabbit over the hole…maybe there wasn’t a rabbit involved at all.
And the pills. He’d always forget to take his pills. Without Jimmy or Rachel there to remind him to take the little things that helped him sleep and kept the “demons at bay” (as Jimmy liked to put it), Brett was a useless wreck. Clinical depression marked with mild mental retardation. Those words he remembered.
Sometimes Brett couldn’t help but think that they’d be better off without him.
No, that was a path he did not want to go down. Not again, and definitely not now. He had to fight those thoughts the way his brother had taught him.
They’re just thoughts, Bretty. Ideas. And like all ideas, they’re up for debate. You gotta fight ‘em.
How do I do that, Jimmy?
They’re your own thoughts. Do what you want with ‘em. Toss ‘em in the back, in the garbage heap. You’re in control, champ, not them.
I can still feel them, though.
Think of them like…like just another part of you. A part you don’t like, but a part you have control over. You pick up that part of you in your head, shake ‘im around, shove ‘im against the wall, tell ‘im to get lost, tell ‘im you don’t roll that way.
They’d gone over the exercise time and time again until Brett could do it on his own. He’d envision another Brett inside his head, dressed all in black. Other Brett was a Bad Guy, and Bad Guys wore black, didn’t they? Even Other Brett’s hair was black (Real Brett’s hair was a pale shade of blonde, just like his brother’s). He’d pick up Other Brett by the collar and heave him against a wall and scream at the top of his lungs that he wanted nothing to do with him, to just go away, no one wanted him around, just go away.
Brett did this now. He’d gotten so good at it he could control his bad thoughts within a matter of seconds and be back on track. Jimmy would be proud. He’d have to tell him about it later.
The van spun violently to the right and around a corner, speeding through an intersection. Tires screeched behind them. Perhaps Brett didn’t have the best memory in the world, but the kid sure could drive.
Rachel’s eyes examined the street ahead of them. “There,” she said, pointing. “On ramp. Take it.”
Brett turned into the right-most lane and aimed the van toward the ramp. A sign just above them said 101 - VENTURA FREEWAY - EAST - THIS LANE ONLY. Sparks spat out from the undercarriage of the vehicle as it flew up the incline and onto the 101.
Jimmy leaned between the two front seats. “Brett, for a slow guy you sure are fast sometimes.”
2.
Mike Randal heard something snap a second before he lost control of the Acura. Giving his arms a workout that reminded Mike he really needed to work out more, he forced the wheel to the right and moved the car onto the shoulder. Flip-flap-flip-flop-flap. Usually people were real assholes on the freeway, but not today. Travelers politely got out of the way of the poor man in the mechanic’s uniform and Dallas Cowboys cap whose right front tire just blew out on him.
The parking brake went up with three quick clicks. He checked the side view mirror, waiting until it was safe to open the door and inspect the damage. After working on the car (which belonged to a woman whose name he couldn’t remember at the moment) for the past six hours, this was the last thing he needed. All he wanted to do was go home, drop a few dozen aspirin to quell the headache that the sun was trying to pressure him into, and sleep for three days.
Grumbling and swearing, Mike opened up the door, stepped out, walked around to the right side of the silver Acura, bent down, and stared at what remained of the tire. Two nails and a bolt stuck out from the rubber.
His forty-seven year old knees snapped, crackled and popped in protest as he stood. Twenty years leaning over hoods, sliding beneath undercarriages and bending under auto-lifts taken its toll on the man. His joints ached, his muscles hurt, and he was confident he only had a few more years left on the job. Mr. Arthritis would be by shortly for a nice, long visit.
Minding traffic, he made his way back to the driver’s side and reached in through the window to pop the trunk open. He flattened himself against the Acura as a taxi cab shot past him, horn blaring. Mike thought to give the fella the finger, then realized that’d get him no closer to fixing the flat. He settled for the Evil Eye instead. So much for people being nice today.
Around the car he went to flip open the trunk. Apparently Mrs. What’s-Her-Name, who hadn’t realized she had a coolant leak until it was too late, also didn’t realize that she had a trunk; there wasn’t a stain, stray grocery bag or lone tool to be seen. What he now saw was exactly how the trun
k must have looked when it came off the assembly line.
There was the sound of Velcro giving as Mike pulled up the carpet and lifted the hidden panel concealing the spare tire and jack. He yanked the tire out and dropped it to the ground, where it bounced on the concrete and rolled to the shoulder. He then reached in for the jack, twirling the shiny black piece of metal in his left hand. It clinked and clanked against his gold wedding band.
The twirling stopped as Mike put the jack under his arm and removed the ring from his finger. Attempts had been made to not wear it, but that somehow didn’t feel right. Alison wouldn’t mind if he left it in a drawer at home. In fact, she’d probably laugh at him for wearing it at all. Every morning when he got to his shop he was forced to take it off and put it into his locker as soon as he got there. It was one thing to keep wearing it; it was another thing all together if he lost it in the engine of some yahoo’s Buick. Yes, taking the ring off and putting it back on every day only served as a reminder of his loss—but that was a much preferred feeling over the nakedness his ring finger felt when the wedding band wasn’t there.
It was a reminder of his loss, but it was also a reminder of better, happier times.
He placed the ring in a lower pocket of his uniform, a not-at-all flashy but very dirty blue jumpsuit with his name stenciled in cursive on the right breast, and went to place the Mickey Mouse-sized spare tire onto the car.
3.
Elvis Presley swayed his hips to and fro. This was Young Elvis, still thin, with a lei around his neck, a mic in his hand, the damage of drugs and fatty foods eons away. His bobble-head nodded and boogied in almost perfect rhythm to one of his own classics.
Jillian Hadley rolled up a sleeve on her worn green flannel and stuck it out the window of her rig. She grinned at her Elvis bobble-head, an acquirement from a gas station in…Ohio? Nebraska? She couldn’t remember.
The speedometer read 78 and she feared that was the best she was gonna do on this stretch of road. Freeways in city areas weren’t optimal for her usual 90 m.p.h. She’d been up for thirty-two hours straight, which was against FleetLine Trucking’s company regulations. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off, those were the rules. But she had a trailer full of fruit that had to get to Las Vegas by 7:00 p.m.—what was a girl supposed to do? A heavy thunder storm up in Chico had cost her nearly a day and this was her time to make up for it. She should hit the City of Sin by nightfall if luck was on her side.
