Coldwater

by Tom Pitts

  “You seen him or any of his family coming in or out of that house?”

  The man first shrugged, then shook his head. Gary wondered if he’d understood the question. “You know the new neighbors?”

  “No,” the man said with another shake of the head. Uninterested, he turned his attention back to his lawn.

  Three yards up, the boy noticed the men talking and decided to retreat inside the Perkins’ house. With the bolt cutters at his side, he took long strides across the lawn toward the door.

  “Hey,” Gary called out. “Hey, you.” He started to move down the block. Not at a run, but a quick clip. The boy disappeared inside the front door. Gary moved up the walk and knocked firmly on the front door. No answer, no sounds from inside. He knocked again. Harder this time. Hard enough to hurt his knuckles.

  Without warning the door swung open and an angry-looking man stood in front of Gary. His eyes were beaded and tiny pearls of sweat glistened his brow. He was dressed the same as Juliet the day before, a jean jacket covering a bare chest. The man’s chin was extended and his chest puffed out in defiance.

  “Help you with somethin’?”

  Suddenly, face to face with the man, Gary didn’t know what to say. He expected the scrawny boy to answer, or maybe the girl he talked to yesterday, but not this guy who stood before him, looking flexed, ready to punch. Gary stammered a moment and tried to peek over the man’s shoulder into the house. Defensively, the man stepped over the threshold and pulled the door shut behind him.

  “You need something?” Jason said.

  “Yeah,” Gary said. “You live here?”

  Jason didn’t say anything. He held his hard look in place, glaring at Gary.

  “Did you buy this house? I don’t remember seeing any for sale signs.”

  Still no response. Gary didn’t want to ask anything more, but in the silence, it was difficult not to.

  “You know the previous owners?”

  The stiff scowl on Jason’s face relented just a little and a thin smile surfaced in its place. Gary didn’t like the look of the smile, it was put there to mock him, to intimidate him.

  Jason’s voice came out in a low rasp. “Get the fuck off my property.” He paused a moment and his breath blew loud through his nostrils. “Or I promise you, I’ll move you off myself.”

  Gary didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t come to the neighbor’s house expecting a fight, yet that’s what the neighbor seemed prepared to do. Right here, right now, with the sun still up and right on the front lawn. Gary stole a glance at the man down the street. He’d gone back to watering his lawn.

  “What d’ya say, old timer? You wanna find out how I deal with trespassers?”

  “Trespassing?” Gary said the word almost like a whisper, an inner revelation. He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it out loud.

  “That’s right,” Jason said, his voice a cool hiss now. “I asked you nicely to leave. Now I feel like you’re a threat to my family and my property. So I don’t need to warn you again. You get me?”

  Gary turned. He knew the man’s statement was an attempt at some kind of legal loophole. Some sort of declaration necessary to claim self-defense. Whether it was valid didn’t matter, it sounded like a warning shot. Outmatched by youth and muscle, there was no way he was going to throw down with this scumbag. He marched straight back to his own front door and slammed it shut behind him.

  “What happened?” Linda said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling the police, that’s what. Fuck that guy. He’s probably got a record as long as my arm. You see that son of a bitch? He looks fucked up too. I’m not going to fight him, let the cops do it…Hello? Yeah, I think someone has broken into the house across the street. The address is—”

  Linda let Gary talk with the 911 operator. He was worked up, sweating, spooked. She went to the kitchen window and watched the Perkins’ front door. Nothing moved. All was quiet. She’d never looked at the door this way, like it was a threat. It was the same door, the same house they’d lived across from for almost an entire year, but now it was different. She could sense it. Something terrible was going on in that house.

  Chapter Five

  It took close to forty minutes before the cops showed up. One patrol car pulled into their driveway and sat for a minute. Gary listened to the familiar sounds of police chatter on their radios before he opened the front door to greet them.

  “Jesus,” Gary called out. “Good thing I wasn’t lying here bleeding to death.”

  The policeman that got out on the passenger side held his hand up, but had his eyes on the cell in his other hand. “Sir, once it’s been determined that it’s a nonemergency call, it gets pushed down the priority list.” He pocketed the phone and looked directly at Gary. “Because it’s entirely possible we’re on a call for someone who is actually bleeding to death, you understand?”

  Gary didn’t respond.

  The officer felt the need to ask again, “Do you?”

  Gary’d dealt with the law enough to know that making demands or complaints was no way to greet them. A cop once told him it was the person shouting “arrest that man” who usually ended up in handcuffs.

  “I’m sorry, I had a confrontation with the man and I guess I’m a bit shook up.”

  The other officer climbed out of the driver’s seat and leaned his forearms against the roof of the car. “Confrontation with who?”

  “The people across the street. In the house I called you about.”

  “Did he have any weapons?” the first cop asked.

  “No. None that I saw.” Gary thought about it. “He might. I mean, I didn’t see any.”

  The first cop sighed and walked around to the front of the car. He pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and asked Gary how long the folks across the street had been there. Gary said he didn’t know. How many were there? Gary didn’t know. Did the man who threatened him live there? Gary had to admit he didn’t know. He folded the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

  “All right, Mr. Carson, is it?”

