by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 19: BOBBY
The cabbie was right. It was far. He drove forever until we finally got off the highway. The wide street we turned onto was packed on both sides with one of almost every chain store ever opened. It was night but I could hardly tell from the sky lit by a thousand signs. I played a game where I’d name a store and then try to spot its sign. I stumped the street only once. It didn’t have a Rent-a-Center.
We climbed a large hill. At the top, on the right, a small group of pine trees pushed their way between two restaurants. Over the hill, the king of the street spread out in its glory: the mall. They built it to look like a mansion, I think. Thick columns lined the outside. It was wide and white and well lit. It could contain the mall I was used to three times over. Easily.
I asked the cabbie how much further. He pointed ahead.
Didn’t say a word the entire ride. I should’ve hooked him up with Sampson and they could’ve drove all over Columbus together and never speak a word.
Beyond the mall’s parking lot, we passed some more trees and came to a sign that read Floral Acres. He turned into the neighborhood. I told him to stop. I leaned towards the digital map as far as the glass barrier would let me and read where I was and how to get to the blue star that represented Adam Sutler’s house: a left, right, left, then a short right.
I sat back and told him to take me to the mall. He complained that wasn’t where I had planned to go. I said, “Now it is,” and promised him a big tip. He drove me to the main entrance.
The meter was stupid high. In a way, it felt good to pay it. In another, it didn’t. Especially to that geezer.
“And here’s my tip. Don’t be an asshole.” I jumped out and ran into the mall, nearly bumping into this lady and her stroller.
Inside, the wing was shaped like a giant cave with tantalizing tunnels on both sides. I heard oldies music. I didn’t see any speakers, but the music was everywhere. I read the glowing map by the front door. Most of the stores were boring and a waste of space. Plenty of clothes stores, though, which is what I mostly wanted. A Sears was closest.
I passed this rich couple and the woman said to the man, “Did you smell that kid?” I wonder if she meant for me to hear it. I probably did stink. The apples, cinnamon, tea tree oil and apricot were long gone. Still, up hers. I’d never say that. She might smell good but she’s not a good person.
Some lady watched me browse the aisles at Sears. Little did she know I had the cash to buy almost anything I wanted. I took my time.
I carried my selections to the dressing room. I took off my pants. They didn’t feel right. Too light. No knife. The only place I could’ve lost it was in the cab. “The kid who killed Adam Sutler gave me a knife for a tip,” he’ll say to the cops. Now he talks.
But the mall had a sporting goods store full of possibilities: darts, hunting knife, crossbow. Even a simple baseball bat, aluminum or wood, could do the trick.
I looked sharp in these baggy jeans and this black hoody and long white t-shirt which is probably red by now. Their shoe selection sucked but these black basketball shoes are cool enough. I paid and asked the cashier if I could put on my new clothes. The lady, a real bitch, said, “Please do.”
Outside the store, I stuffed my old clothes into a trash can where they belonged. I wandered the mall, bouncing in my new shoes. I forgot about the rude people at Sears and the cruel lady who said I stank and the mean cabbie. I probably forgot about Adam and Ravella too for a little. I just wanted to buy something else, anything else and maintain my carefree mood. It’s easy to see why people become shopaholics.
I browsed the bins at the music store. I must’ve totally missed something when I was busy with work and life and stuff. A bunch of CDs had stickers like, “Featuring the Hit Single” whatever. I had never heard of the hit single or even the musician. I was tempted to flirt with a trio of cute giggling girls across the aisle. I regret not flirting more in general instead of chaining myself down with Wendy. I stopped myself from saying something to the girls. If they brought up music, I’d be sunk. I might as well have been wearing my old clothes.
I left the music store empty handed and passed a jewelry store, thinking if Wendy was with me, she could point to almost any item and I’d buy it for her and it was her loss that wasn’t going to happen. But then the voice above me sang how he was so tired of being alone and I knew what he meant.
I was adventurous in the food court and tried sushi. The girl behind the counter was cute and I said, “Big mall, isn’t it?” She nodded but I don’t think she knew what I was saying. I was sort of bothered that she could be in this country and not learn her customers’ language.
I tried a bite and threw the rest away. Japanese food isn’t for me. That’s what I get for being adventurous. I ate some Taco Bell instead. The tacos weren’t a new experience, but they satisfied. I wiped my mouth and belched. People at the surrounding tables acted like they never heard a belch before.
On the way out of the food court, I stopped at the frozen yogurt kiosk. Some pimply college student was wiping down the machine. I coughed.
He looked at me, barely, and kept working. “We’re closed.”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter till.”
It seemed like days ago I smashed the TV. “No really. I’d like a cone.”
“And I’d like to go home.”
“Get a cone, push a button and take my money. That’s all you have to do.”
He didn’t have anything to say to that. The machine was clean but he kept wiping. Sampson would already be enjoying his cone. Marcus would have owned the place.
I hammered the counter top. “I want me a motherfuckin’ cone.”
The guy’s hand froze mid wipe.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“We got a problem?”
This fat mall security guard stood over me. The pimply jerk finally looked up. To tell on me. The guard pointed to the exit across the food court. “We’re closing up.”
“Pig.”
“Don’t want to hear it. Time to go. Don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
“Sure thing, pops. I’ll go to your home. Get your wife warmed up for you.” I don’t know if that’s exactly what Sampson would’ve said. Actually, I doubt he would’ve said a word. Just stared till the guard volunteered his wallet.
For me, the guard grabbed his walkie talkie. “Frank, I need you and the fellas over at the food court.”
