Chop Shop

by Andrew Post

  “So you admit it!”

  “No, Bryce, fucking listen to me. He was hurt very, very badly. Left unattended without anyone to change his bandages, he would’ve, without a doubt, gotten an infection – at least. That’s being optimistic. I really think you should just wait and see if anyone finds him. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but he is probably dead.”

  “That’s fine and good, Frank, but until he turns up Aunt Tasha said you’re our only lead. So unless you wanna just tell me, right now, where Vasily went, we’re still coming over and we’re still gonna have that chat with you. You better be home.”

  Frank could hear people talking in the background. And music – not music, but Muzak. “Where are you really, Bryce?”

  “I’m at the mall. I was thinking maybe about swinging over to the food court. I feel like ice cream. Any recommendations?”

  Frank felt lightheaded as a black rage swelled up into his throat. “You fucking go near her I swear to fucking God—”

  “Listen to yourself. You sound like a fucking movie. But go ahead, finish that sentence. You swear to fucking God you’ll – what? You ain’t Liam Neeson. You’re powerless here, Frank. You have zero control other than what I give you.”

  “What your aunt gives you, I think you mean.”

  “Not the time to poke the bear, friend,” Bryce said in sing-song. “Apparently there’s more than one Jessica that works at this Dairy Queen. Their nametags don’t have their last names. Does yours have brown eyes and dark hair like her mother?”

  Frank took a breath. “What do you want, Bryce? I’m going to be home, like you asked. I’ve been perfectly cooperative.”

  “Sure, except you killed Vasily – or had him killed – and now whoever you were working with has left you high and dry. Because that’s how I see your situation. I don’t know the specific players besides you, and I might be wrong, I don’t have all the facts, but I’ve seen what trapped people look like, people who’ve been left in a shitty situation and are panicking trying to get back out of it – and they look and act a lot like you. Now, are you gonna tell me which of these Jessicas is yours?”

  Frank closed his eyes. “The blonde. The blonde’s my daughter.”

  “See? I knew you were a fucking liar. We found her Facebook page, asshole. It’s the other one. Were you seriously gonna sell a total stranger out to save your own ass? That tells me so much more about you than I already fucking knew.”

  “I’m sorry, Bryce, I’m sorry – I just don’t like the idea of you being near my daughter. I panicked. You’re right. I’m panicking. Because you know who else panics? People who are caught in a bad situation who don’t deserve to be in one. I had nothing to do with Vasily’s disappearance. He left my house while I was asleep and when I woke up—”

  “It doesn’t matter how many times you say it, Frank. A lie is still a lie. And tonight we’re gonna get to the truth, even if it means digging through you to find it. Be home. See you real soon.”

  Someone honked behind him. Frank moved away from the pumps to let the next person fill up, pulled around behind the gas station, and put it in park again. He sat staring at his phone, swiping up and down through his many, many contacts. His parents. His brother out in Seattle. Rachel. Jessica. His lawyer, his ex-wife’s lawyer. Several people at the clinic, many of whom he hadn’t spoken to in years. Jeremy at Jerry’s Organic Grocer – delete. Ted Beaumont. Robbie Pescatelli.

  Frank hovered his finger over Robbie’s name, ready to press, ready to call, ready to ask for help.

  On the dashboard, down where it met the windshield, was the Hawthorne Funeral Home business card. Snatching it up, he dialed the numbers on the card turning it toward the streetlight.

  “Hawthorne Funeral Home. This is Jolene.”

  “Jolene, it’s Frank.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just need to talk to Amber. Is she there?”

  “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

  Could anything be labeled as right? He kept this to himself. “Is she there?”

  “She’s out.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you that.”

  “Do you have her number?”

  A few long moments. “Got a pen?”

  Frank dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Amber. Listen, I—”

  “You’re kinda breaking up. Have you decided when you might wanna talk about payment?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you might still have him.”

  A long pause. “I’m actually on my way to drop off right now.”

  Frank was sweating, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling sick. “What would it take for you to not go through with it?”

  “In full disclosure, right around a million.”

  “I don’t have that.”

  “Few of us do.”

  He could hear a rattling hearse engine in the background. “Is there some way we could work out some kind of payment plan? I want him back.”

  “Why?”

  “I changed my mind. I think it’d be better if he was put somewhere where the police can find him, so his family can have closure.”

  “I hate to be a shit, Frank, but I’m gonna have to decline. They need all of it. I can’t have any of him missing.”

  “Could you leave part of him somewhere for the police to find? Something small, like a finger or a toe or something? Is that something you could possibly do?”

  On Amber’s end, there was the steady ticking of a turn signal. “Should we really be talking on the phone about this?”

  “If you could just leave part of him somewhere, anywhere, then the police can find it and…well, it’d sure make things a lot easier for me. His family’s worried.”

  “Was he a friend of yours or something?”

  “No.”

  “Did you shoot him in the balls?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then what’s it matter?”

  “I can’t get into it, but it just does.”

  “Well, I need all of it,” Amber said. “So unless you have the money to buy him back.…”

  “Please. There’s a lot riding on this for me.”