  Gary nodded.

  “Mr. Carson, you stay put. We’re going to take a look. Me or my partner will come back over in a few minutes and let you know what we found out.” The cop waited for him to say something, but Gary said nothing, so the cop said, “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Linda and Gary stayed inside and watched from their kitchen window while the two policemen walked over to the Perkins’ place. One cop, the one who drove, held back a few feet while the cop who did most of the talking knocked hard on the door. It was a loud rap, the kind only the police seem capable of delivering. The banging echoed down their quiet block.

  “They’re not doing anything,” Gary said.

  “Just let them do their job.”

  “Look at ’em, they’re just standing there. What the fuck?”

  As the first cop continued to pound on the door, the second officer, the one who held back, peeked over the fence and tried the wooden gate leading to the backyard. Like the front door, it too was locked. After a few more minutes of knuckle knocks and shouts to open up, the cops returned to the Carsons’.

  “Sir, I don’t think there’s anybody in there.”

  “They’re in there,” Gary said. “They’re hiding. Can’t you kick in the door and see what the hell they’re doing in there?”

  The quieter of the two officers spoke up. “Not without a compelling reason. And, I’m sorry, but your complaint isn’t enough to warrant kicking in doors and destroying someone’s property.”

  And that was that. Gary knew the law would be no more help to them today. He felt foolish for calling them. Trying not to sound too petulant, he said, “Thank you. If I have any more troubles, I’ll give you a call.”

  With the patrol car driving away and twilight fading, Linda and Gary stood at the edge of their yard. Gary leaned into Linda’s e
ar. “Those fuckers are still in there, I know it.”

  Calper let the pizza go cold after just one slice. After a day sealed up in the motel room behind the computer, he was ready for some fresh air. He drained the last of his beer bottle and flicked off the light. He got into his car and drove toward the Perkins’, being careful to note the details of the neighborhood, people who liked to while away the evenings in their open garages, any pot-smoking teenagers in the nearby park. It was a typical lower-middle-class suburban neighborhood. It could have been anywhere in California, in the US, actually. The same canvas of American life painting itself from coast to coast. He often said, ten miles in from the beach and you’re in the Midwest, and it was true.

  As he approached Coldwater Court though, he saw the striping of red and blue flash up into the trees. The lights stopped and a police car rounded the corner, exiting. He didn’t need to guess: they were there for Jason.

  Without turning his head, he saw the cruiser’s back seat was empty. He knew, if Jason wasn’t already in custody, the boy was off the block. He passed by street, heading to the next block to circle back. He’d drive by, take a peek, but the boy and his crew would not be there, not now. They’d be long gone. But seeing the cops on the block was as good a confirmation as any that Calper was in the right place.

  “How long you think we got to stay away?” Bomber asked.

  “Till late,” Jason said. “No big deal, we just do it like we always do. We’ll be all right.”

  The kid asked, “How come we can’t take the car?”

  “Because, dumbass, the car is in the fucking garage. Besides, that thing’s a cop magnet anyway. We’ll go hang out at the park or whatever, drink a few beers, then head back.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “Fuck the cops, they ain’t coming back tonight.”

  The four of them had been gone for hours, but only the three men walked the streets of the neighborhood. Juliet called a friend to pick her up and left as soon as she could. Jason didn’t ask where she was going, what she was doing, or when she’d come back. He only hoped she’d show up with dope or money, or both.

  “Let’s get a couple of forties while we wait this out.” Bomber reasoning his way into a beer, like usual. “I got a few bucks.”

  Jason agreed and the three switched direction and headed toward the liquor store a few blocks away.

  The liquor store was the only thing open in the mini-mall this time of night. It was only ten-thirty, but the other shops—a donut joint, a discount cigarette store, and a dry cleaner—had been closed since dusk. A few loiterers clung toward the corner of the structure, in front of the darkened donut shop. As soon as they entered the parking lot, the ripe smell of strong weed reached them.

  Bomber said, “You smell that shit? That’s the good stuff. Somebody’s burning trees. Who’s got that blunt?”

  “There’s only three people in the parking lot. I’m guessing it’s probably those punks standing right there passing the thing back and forth.”

  Bomber ignored Jason’s snide tone and walked over to three young black teenagers. “Gimme that thing,” he said. And without giving them a chance to turn around, he snatched the thin brown cigar out of the pinched fingers of the teen closest to him.

  “Hey, yo! What the fuck, dude?”

  The three were startled but made no move against Bomber. They stood with snarls forged on their faces. Looking tough, acting tough, but standing perfectly still.

  Bomber stuck the blunt to his lips and sucked in smoke. He sneered as he did it, taunting the three to act. None of them did. They only made threats.

  “We’re gonna kick your ass, motherfucker.”

  “Drop that shit before we cut you, bitch.”

  Bomber blew smoke in their faces and drew in another hit. He stood, chest puffed out with the hit held in, waiting. Finally, when he could hold it no longer, he expelled a stream of blue smoke, saying, “Fuuuuck youuuu.”

