by Lisa Libby
“Try these guns, then you choose what you like,” instructed Koda.
My plan is to get a handgun that is easily concealable, but I would like to shoot a shotgun because they are so intimidating.
After some general safety instructions, and learning how to load the gun, I am ready for target practice. I feel the blood rush to my head. Sweat is seeping from under my safety glasses. The power of holding a gun turns me on. I stare for a few minutes at the target sheet, then shoot until I’m out of bullets; I reload and keep shooting. I can’t remember how many times I reload the gun. I imagine it’s more than the Indian expected, but he doesn’t interrupt me. I black out at one point from the adrenaline.
“First time?” He pulls the paper target towards us to see how well my shots landed.
“Practice more,” he says as he loads a shotgun.
The shotgun is heavy. I almost break my shoulder when it kicks back. I only shoot it once because I’m too afraid I’ll shoot myself by accident. The Indian can tell I don’t like the shotgun.
“I like this handgun – I’ll take it.”
“Go see the White Man.”
While the paperwork is being processed for the gun purchase my phone rings. It’s Mr. Alterman.
“I found him, he lives in Jackman, Maine, near the Canadian border.”
“Text me the address.”
“I’ll go check out the location first. He’s hiding for a good reason. It’s a bad idea to go looking for him.”
The phone went dead. That bastard hung up on me.
I’m finished at the gun shop now. It’s dark out, and the mountains don’t look as friendly as they did on the drive up here. I should’ve rented a room for the night at a nearby inn because I’m too tired to drive back.
I notice boot tracks leading to my car. As usual, I’m freaking myself out over nothing. I’m afraid to get in my car, so I peek through the window to make sure no one is in the back seat. It’s empty, nothing to worry about. I get in the car, start the engine. Just as I go to hit the lock all doors button, the passenger side door opens. I’m punched straight in the face. The driver’s side door opens, and I am dragged out of the car backwards with someone’s large hand covering my mouth. My face is throbbing. I feel a warm sensation dripping down my face. I try to breathe through my nose, but I suck in blood. My nose feels so numb, it must be broken. I’m tossed in the trunk of their car like trash. I slam my head on something hard, then everything goes black.
JOHNNY
CHAPTER 8
The Intern
Three Months Ago
Ava is the latest intern to join our office. My boss insists I train every intern, and they shadow me. Out of all the interns I’ve trained, Ava is different. She understands our accounting software with ease, never hovers over my shoulder throughout the workday like the other interns. She’s smarter than me in terms of accounting, but I would never let her, or my boss Susan know that. She should’ve been hired as an employee, not an intern, even with her tendency to act like a girl straight out of college. For one, she wears her headphones through most of the workday and always leaves early. She’s working for free, so I won’t be a dickhead about it. She gets her projects completed before I have the chance to ask her for them. Her appearance doesn’t fit in with the other girls in the office. They’re supermodel skinny, always eating organic and gluten-free foods, or whatever is the newest diet trend, and they do their hair and makeup. Ava has fast food delivered every day and always eats at her desk, then disappears for about thirty minutes. Her behavior is predictable.
Ava is pretty for a heavier young lady. When she first started, she wasn’t as unattractive, but now her belly hangs over her skirt. Still, if you’re desperate, you’ll find beauty in her full face. Her long thick red hair has tints of blonde, a tiny patch of freckles covers her nose, and her full lips are pink even without lipstick. Her fading hourglass figure is most unattractive. I would never sleep with anyone of that size. I don’t think my dick could even get hard if I saw her naked. I would need to focus on her face.
Ava is the only girl to enter the office I didn’t screw in the first week. Sure, I have a girlfriend, but that’s never stopped me. My girlfriend Casey is fucking crazy, that’s why I never want her at the office. She’d make a scene, as she has in the past. She fully knows of my cheating habits, but it only bothers her when she sees the other woman. She throws tantrums like a three-year-old. I blame myself for her craziness. She won’t leave me no matter what I do wrong, and I won’t give up the other women; it’s part of my lifestyle. I want Casey, but she has never been woman enough to hold me down. She’s just not confident enough and depends on me too much. I’ve broken up with her so often, I’ve lost count. I even treat her like shit sometimes to see how far I can push her away. I tear her down only to build her back up. It’s a cycle I can only break with an apology. Then we start all over again. She does the same – she’s far from perfect. She has games and plays them well. She’s cheated on me. We both promise we will change, but neither of us ever do. I do love Casey, but I won’t leave because I’m comfortable. I’m bad for her and I know that’ll never change. I don’t want to be the good guy; I want to be the bad guy.
I met Casey over ten years ago at the bar down the street from my grandmother’s house. It was Thanksgiving night. All the women were in the kitchen cleaning up. My uncles and cousins walked to the neighborhood bar for a few drinks and to play a couple games of pool. Casey was out with her friends having drinks at the same bar. They were the only attractive women in the bar; but there were other women there, barstool whores – that’s what we call women who’re always in the bars, who’re likely turning tricks. Casey and her friends were the typical Irish loudmouth girls from Southie, that only hung out in Dorchester because they didn’t want their dads or uncles to see them hooking up with guys or out with their boyfriends.