  “For me too, Frank,” Amber said. “If it’s about the money, after tonight I think I can pay you. Let’s say a grand, huh?”

  “Listen to me. It’s not about the fucking money. It’s about him, the body. He can’t just disappear. Maybe you could leave a hand somewhere and say you saw some Italian-looking guys throwing it out of their car or something.”

  Another long pause. “I thought this is what you wanted, why you brought him to us in the first place.”

  He didn’t want to hurt her. He realized he was already telling himself it’s just meat. “Where are you?”

  “Are you serious? I’m not telling you that. But, next time, if there is a next time, maybe you should think real hard whether or not you want to give us somebody before you bring them by. Call me tomorrow and we can talk about getting you that grand.”

  “Amber. Please. Hello? Hello?”

  She’d hung up.

  He tried her again, but she didn’t answer. “Fuck.”

  Frank dialed his daughter.

  “Jessica, are you at work right now?”

  “Dad?”

  “Are you at the mall, yes or no?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I am. Is something wrong? You sound really freaked out.”

  “Is there a guy there, young, short hair, probably in a suit? Do you feel like you’re being watched?”

  “What are you talking about, Dad? Mom said you’re not supposed to call me unless she says it’s okay.”

  “This is important. Look around. Anywhere in the food court there, is there a guy watching you? Do you s
ee anybody? Guy, in his twenties, short dark hair, wearing a suit?”

  “There’s a lot of people around like there always is. Dad, I can’t be on the phone right now. My boss wrote me up once already this week when she saw me texting—”

  “You need to tell your boss you’re not feeling well. You need to go home. Ask mall security to walk you to your car and you go straight home, understand?”

  “Dad, are you on something?”

  “No, Jessica, I’m not on anything. I just think I may’ve messed up. I think people who are mad at me might want to harm you and your mother. So I need you to tell your boss you’re not feeling well, or just leave, ask mall security to walk you to your car, and—”

  “Dad. Dad. Slow down. What’s going on?”

  “Jessica. You need to run. You need to go home, get your mother, and you both need to go to your grandmother’s. You can’t stay in town, not for a couple of days. Don’t blog about this or post anything about this on fucking Facebook or Twitter or anywhere else. You need to stay away for at least a couple of days.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll leave work. Who’s mad at you?”

  “Bad people. I’m sorry this has ended up involving you, but it has. Text me when you get home and text me again when you and your mother are at Grandma’s, okay? Please remember to do this.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna go. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine right now. I just want you safe.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart. Now go.”

  Frank pitched his phone into the passenger seat and held his face in his hands. This was how he felt when the cops arrived at the airport and stood him against the wall and put the cuffs on him. It felt like then, but much worse. It was just him going to prison, then. His family wasn’t involved, nor would they come to any harm because that, then, had been his crime and his alone. No, this was much, much worse.

  Once he’d pulled himself together, he wiped his eyes, and put the Lexus in gear and started for home.

  There were no other roads left to take.

  Chapter Six

  Whenever she took a corner too sharply, the hearse, which was about as old as Amber, would let out this long, keening shriek of agonized metal. She followed the directions the robot voice on her phone calmly suggested she take, as the part of Minneapolis in front of her headlights was an unfamiliar one. It was mostly factories now, some still functioning but many with their high barbed-wire fences corralling nothing but crumbling, dark structures and smokeless smokestacks. Nondescript office buildings, low, squatty and brick, a lot of them with real estate banners across their fronts reading ‘office space available.’ Very few cars, other than eighteen-wheelers gurgling past, hauling flatbeds with big pieces of machinery and flashing oversized load signs. She stopped at a red light, waited for no one to go the other way, and pulled through when the light changed, taking a left when her phone said to. Your destination will be on the right. She slowed and leaned across the front seat to peer out the passenger side – it was a bowling alley. Lake Calhoun Bowl & Bar.

  She double-checked the map app against the address Rhino had texted to her. This was the place, apparently. And as the text had stressed she should park around back, she pulled the hearse through the lot, passing a few pickup trucks with nobody sitting in them, and around to the back of the wide, short building. Behind were a few dumpsters and a trio of refrigerator trucks parked tightly together as if conspiring. She parked and waited, staring out the cracked windshield at the bowling alley’s back door. There was a light mounted above it, flickering, haloed by a fog of bugs, but no one was around, no one was waiting for her. She chose to wait in the car, thinking maybe Rhino was running late. There were no further instructions on what was to come next. An address, a time, and where to park. She didn’t want to come off more amateurish than she already had. Having to ask him to text her step-by-step instructions on how to package a body was embarrassing enough. This is what she did at the funeral home; she knew this part of things, she worked with people, talking them up into more expensive caskets and headstones. So she sat and waited and smoked, listening to the radio but not really hearing it as her heart hammered in her chest.

  She checked herself in the mirror, pulled back her hair, let it back down, and sat drumming her fingers on the wheel, heart still hammering. Maybe she should’ve dressed nicer, more professional. They’ll probably be in tailored suits. Well, too late now. Adjusting the mirror, she saw behind her the three coolers in a row held in place with nylon straps where a casket would normally be. She’d closed the hearse’s curtains in the back before leaving, to discourage prying eyes.