  The smallest of the three spat and said, “Wait here, motherfucker. We got something for you.” He turned from the group and ran. The other two looked at each other and forced a smile, as though they knew exactly where the first boy had run.

  “Get the fuck outta here,” Bomber said, and stomped his foot flat against the pavement. He smiled with great pleasure as the two boys ran through the lot and across the main street, the one separating the mini-mall from the residential area, retreating home.

  “Nice going,” Jason said.

  “What?”

  “Those hood rats. They’re either running for a gun or their big brother. My guess is big brother. We got about four minutes before they’re back.”

  Bomber shrugged and held out the shrinking blunt. “You want any?”

  Jason pursed his lips, like he was disgusted with Bomber’s behavior, but he took the cigarillo anyway. After a long draw, he passed it to the kid. “At least it’s good shit.”

  Russell held onto the blunt while the older two walked into the liquor store and bought beer and cigarettes. He nipped at the end while checking over his shoulders for the teenager’s reinforcements.

  Jason and Bomber walked out with brown paper bags wrapped around forty-ounce bottles under their arms. The kid pointed to the street where the boys had run. Two of the boys had returned with a larger man. They tugged at the man’s forearms to quicken his gait.

  “Great,” Jason said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with ’em,” Bomber said.

  By the time he’d reached the mini-mall parking lot, the big man didn’t need to be tugged, he was moving forward with determined inertia. He thrust a finger at Bomber. “You the one fucking with my little cousin?”

  Bomber set his bagged beer down on the pavement. He stuck to his script. “Fuck you.”

  The man’s voice skipped up a half-octave. “What’d you say?” He stepped toward Bomber.

  Bomber didn’t answer. He swung at the man, connecting solidly with his jaw.

  The man didn’t go down, instead he put a right fist deep into Bomber’s belly. Bomber doubled over.

  No one saw the razor. Jason stepped forward, and with one sweeping motion, slashed the aggressor across the chest.

  It took a moment for the big man to realize what’d happened. He reached up to his sliced shirt and felt a warm trickle of blood across his chest. Jason slashed again, this time slicing the man across the right cheek. The man felt the cut with the tips of his fingers. He stepped back and with a defeated air said, “Fuck.” The shock of the damage rocketing to his brain more quickly than the pain. Blood began to flow down his face, dripping off his chin.

  Jason didn’t say anything. He stood in front of the bleeding man with the razor pinched between his fingers, waiting to see if he’d have to cut him again. The two boys who’d dragged their older cousin to the fight were backpedaling with their hands raised.

  Bomber straightened himself up. “Fuck this motherfucker, I’ll fuck his shit up.”

  But Jason held out his arm, keeping Bomber at bay. “He’s done.” Then to the bleeding man, “Aren’t you, you stupid shit? You want to play with me and my friends more? Or have you bled enough?”

  “Fuck you, cracker-ass bitches,” the man said.

  Jason leaned in and gave him one more swipe with the razor. The man’s shirt fell open this time and a red line seared across his chest began to grow.

  Jason said to him in a whisper, “If you don’t turn and run, I’m going to kill you. Right here in this parking lot. You’ll die right here on the pavement, in front of your friends, or your family, or whoever the fuck these little shits are. Then we’ll slice them up too. If I were you, I’d go home and call an ambulance.”

  The man looked up at him, blood streaming from his cheek, his chest, and said nothing. He turned and ran. The two boys followed him.

  Jason turned back to Bomber and the kid. “You need to not make
trouble wherever you go. I’m not going to keep cleaning up your messes.”

  But the kid wasn’t listening. He was pointing past Jason at the street. “Oh-oh.”

  Jason looked around and saw the man he’d sliced standing in the middle of the roadway. The two younger boys were already on the other side, urging him to hurry. Cars whipped by in both directions at forty-five miles-an-hour. He stood there. Swayed for a moment. Then, with his hands across his bleeding chest, he fell to his knees, and from there, flat onto his face.

  “Pick up your beers, boys,” Jason said. “We got to go.”

  Chapter Six

  Dinner was late that night. Grilled cheese sandwiches. It was nearing midnight by the time Gary set two plates on the TV trays in front of the couch. Linda didn’t want to cook and Gary wasn’t leaving for takeout. He wanted to keep an eye on that house. Every few minutes he’d peel back the curtains on their kitchen window and check for lights at the Perkins’ place.

  From the couch, Linda said, “What do you expect to happen? You think you’re going to see them all sitting around the kitchen table eating turkey? Siddown, Gary. Forget about it for five minutes.” She patted the seat beside her, a warm pocket between her and the cushion where Barney was curled up, gently snoring.

  “A band of criminals move in across the street and you tell me to forget about it?”

  “For five minutes, I said. There’s nothing you can do about it right now. Why don’t you come back here and eat something. You’ll feel better.”

  He agreed and plopped down beside her on the couch, took a big bite of his grilled ham and cheese, and washed it down with a slug of beer. He set the longneck down beside the two empties already in front of him.

  Linda waited until he’d taken his next bite before saying, “Band of criminals? That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

  When Gary didn’t snicker, or smile, or even roll his eyes, Linda said, “I think they’re gone. Maybe they saw the police poking around and they took off.”