I called him an asshole and made for the exit. Everyone in the mall gathered to point at me. All those normal people with normal lives, people who go to the mall all the time and drop a bunch of money on useless trinkets and never appreciate anything, people who fear me but also mock me. I hate them all.
I reached the door, spun around, and yelled, “Fuck all y’all.”
In the parking lot, I took out the key to the apartment, but a security camera stopped me from marking up a nice car. I don’t know what kind of car it was, but it was black and shiny and arrogant and had a horse on the grill. I pocketed the key and concerned myself with finding a weapon.
All the signs down the street called out, “Over here. Please notice me.” The loudest sign poking into the sky was for the gas station across the street. I figured they had to sell at least one thing that could kill a man or two.
No walk signs or sidewalks. The area expected you to walk from your car to the store and that’s it. No wonder everyone had big butts. The fittest person I saw was that lady at Sears who followed me, who got her exercise trailing suspicious customers.
I waited at the intersection. The cars in the turn lane to my right anticipated what I wanted to do and they didn’t approve. When the green arrow came, I jogged across. Two cars sped in front of me, but the third stopped. I waved her on but she laid on her horn. I sped across. I wish I had dawdled, slow and infuriating.
In the gas station, I went past the junk food and came to the one slender section that had first aid products
and car accessories. A few utility knives.
It looked like the cash register lady spent an hour every morning puffing up her hair. I don’t know why she bothered. She’d look hideous if she spent five hours or five minutes. She was the type to be alarmed if my sole purchase was a deadly utility knife. She’d refuse to sell it. Or worse, sell it and immediately call the cops.
I picked out some candy, which was cool because I never got my cone, and a small bag of chips. A snack for after the deed. Back to the car accessory aisle, I grabbed some oil, an air freshener and the utility knife. The lady didn’t give me any problems. I don’t think she looked at me once or paid attention what I bought. Just another faceless customer in line. “How are you will that be all? Ten thirty-seven please. Thank you have a nice day. Next. How are you will that be all?” Now I feel kind of bad for her.
Outside, I threw away the oil and air freshener and made the difficult journey back across the street. After several honks and one close brush with death, I reached Floral Acres and, finally, sidewalks.
The neighborhood was lit by dim street lights, ten foot poles made to look like old gaslights or whatever they’re called, as if the residents wanted to pretend they lived in merry old England or something. All show. They weren’t there to actually provide light. I couldn’t have read a watch if I wanted to.
Anyway, no one was outside to need any light. If I had yards as lush and beautiful as those people, I’d use them and enjoy them. Except for a few lamps glowing in a few windows, I would’ve thought the neighborhood had been evacuated.
As I walked on, everything started to look the same: the shape of the houses, the round bushes in front of them, the cars in the driveway. I bet the people inside the houses were exactly the same too. They bought the same stuff, sold the same stuff, believed the same stuff. They even did their laundry the same night. The heavy chemical smell of dryer exhaust was relentless. The odor was nice enough at first, but I soon a just wanted to take a breath or two of some uncorrupted air.
I could tell the area had been forest at one time till some fat cat decided it would make a good place to sell a bunch of junk and house people to buy that junk. All that was left of the original landscape was a small patch of trees on my right.
Ahead, Crestwood Lane. A sign on the corner read “Dead End.” I entered the lane and passed four houses to reach Adam Sutler’s, the last. I knew it was his. I didn’t need the piece of paper in my pocket to verify it. I stood there and studied the house. It was bullcrap, like the rest: nice but generic car in the drive, perfect bushes, shutters that don’t shut, expensive flowers hanging from expensive baskets, ivy (probably fake) twisting up the posts.
I walked a few feet into the woods. My shoes sunk into the forest floor and I had no desire to pull them out. Here was the house, open to attack. But I couldn’t know who or what was in the house. I had seen myself kicking down the door and putting a knife to Adam’s throat, but the rest of the background had been blank. Now I wondered if I’d have to deal with a wife or kids. I didn’t want to drag them into this. And what if he had a bunch of firearms in the house? To burst in on Adam was impossible. Or just deadly.
My legs were tired, so tired. I squatted, afraid to get my new clothes dirty until I remembered I had enough money in my wallet to buy a closet full of new threads if I ruined the ones I had.
I ate my chips and candy, trying to think up a way of making someone else do the killing, trying to remember if I ever saw a movie where some guy makes another guy kill a guy. I couldn’t nail down any specific show, but recapping bits from various plots inspired a third plan. Or the fourth or fifth by this point.
Every idea I’ve ever had, no matter how bad, has come with an adrenaline shot. The idea arrives and I’m certain I’m a genius, even if in the next second I get that I’m not. My plan was the worst possible plan, but that became clear to me only after there was no turning back. I don’t know. Maybe my plan will work after all. Maybe Adam’ll die. I don’t want him to, but that was the plan. Maybe Zeke Ravella will die. I’m not even sure how much I care about him anymore. And maybe there’s nothing worse than getting what you wanted.
All I had was myself to entertain me until morning. I used my mind like it was a portable DVD player and thought of shows and pieced together the sequence of events in the story. Things started to get jumbled. I’d be the good cop and Adam Sutler and Zeke Ravella were the criminals. Then I’d be the criminal but under cover the good guy and they were corrupt cops. Then I was in the FBI and Sampson was my partner and we tracked down a terrorist who turned out to be Zeke Ravella. Sampson wanted to kill him but I said, “We can’t sink down to his level.”
My eyelids wanted to rest. I let them close, but I wanted them shut for only a minute. I counted to make sure. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but it was way before I reached sixty.