  Two men stepped outside. Both faces were lit strangely by the light above the door, making their eyes two dark wells. Both black, both in baggy clothing. They lit up smokes and talked – Amber could make out a little of it through the hearse’s rolled-up windows. They spotted her and one of them said something about the grim reaper being hot as hell. She waved, smiled neighborly. They flicked their smokes across the lot and went inside. Was that some kind of cue?

  She relented and texted Rhino but he didn’t respond. She sat clutching her phone, waiting for it to vibrate, and looked around – to her left, at the three refrigerator trucks. California plate on one, New York plate on the second, and Texas on the third.

  Maybe someone inside will know something. She got out, making sure she locked the hearse twice, and went inside.

  It was dark and cool, blaring country music competing with the rumble and crash of the few bowlers on the lanes angling for strikes. A jukebox glowed in the corner. Neon bar signs on every wall, framed photos of people she didn’t know but who were evidently individuals of note as far as the bowling alley was concerned. Amber approached the bar, flip-flops sticking to the floor with each step. She could smell that shoe spray they used for the rental shoes, and the appetizing smell of fries, battered fish, and onion rings.

  She climbed onto a stool, the bar otherwise unoccupied. Her bladder felt full and her thoughts were screaming through her head too fast to grasp individually. Danger, excitement, the prospect of big money coming soon, and the chance she might get killed – all zooming by at once.

  A young woman with a neat bob of black hair and a tube top was at the far end, behind the bar, going through receipts. She had a cross tattooed onto the back of her neck. She noticed Amber in the bar mirror and came down to where she sat, smiling broadly as she approached.

  “What can I get you, honey?”

  “Vodka tonic please.”

  “Lemon or lime in it?”

  “Lime.”

  “Preference on the potato juice?”

  “Nope.”

  “You got it.” As the bartender, whose nametag read Becky, threw ice in a tumbler, she said without looking up, “Just made happy hour by a couple minutes, lucky girl. And if you want a lane, it’s ten bucks a game, five if you’re just gonna do some solo practice. You in a league?”

  “No.” Amber’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

  “Want to be? I’m on a league team, all girls. We’re short one since my girlfriend’s getting her appendix out. Can you bowl?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really or no? Because I’ll admit I can’t but I’m still in the league. We do okay. We’ve got matching shirts. We’re the Pink Ladies. I know, before you say anything, real original, huh? Martine’s a big Grease nut and refused to even field suggestions on naming the team anything but that. It’s an excuse to get away from the husbands one night a week, if we’re being totally up-front about it, but it’s still fun. You should consider stopping by one Wednesday night sometimes. That’s when leagues play, on Wednesdays.”

  Amber didn’t know what to say to that. Was she supposed to be paying close attention to that? Was that some kind of code? She just stared at Becky, her knee bouncing under the bar,
flip-flop tapping an erratic beat against her heel. “Okay.”

  “Quiet type, huh? That’s cool.” Becky tossed down a coaster and then the drink on top of it. “Six twenty-five, honey. Unless you wanna start a tab?”

  “No, just the one will be fine, thank you.” Amber hoped her credit card had that much room left on it, after shopping this morning.

  As Becky swiped the card, she said over her shoulder, “You waiting for somebody, honey?”

  “Just in for the drink,” Amber said, distant, looking around at the other patrons as nonchalantly as she could. The three guys bowling, each by themselves, seemed pretty invested in what they were doing – not waiting for anybody, but here doing what they came here to do. The two guys she’d seen come outside for a smoke were crowding in close together at an arcade cabinet, pummeling one another with colorfully dressed kung fu fighters. No one sitting at a table by themselves, no one staring at their phone waiting for a call, everyone was busy having fun except Amber.

  Becky brought Amber’s slip and a pen. Before she could walk away again, Amber said, “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say I am here to meet somebody.”

  “Intrigue,” Becky said, smiling a little. “Okay, let’s say you are.”

  “But it’s the kind of situation where we’re supposed to, you know, keep it on the down low. How would you suggest is the best way to let the person I’m here to meet know I’m here?”

  Becky filled a small glass bowl with peanuts and set it in front of Amber. “Are you talking like a blind date or something?”

  “In a way.”

  “You could go around and ask. You know his name, right? Or is this one of those Craigslist anonymous-type hookup things?”

  “Not really.”

  “Or is it more like you’re here to meet somebody?” Becky brought up her hand to her face, pressing her thumb to her nose and curling her fingers in, all except the pinky – she kept that sharp and high and out. Like a horn. She glanced around, lowered her hand, and smiled at Amber. “Get me?”

  Amber nodded. Coolly, she hoped.

  “Then do what I just did, so they can see you,” Becky said and bobbed her head backward and left, over her shoulder. Amber looked. A security camera was angled behind the bar, up by the mounted TV showing sports highlights, the camera’s glass eye staring unblinkingly at her.