Loose Ends
Page 1
Loose Ends
Amos Gunner
Published by Amos Gunner
Copyright 2011 Amos Gunner
CHARACTERS
ZEKE introduces himself to his cellmate
BOBBY reviews his life before it ends
So does ADAM
So does SAMPSON
BRENDA addresses an AA meeting, the police
DALE justifies himself to the police
CHAPTER 1: ZEKE
What version do you want, short or long? Short goes: I broke a lot of laws and got busted for some of them. But that’s not my story. It belongs to everyone. Well, almost. I should make an exception for the blind souls in our world who claim to be innocent and tell a different tale.
You are? Sorry.
Unless you can think of something better to do before dinner, why don’t I spin you my own story, which happens to be the long version?
In the beginning, the Lord created the heavens and earth in six days. Then he took a nap. Too long? Well, a shorter take goes: some night forty-eight years ago, my drunk dad neglected to pull out of my slut mom. Later, I was born.
Okay. Still too long. I’ll start with the day I shot this kid and take it from there.
In the morning, I paid a visit to my ex-partner, a gentleman named Gavin Quinn. He lent me his suit, a black Brooks Brothers thing. Felt as good as it looked. Should’ve taken a photo. Hm. This isn’t very interesting, is it?
Fast forward to Lucky’s Motel. Ever hear of it? Most people haven’t. It looks like a bombed-out slum and smells like an armpit. But it’s quiet and out of the way. Perfect for stings. I always had good luck there. Ha ha, right? Well, the place had an appropriate name as far I was concerned.
So I’m there posing as a traveling businessman itching to buy some blow, ten ounces if I remember correctly. We want to build a case against this wannabe gangster and the transaction’s meant to be the first brick. Well, there’s more to it than that but I don’t want to overwhelm you with information so early in my story.
A scrawny, dopey college kid we called Digit, he sets up a mic in the lamp and a digital clock on the nightstand. But the clock’s really a camera, dig? And it’s only good as a camera because the lab geniuses had crossed the wrong wires and the thing gave the time as zero-zero o’ clock. Digit asks if the glitch worried me and I go, “No. I’m worried I’m gonna sweat so much I’ll end up looking like you.”
Digit laughs. He might’ve been stoned. He yells to Sutler, who’s observing me in action through from the next room over. The department must’ve set aside all the good equipment to bust a senator or something. Yeah, why did Digit yell to Sutler when there was a mic in the room? I dunno. But he does. Yells at him to bang on the wall if the image is okay. I hear these wussy taps.
Oh, Adam Sutler. How can I introduce that dead subject? To call him a mother fucker is an insult to incest. When I think about the honors they bestowed on that boob, I get sick. I mean, I once wasted a few minutes regretting his death, but I never got to the point of wanting to honor him, for the simple fact he was never honorable. He wasn’t actively evil either. Most of the time he was just there, inert. But he’ll have to butt into my story now and then. No way around it. After all, he was my new partner, a total rookie to narcotics. For now let’s just say he represents my opposite and leave his character description at that.
So Digit packs up his equipment and I tell him if he wants to be useful, he’ll fix the air conditioner. I’d been twisting and pulling that ancient contraption but all I got it to do was cough up some lukewarm dust. I give it a kick to teach it a lesson, then try the window, but it won’t open past an inch. Man, if someone wants to jump out a window, that’s their deal. If someone gets thrown out, they probably deserve it. But no. The rest of us have to suffer. Am I right?
Digit takes this as in invitation to jabber about the weather, how it’s hot today but was freezing the day before, blah blah. Throws out that line, “If you don’t like the weather in Columbus, wait five minutes and it’ll change.” Now, I’m a good liar, but not good enough to act like I’m the least bit amused by his witless chatter. At the door he tells me good luck and I say I don’t need any and he goes, “Then I take it back.”
So I have ten minutes or so before the curtain goes up and my one obligation is to take care of the clock. I haven’t come up with a way to knock out the mic, which makes me a little nervous. But just a little. Worse comes to worse, I figure I’ll clearly say, “Whoa, mister. Put the gun away. I’m with the police.”
I light a cigarette. I check the window and rub the tweed curtains. The stench from a thousand scum guests clings to my fingers. In the bathroom, I’m sort of transfixed by this trippy black mildew design on the floor tiles. Looks like Michelangelo or Andy Warhol or whoever had spilled a bottle of ink. I run water over my fingers. The soap dish is empty. I’m afraid to touch the towels so I shake my hand. In the mirror, I watch myself blow smoke from my nostrils. It looks like I have thick, menacing tusks growing from my face for a few seconds, but then they break apart. A thumb nail of ash scatters down Gavin’s suit. I try to clean it off, but I end up working the ash into the fabric. Never was good at cleaning. I take a few more puffs and toss the butt into the crapper.
Because I’m trying to paint a picture, okay? I’m shitting out a silk thread for you, man. What, you got a hot date? Gotta cast a crucial vote at the UN? Might as well listen. We aren’t going anywhere.
So I come out and the wallpaper catches my eye. It’s off. I mean, besides the fact it’s been stained to a light brown. I puzzle out the fuck-up in no time--the dainty flower heads are pointing to the carpet. Can you imagine the overworked, underpaid moron who hung it upside down? Just takes a moment of inattention to ruin something forever. Well, I’m sharper than he was. I’m sharp and I’m ready.
I open the leather satchel and stuff my head inside. Have you ever smelled a ton of money? You have? Sweet, isn’t it? Has a slight earthy afterscent. You know--like “aftertaste.” Anyway, they oughta bottle that fragrance.
One could argue my best move would’ve been to grab the satchel and make a mad dash for the border. Maybe this is the point I messed up, when I had a clean escape route and didn’t recognize it, didn’t take it.
Well, no regrets. A regret’s like an appendix--totally useless and it can swell with puss and kill you unless you cut out. Besides, I eventually earned a reservation in heaven. From that angle, I’d be a fool and a sinner to regret one second of my entire life.
I closed the satchel and went for the clock.