Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  I give myself a moment before opening my eyes. When I do, I find Ruby staring back at me as if I just told her what I had for lunch.

  Completely bored.

  As uninterested as a person can be.

  Her face is asking, That’s it? She scrunches her nose, checks her knife, loads her Glock, gives the .38 on her ankle a look, blows me a kiss, and leaves the room to go kill her father.

  114

  As soon as the door shuts, my brain splinters into a thousand directions.

  All those directions carry the same central theme: What the fuck do I do? Rushing to the window, I watch Ruby get into the car and pull out of the parking lot. Do I bolt? Call the cops? My thoughts collide, explode into a plume of fire and smoke only to reverse and have those thoughts come back together in their original shitty form. The best I can tell, here’s the deal…

  If I bounce the hell out of here and Ruby fails, then Choke will come after me and possibly release the footage. We’ve already established the downside of that footage being released, and it’s crystal clear that me in jail will not work.

  If I run and Ruby kills Choke and he’s telling the truth and the footage gets released, then I’ll have Ruby hunting me down until the end of days. And I’m still going to jail.

  The only scenarios I can come up with that do not put me in jail and give me the best chance for survival are:

  1. Ruby kills Choke, he’s lying about the footage, I kill Ruby, and everybody lives happily ever after—except Ruby and Choke.

  2. Ruby kills Choke, he’s telling the truth and the video get out, and Ruby is my only way out of the country, thus skipping jail.

  There is a third option, which is the least desirable of this undesirable bunch.

  3. What if Choke kills Ruby? Then Choke will come after me for the money and probably kill me, or he will release the footage and never be heard from again because he will probably sell the footage for a shitload of money.

  Oh wait. There is a fourth possibility that’s the worst of all.

  4. What if neither one of them gets killed? What if they reconcile, father and daughter, and decide to come after me?

  115

  Fuck.

  116

  The carpet below me is wearing thin.

  Back and forth, back and forth, and then forth and back.

  Sweating stopped about an hour ago. It’s been about four hours since Ruby left to murder Choke. I tried to leave about two hours ago. Got on a bus and made it about a mile and a half before I hopped off at the first stop and ran back. Almost broke my head and hand while slamming them relentlessly on the mirror in the bathroom. There’s a small wound on my forehead. Need to stop picking at it so it will start to heal.

  What’s the point?

  Choke or Ruby will probably cut my head off.

  My phone is blowing up. Thirty-six messages. Forty-five missed calls. I called Alex. Didn’t mention my current dilemma, though I’m sure he sensed something was wrong, mainly because he asked, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I couldn’t tell him, what good would it do? Drag him into this, get him kidnapped or killed. The cops can’t help me. They’ll arrest me if the footage comes out anyway.

  This is what my grandmother would call a real pickle. Haven’t thought about her in years. I miss her, my grandmother. I miss the simplicity of that relationship. My current relationships have become increasingly complex.

  My movie was released today. I’ve had the TV on and have seen a couple of ads and a few reviews. They’re pretty good. Can’t complain, really. Only wish I could enjoy the moment. I’ve dreamt of this time. Making it. Getting back in the game. And now, now it’s slipping away. Again.

  My pacing continues.

  My skin is crawling.

  My movie is called Madman’s Jazz, and it’s playing at a theater near you.

  117

  It’s morning now.

  No idea when I passed out, but I did. The TV is still on. I’m still completely dressed with my three-hundred-dollar running shoes on. I should run. Should run the hell away from here and all of this. Got the shoes for it, plus I’m already sweating.

  The doorknob rattles.

  Time’s up.

  Whoever comes rushing through that door will decide the rest of my life.

  Ruby steps in. Blood splatters are streaked across her face, chest, and legs. She has a limp and is holding a McDonald’s bag. She smiles at me. It’s an empty smile, with nothing really behind it, as if it carries no emotional weight. Her glossy eyes are distant and dead.

  “I brought breakfast,” she says, tossing me an Egg McMuffin.

  118

  Ruby doesn’t say a word about what happened.

  It’s clearly affecting her. She turned off the TV, wanting the room quiet, and takes a seat on the bed next to me. Looking her over, I don’t see any real wounds. Scratches here and there, a bump or two—that blood on her is all Choke’s. I catch her staring into the distance. Lost in the space in front of her, looking into something only she can see. She never says the name Choke. She only says that it’s over now. Rocks back and forth slightly, saying “it’s over now” again and again.

  We eat in silence.

  After she swallows her last bite, I ask, “What are we going to do?”

  Without making eye contact, she says, “Our out is still good. I checked it.”

  “That’s good,” I say. It might have sounded like a question coming from me.

  “Did you take care of the bank wires?” she asks.

