by Jay Mackey
Gus was preoccupied, thinking about a close call with a drug-addled brother or cousin of the high roller, who’d passed out in the bathroom of the airport lounge and nearly missed the flight, and he failed to notice the dark shapes lurking around the corner of his house. Violet was still up when Gus walked in, watching TV. She’d been having trouble sleeping the past couple weeks, and had been complaining about headaches. She seemed a little better now than she’d been, but he still worried about her.
Gus went to the couch and kissed her. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Better,” she said, keeping her eyes on the TV.
Taking off the sport coat he wore to work and hanging it on the back of a chair, he asked about Annette, their eleven-year-old daughter.
“She’s good,” said Violet. “School night. Test tomorrow, so she stayed up studying until a little while ago. She might still be awake if you want to kiss her good night.”
Before Gus could get even halfway to Annette’s bedroom, there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” he said, reversing direction. “Who the hell is knocking on the door at this time of night?” He immediately thought of Little Bull. Maybe he’d forgotten something and doubled back.
Opening the door, Gus was surprised to find two men standing there. The first looked to be in his twenties. He looked vaguely familiar. The other was older, and wearing what looked like fatigues. It was dark, and Gus couldn’t see him well.
The first one said, “Well, well. I thought you was Little Bull when I first seen you. But no, goddamn, it’s you, Gus, you little shit. You look like hell, you know that?” He took a step into the house, but Gus blocked his entry.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Gus, holding onto the door with one hand, and wondering if he should reach for the gun that was clearly visible in his shoulder holster now that his coat was off. He hesitated, though. This guy acted like he knew him, but Gus felt a tingling on the hairs on his neck. He couldn’t place the face.
“Ain’t you going to let us in?” the man asked, sneering. “Come on, Gus. Oh, by the way, don’t you go for that gat you got there. My buddy behind me has a .45 in his hand right now, and shit, you try anything and he just might miss you and hit that pretty little lady who’s sitting there behind you.”
Gus looked at the second man, who nodded but didn’t reveal his gun, hidden behind the first man. Holding his ground, he asked again, “Who are you?”
“I’m your old buddy, Tony Faccio,” said the first man. “What? You don’t recognize me? It hasn’t been that long, has it?”
Gus was having a disconnect. On hearing the name, a flood of memories came back. This guy did look like Tony Faccio, but there was something wrong. Something didn’t fit. “What do you want?” he asked, while his mind swam.
“Get out of the fucking way, that’s what I want,” said Faccio, pushing his way past the still-stunned Gus.
Gus turned to Violet, pointed to the bedrooms, and said, “Go. Get Annette and stay out of sight.”
Violet shook her head no, but stood and gave the men entering her home a good look. Then she turned and walked rapidly to the back of the house, where she quietly went into one of the bedrooms.
“Nice piece you got for yourself there, Gus,” said Faccio, admiring the retreating Violet. “How’d you manage that?”
Gus, accepting that this was Tony Faccio, said, “I thought you was dead. Long time ago.”
“Yeah,” said Faccio, “I almost was. Remember Oaf? Seems like I ended up with Oaf’s gun, and he ended up taking one in the chest.” He shrugged like it was no big deal. “So then I got hit, and some doc helped me out, and, well, next thing I know, they’re fucking with me.”
He looked around the living room, peered back into the nearby dining area and the kitchen. “Nice little place. I thought this was Little Bull’s place, though.”
“It was, long time ago. Mine now,” said Gus.
“Jesus, do I have a good memory or what? I remembered right where Little Bull used to shack up.” Faccio strode around the house, looking very pleased with himself. His dark hair was plastered against his head, just like Gus remembered. In fact, as Gus’s memories came flooding back, Faccio looked just like he had when he’d disappeared in the desert. But still, something seemed off.
“Hey, sit down, Gus,” said Faccio. “But first, let me have that gat you got.”