“What are you ladies drinking?” I said, walking up to Casey and her friends.
“Jack and coke,” replied Casey.
I bought the entire bottle of Jack and a couple pitchers of coke. We spent the night at the bar, drinking and laughing until the sun came up. She reminded me of my mother. Easy to read, strong willed, but gullible. She trusted me too soon, a hopeful romantic, like my mother. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I felt a connection.
Unlike Casey and I, my parents met in a church in the 1960s. My mother, Irene Diorio, tall, slender with long thick brown hair, Italian. My grandparents owned a bakery in the North End. My father knew of the Diorio’s, since his family’s restaurant was a few streets over from the bakery. One of the few Irish run restaurants in the North End, also known as Little Italy. Every restaurant was Italian, but my grandparents. In the beginning they refused to migrate to South Boston like the other Irish families. Instead my grandparents made the best of the situation. Their restaurant was unique to the North End because we served American diner dishes: burgers, fries, shakes and always fresh pie and coffee. My grandparents eventually moved from their apartment above the restaurant to Dorchester, but kept the restaurant open, until my father took over and turned it into a deli/market.
My mother was nineteen when my father took her out on their first date. Her father was okay with them dating, but her mother couldn’t get over my father being Irish. The Italians and Irish didn’t get along then, or today. The Irish migrated to South Boston when the Italians showed up in boats to settle in the US, the North End. My father was a smart business owner, always hanging around politicians, but also mingling with the mobsters. He found both parties important: one party made the laws, the other broke them. My father could manipulate the laws he wanted passed and if they didn’t get passed, he broke them anyway, expanding his many business ventures. They go hand in hand then and today. You own a business, so if you’re smart you get to know the politicians for tax cuts, city contracts and permits for breaking ground on new bus
iness ventures. My father owned several fishing boats, a few restaurants in the North End, and invested money into several bars in the South End. He expanded his companies so fast, that he told me at one time he’d lost track of which business he’d invested with. The mobsters were difficult to avoid if you owned a business. You either worked with them or paid them a fee; there wasn’t a good choice.
My father, Sean Cormick, is a short, stocky guy, blue eyed with light brown hair which he always wears slicked back, even today with the hair he has left; he just slicks it over the bald spot. He always sports a thick mustache. He’s the most patient man and always speaks softly; I’ve never heard him raise his voice around me. Because of his demeanor, his friends and colleagues call him Cool Cormick. He’s a sneaky man and good at keeping secrets. He tried to take my mother for a fool, but she’s always known about the women and the dirty business dealings. She’s a loyal woman and would never even consider divorcing him. She loves him too much. This is why Casey reminds me of my mother, except she’ll confront me and the other women. They’re so similar in the way they’re vain and brag to their friends about lavish trips and purchases.
Ava is graduating next month, which means her internship will soon be over. I’ve noticed a change in her, she’s tense, quiet, and withdrawn. She dresses sloppier and sometimes I swear I smell weed on her clothes. I try not to get too friendly with the interns, since we never hire interns.
We’re getting audited today, meaning I will be stuck in meetings all day. Before this hell begins, I sneak out to my car to get some whiskey for my coffee. We get audited often because we are a financial investment organization. My father got me this job for a few reasons: one, he was sick of paying my bills and two, he was embarrassed to have a jobless son.
Walking through the parking lot I can smell a strong stench of weed coming from a car. I see in the distance Ava sitting in a smoke-filled car, crying. It’s a strange sight; her makeup is running down her face. I feel uncomfortable and should pretend I don’t see her, but I feel sorry for her. As I approach her, we make eye contact. She attempts to hide she’s smoking and scrambles around in the car. I tap on her car window. She rolls it down only a few inches.
“Ava, I didn’t know you had a car.”
“I don’t, it’s my ex-boyfriend’s.”
I lean closer to the gap in the window.
“I’ll assume that’s why you’re smoking a joint, crying.”
Embarrassed, she finds a tissue, flips down the visor mirror to fix her face. She looks sad, not at all mad, but just sad. I’ve never seen a woman so upset before and trust me; I’ve made plenty of women cry.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be getting high on company time, I’m just having such a bad week. I caught him cheating, and he’s moving out of my house today, or, well … he tried to – I stole his car before he could leave. Shit, shit I fucked up, I’ve lost a boyfriend, now my internship and I’m going to jail for stealing his car.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell tha boss. Anyway, I came out to get some whiskey from my car to spice up my coffee.”
We both laugh. I see my intern is a bad girl underneath. I knew there was something fascinating about her. Her anger unleashes a more attractive Ava.
“I know this is a lot to ask, but do you think you can follow me to my ex’s house to drop the car off?”
“Whoa, why ya want me to go?”
“Maybe you can help me persuade him from not pressing charges, if he hasn’t already.”
“I see, ya want me to make him jealous or threaten him.”
“Yes, to all.”
We both chuckle.
“Come have a seat. We can finish this joint and you can enjoy your coffee.”