Gus looked over at the second man, who was now clearly brandishing a .45 automatic as he stood just inside the door, staring at him. He looked vaguely familiar too.
Gus held his arms out while Faccio took the gun from Gus’s holster, and stuck it in his own waistband. He then pushed Gus back so that he sat down hard on the couch.
“Where you been?” Gus asked, trying to figure out how this man, who nobody had seen for years, could still be alive.
“The truth is, I don’t know,” said Faccio, waving his arms. “And if I told you what they told me, you wouldn’t believe it anyway.” He smirked and sat in the armchair across from Gus. “So that’s not important.”
“What do you want?” asked Gus.
Faccio smiled broadly, revealing the gap in his bottom teeth, just behind a prominent lower left canine. “Now we’re talking, old buddy,” he said. “Get right to the point. So first, let me tell you a little story.
“You remember that night in the desert, right? With Little Bull, and, like that. So these folks I was with since then dropped me off the other night. See, my pal Vic, here . . .” He motioned to the man with the gun, standing by the door. “. . . him and some of his buddies came and picked me up. Not that I wanted to get picked up, now. But they spotted us at the drop-off and grabbed me. The others got away. Took me back to some army base. Some assholes there wanted to know what the hell I was doing, and how I got there. All kinds of shit like that.” He looked from Gus to Vic and back and shifted in the chair, leaning forward.
“So then, after I told them my story, they want to know how I got out to the desert that night, me and Oaf. They don’t know about Little Bull’s car, and you.” He looked like he was enjoying himself.
“I’m thinking to myself, ‘why rat on my old buddies,’ you know. Oh, I mean, I know you said you was going to shoot me that night, but I never figured you’d do it. So no hard feelings or nothing.
“But see, I know why these assholes want to know who was there. I know what happened. And I’m thinking, you and Little Bull, you’re smart guys. You probably know, too, right? But these assholes, they don’t want nobody to know. Get it? So if they find out you was there, then you’re in deep shit.”
Now Gus knew where this was going. He felt a chill down his spine.
Faccio continued, “Anyway, Vic is a standup guy. He helps me disappear into the desert one more time, and I promise him that my good buddies . . .” He held his hands out and nodded, indicating he was talking about Gus. “. . . meaning you and Little Bull, of course, you’ll help us out with a little stake. Something to get us started, you know? ’Cause, you owe me, right?” His smile disappeared. “You and that fuckwad of a brother of yours. I thought I was going to get to see him tonight. Wait. Maybe I will. Let’s see how this all plays out.”
“How what plays out?” asked Gus, knowing that he wasn’t going to like the answer. He’d been in tough situations before. He was sure he could get off the couch and have Faccio on his back on the floor and have his own gun in his hands before Faccio could even think about stopping him, but the military guy by the door was a problem. He looked way too comfortable standing with that gun, like he knew what he was doing.
Faccio answered, “Like I was sayin’, I been fucked over. Now, all my old buddies, they’re gone. Or dead. I don’t know. All I got left is you—and Little Bull, I expect.”
“What?” said Gus. “You want money?” He reached for his wallet. “I don’t have much.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Faccio. “You can get all the money you want. You still makin’ those ski
m runs?”
“You crazy?” said Gus. “Nobody’s done that for years.”
Faccio now looked mad. He stood, pointed at Gus and said, “I don’t care. Where there’s gambling, there’s money. I want some. You call Little Bull, get him over here now.”
“He don’t have any money,” said Gus, trying to act like he wasn’t being intimidated.
“Then call your old man,” yelled Faccio. “Tell him you need, um . . .” He looked over at Vic, still holding the gun on Gus. “What do you think, about $250K?”
Vic nodded. Faccio turned back to Gus. “Yeah. Call Bull and tell him you need 250 big ones. Tonight.”