As promised, I went with her to return the car. The guy’s a goddamn pussy. He didn’t press charges and didn’t even make eye contact with me. If I were in his shoes, I would’ve been wicked pissed at the man that shows up with my ex and my car. It’s clear he doesn’t care for her anymore.
Present
I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since I heard from Ava. I’m afraid my boss has decided to kill her and has left me out of the plan. I haven’t been home in days, haven’t slept, just been racking my brains trying to find her. I have no choice but to accuse my boss and demand to know what she’s done with Ava. I would lie if I wasn’t paranoid that my boss has also put out a hit on me, but deep down I know that I wouldn’t have had this much time to contemplate.
It’s 5 a.m. and I’m just leaving the strip club. I stumble to my car, drunk and tired, unsure which problem is creating a greater challenge of walking a straight line. My car is parked so far from the club because the parking lot was already full when I arrived. I stop halfway to my car to rest, light a cigarette before continuing the struggle to walk. I think to myself, I’m too old for this shit. Partying all night and chasing women.
I get close to my car and notice a paper folded under one of the windshield wipers. I’m scared to pick up the note for fear of the car exploding. I cautiously pick up the note and read.
AVA
CHAPTER 9
Motel
Is this how I die? In a motel room, with a grand mixture of 70s and 80s décor? Wood paneling, floral curtains with matching bedspreads, yellow smoke colored walls, mirrors on the closet doors, pink tiled bathroom with mold in every corner. A thick square television with brown paneling, and two big knobs for changing channels. The carpet doesn’t match the rest of the room; it looks and smells new. All the furniture is a cheap walnut color. The lamps are bolted to the headboards of both beds.
I try to think positive considering my circumstances; I haven’t been raped. I think they would have done it already. I’m tied to a chair with wheels. My hands are tied in the front and another rope tight around my chest. The duct tape around my mouth is sliding off from my sweat, so I push the tape that was originally wrapped around my eyes up to my forehead. I’m nervous they’re allowing me to see them because this means they plan to kill me. I’m so tired, but I’m afraid to sleep. I need to think of a plan, something to get me out of this situation. I have run several escape scenarios through my mind. The chair’s on wheels, so I could roll to the door, but they’ve tied my hands in such a way I can’t reach the doorknob to turn it or unchain the lock. I suppose I could stand up, but for fear of falling I could fail the escape.
I move my chair to get the fat one’s attention. I motion my eyes to the bathroom.
“What?” The fat bastard stands up from the edge of the bed.
I motion my head towards the bathroom.
“You need the bathroom, too fucking bad.”
I notice a large mole on his neck when he cocks his head to one side staring in my direction. His black hair is slicked back and greasy, his eyes are small and beady, there’s stubble on his face. His stomach protrudes over his jeans. His worn-out brown leather jacket is too small to zip over his enormous stomach.
He breaks his stare when his phone rings but returns his glare after the phone is to his ear. I can’t make out the conversation since he just keeps agreeing with person on the other line. Before he hangs up, he says, “I understand.”
At that moment, panic sinks in, sweat begins to drip past my eyebrows down my face and off from my chin. I am trying to control my body from shaking from fear of being murdered. The skinnier of the two kidnappers walks behind the fat one when he ends the call. I feel my head get heavy, and I see black and white dots floating in front of me. The last thing I see before I blackout is the shadow of my kidnapper on the wall.
MR. ALTERMAN
CHAPTER 10
Trouble
I knew first meeting Ava, she was untruthful about her situation. I research all my potential clients before I even agree to meet them at my office. Then after the initial meeting, I do more exploring. I read about the upcoming trial in the Newspaper, so
I had some insight about what was going on. I have lived in Boston my entire life; I know everyone and recognize the last name of her ex-boss at Atlantic Street.
I didn’t take on Ava as a client for bankroll but more for the thrill. I knew it would be a challenge and could be dangerous with the Mob involved. This was the client I’d been searching for. If I had to take one more case from a scorned wife who wanted to drain her husband’s bank account, I would give up on life.
I’m an old man with a growing alcohol problem, and I think my urge for drinking increases during times of boredom or investigating monotonous clients. If I don’t keep myself busy with something that is interesting, I will drink the day away. In fact, when Ava came into my office that day, I had a terrible hangover. Ava looked just as hungover. A pretty girl, but she needs to take better care of her hygiene.
Last time I spoke with Ava, I told her I found her father. She wanted the information of her father’s location, but I like to withhold information from my clients, it’s my way of maintaining control. I want to keep information close, because that’s my business. If I gave all the information away, my clients wouldn’t need me any longer and that means no steady income.
Ava’s father is not a person you seek. Most people are running or hiding from him, considering his occupation. I won’t be visiting him in Maine; I may as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. I find it hard to believe that she doesn’t know her father and his lifestyle. And that it’s a coincidence she works for a company that has such a close relationship with the Mob.
Two days ago, I received the handwritten letter from Ava. Angie Palo, my receptionist, barely had her key in the office door when Ava approached her with a note addressed to me. At first, Angie, didn’t recognize Ava; she was wearing a wig, hat, and sunglasses. Angie says that she looked ridiculous; a really terrible disguise. We both had a good chuckle. Ava made Angie promise she would give me the letter.