Gus said, “One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty. If I call my father, this is what’s going to happen.” Turning to the man at the door, he continued, “Vic, or whatever your name is, Faccio is already a dead man. My father, he’ll erase you. If he comes, he’ll leave scorched earth. Not even any bodies left. Not you, not Faccio, probably not me. Shit, we’ll be lucky if the house is left standing. He doesn’t fuck around. No one will even remember you ever existed, you’ll be so gone.”
Vic said, “Scary shit. But I need something too. Not money. I need to know what you saw out in that desert that night. I need to know what your brother saw. ’Cause if what Tony here tells me is true, then you two cost me. You helped kill my career out there that night. And I need to know why.”
“Why?” said Gus. “Why what? We didn’t have anything to do with whatever was going on that night. If you was there, then you know.”
“I was there, asshole, and I need to know what you did.”
“Not happening,” said Gus, with more confidence than he felt.
“Oh, fuck you,” said Faccio. “You owe me.”
It was the last thing he ever said. As he reached for the gun in his belt, a shot rang out, thunderous in the confines of the small house. Faccio flew sideways, the top of his head splattering the ceiling.
Vic immediately fired a round into the darkened hallway behind the kitchen, where the shot had come from. He didn’t have time to fire a second time. He was hit in the chest, and dropped straight down, lying still in front of the door.
The ringing in Gus’s ears blended into the screaming coming from the back bedroom.
Annette!
Gus was on his feet, racing toward the bedroom, almost before Vic hit the ground. He ran face-first into Little Bull, emerging from the hall, smoke rising from automatic he held.
“They’re okay,” said Little Bull. “Violet let me in the bedroom window. They’re on the floor, under a mattress.” He walked out to the living room and took a quick look around, making sure his aim had been good. Then he went to the door. “Grab that gun,” he said, peering out from behind the wooden door, while closing it slightly. “They got a friend across the street. Let’s see if he comes this way or runs off.”
30
Las Vegas, April 2018
Jack was flustered. He looked from CJ to Penny to Oval and back around again. His hands fluttered; he put his hat on, and then took it off again and put it on the table.
“I’ve got to think about this,” he said, after picking his briefcase up off the floor but not opening it.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Penny. “You owe us. We’ve been running around like blind puppies, and you haven’t told us a thing.”
“I called my grandfather for you,” said CJ. “Now, you do something for us. Tell us what you wanted to talk to him about. Who knows, maybe I can still get him to talk to you.”
Jack looked at CJ and seemed to calm down. He nodded and scratched his scruffy chin. “I don’t know about your grandfather,” he said. “Either I’m on the right track and I scared him, or I’m completely off my rocker and I scared him.”
“I’m voting for the last one,” said Penny. “Off your rocker, for sure.”
“I know he doesn’t want me to talk to you,” said CJ. “But I want to hear the story. So talk.”
Jack stared at CJ for a minute. CJ stared back. If it was going to be a test of wills, he wasn’t going to back down.
There was an uncomfortable pause during which Oval looked like he was about to break the silence, only to be stopped by CJ, who held up his hand to him. Penny rolled her eyes at least once, and then Jack decided. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a large sheaf of papers, probably the same one he’d been waving about the day before. He said, “Okay. I’ll let you in on a story you won’t believe.”
“Oh, coming from you, I don’t know why we wouldn’t believe it,” said Penny, rolling her eyes once more.
Turning to her, Jack said, “I’ve never lied to you. I just wanted to protect you, keep you from getting involved in something that, at first, I didn’t think you had any connection to.”
“At first?” said CJ. “Does that mean you think we have a connection now?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack, turning back to CJ. “But if you read this, you’ll understand why I need to talk to your grandfather, and perhaps your grandmother.”
He handed CJ the papers. The top page, stained, with curling corners, read: “The Autobiography of Captain Jackson Omdahl, MD.”
“Catchy title, there, Doc,” said Penny.
Jack smiled, and said, “I’m a physician, not a writer. But this is not fiction. This is what actually happened.”
CJ looked at the thick stack, and said, “You want me to read all that?”
“What else would you do with it?” answered Jack. “You will be astounded.”
“Oh, man,” said Oval. “I’m glad I don’t have to read it.” Then, quickly looking at Jack, he said, “Oh. No offense, or anything. I just don’t read anything I don’t have to, for school or whatever.”
“Okay,” said CJ. “I’ll take it. But it will take me a while to read this whole thing.” He picked up the papers and started to stand.
“Oh, no,” said Jack, reaching over and grabbing the papers out of CJ’s hands. “You have to do it here.” He slapped the papers firmly back on the table.
“Here?” said CJ.
“Yes. Just start. You’ll see,” Jack said, motioning for CJ to sit back down.
CJ grimaced, but sat down and looked at the papers. Slowly, he started reading. Penny and Oval looked at each other, Penny rolling her eyes, Oval shrugging his shoulders.
Reading quickly, CJ turned to the next page, and then the next. Reading part of the third page, he skipped to the bottom, and then turned to the next. “Why should I care about the fact that you were born in Minnetonka, Minnesota, and lived in a little blue house, and whatever?”
Jack reached over, grabbed the book, and said, “Yes, yes. That’s all background. Let’s skip ahead . . .” He flipped through pages, muttering to himself, “That’s med school . . . um, the Army . . . internship, okay.” Looking back at CJ, he handed the book back, having turned back the first thirty pages.
“Read here,” he said. “This is about the night at Muroc.”
CJ shook his head, but started reading again.
Oval grew impatient. He stood, and said, “Maybe I could go get the car and bring it back here.”
“Good idea,” said Penny, reaching into her purse to get the keys. “Take your time. Looks like this could take a while.”
Oval took the keys and shuffled away to get the car, parked several blocks away at the Starbucks where they’d first thought they were going to meet Jack.
Curious, and probably bored watching CJ read, Penny reached over to the book and pulled it away from him. She undid the big clip holding the papers together, took the first section that he had already either read or skipped, and gave the rest back to him. “I’ll just check out the stuff you’ve already gone through,” she said.
Jack didn’t object, although he looked nervous as the two kids sat across from him, reading his autobiography.
Penny quickly grew restless, as what she was reading failed to hold her attention. “I think I’ll go get another frozen coffee,�
� she said, rising. “Anything for you two?”
CJ and Jack both shook their head no, so she went up to the front of the shop and got in line while CJ continued to read.
After a few more minutes, without looking up from the book, CJ asked, “What’s all this? I don’t understand all this medical stuff.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” answered Jack. “I was doing my residency at the base hospital at Muroc Army Airfield. That night we had several accident victims brought in. I was assisting in the operating room on one of them. That’s just the description of the injuries she’d suffered, and what we did to treat her, repair those injuries. Just skip over it.”
CJ looked up at Jack, feeling frustrated. “You know I’m never going to read all this,” he said. “So far, you’ve told me to skip over most of what I’ve seen. It’d be a lot easier if you just told me what you want me to know.”
Jack started to nod, but then a startled look came across his face. His eyes got big, his brow furrowed, he squinted. He tried to stand up, but was stopped by a large man who emerged from behind CJ.
“Hold it there, Jack,” said the man. “Let’s gather all this up and you two can come with me.”
The man picked up the loose papers on the table and pulled the rest of the book from CJ’s hands. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, with dark hair cut very short, making him appear nearly bald. His neck was thick, his shoulders broad, and his blue polo was stretched tight over his trim torso. He continued to smile as he picked up the big clip and put the book back together. Then he reached for Jack’s briefcase. Jack started to object, but the man gave him a look, and Jack withdrew his hand. The man put the book back into the briefcase, latched the clasp, and handed it back to Jack.
“Okay, let’s all walk out together, shall we?” the man said, motioning for them to head for the door.
“No way I’m going anywhere with you,” CJ said, staying in his chair.