  “I haven’t yet—”

  She backhands me, sending me flopping to the other side of the bed. My last bite of McMuffin flies from my mouth and sticks on the wall. I watch as it starts its slow peel away from the paint.

  “I’ll call them now,” I say.

  The semi-chewed bit of McMuffin on the wall has almost broken free.

  “Just fucking do it,” she says.

  The brownish wad mixed with yellow and pink wiggles down the wall.

  “Is the cash close?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  The wad rolls down a centimeter or two.

  I watch.

  “We’ll wait here, see if the footage gets released. We might have to get out fast, so we need to be ready to get gone in a blink,” she says. “Sorry I had to hit you.”

  The bite breaks free, tumbling down to the stained carpet.

  119

  I called and made the wire arrangements to the bank account Ruby gave me.

  Found out it was a Swiss account. Sounds like a bad movie cliché. Criminals and Swiss bank accounts, but that’s what is happening. Ruby tells me we aren’t headed to Switzerland, it’s just the first landing spot for the funds, and if it turns out we don’t need to leave the country, then we can get it back fairly easily. I wired over two million. It’s not everything, but it’s enough to keep Ruby off me, and it was the max I could get done over the phone. I’ve still got the cash from the trunk of the car, the money Boone and I picked up at the storage unit. It’s in a different storage facility in Santa Monica. Ruby says we’ll need some of it to buy our away out of the country.

  We’ve had the TV on for the last hour or so and no sign of the footage being released. We should know pretty damn quick.

  Alex has called ten times.

  Ruby says we should wait a day or two to see if the footage is released. Just to be safe. Safe? That’s a good one. Safe is a strange concept to me now. Safe is a distant memory. A fond one, but I may never visit safe again.

  Another hour passes and nothing.

  Ruby has taken three showers, says she can’t get clean. I know the feeling. She asks me if we should have sex to pass the time. I say that might not be the best idea. I thought she was going to slap me again, but she didn’t and agreed with me. She starts talking about kids and our life. I think about how I’m going to kill her. Getting much more comfortable with the idea. I hope soon this will all be over. I hope soon we’ll learn Choke was bluffin
g and we can leave. I hope I’ll be able to get back to a life that doesn’t include all of this, void of constant death and the threat of it. I hope I can still talk to Lucy. I hope. I hope. I hope. I allow my eyes to slip over to the TV.

  The news breaks in. There it is. My picture plastered on the screen.

  My heart drops.

  I hold my breath.

  Hear words like anonymous source.

  I hear words like murder. Names like W. Gains. That’s all Ruby needed to see. The TV is off, and she has gathered everything in her arms with the door open. I’m still staring at the blank screen. Trying to process. Not wanting to process. This cannot be happening, but I know it is.

  It’s like that little box just informed me my life is over.

  Just like that.

  I feel nothing. My insides are an empty warehouse.

  Ruby tells me it’s time to go, tells me to leave my cell, they can trace it.

  I know she’s right, so I get up and walk out.

  120

  I make it two steps and stop. Can’t leave, not yet. Not like this.

  Ruby is ahead of me by only a few feet, but it’s enough. She turns. “What? Come on.”

  “I forgot something. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “Fuck that,” Ruby says.

  “Be right back, just a second.”

  I run back to the room. I can feel Ruby chasing me. Once I get inside, I lock the door and bolt the chain. Ruby pounds on the door.

  Grabbing my cell, I call Lucy. She picks up on the third ring.

  She says hello.

  My heart dissolves, but can’t let this flood of feelings slow me down. Have to get this out of my mouth before Ruby tears down that door and reaches me. Don’t think. Speak. My lips part…

  “It’s Jasper, please don’t say anything. I don’t have a lot of time and I need to tell you some things before I can’t anymore. You’re going to hear a lot about me, maybe over the next few hours or minutes. I wish you wouldn’t hear any of it, but I know that’s impossible. I hope—”

  Ruby screams, beating at the door like a crazed animal trapped outside.

  “I want you to remember me as I remember you.”

  The beating grows in intensity. She’ll be in here soon.

  “Remembering you makes me smile. Thinking of you makes me feel better, makes me feel okay about being miserable me.”

  Door is cracking under the flood of Ruby’s violence outside.

  “Take care of yourself, Lucy, have a good life and do not tolerate anybody who doesn’t see you the way I do. I care about you so much and I’m so damn sorry I wasn’t strong enough to tell you any of this before now. I have to go.”

  I hang up before she can say anything.

  I drop the phone.

  I take in a deep breath.

  Ruby smashes the door in.

  I exhale.

  * * *

  PART IV

  “What appeals to you the most is the very thing that will drive you crazy. ”

  —Emily Giffin, Love the One You’re With

  121

  The new nose is fine.

  Never really was that unhappy with my old one, but when you’re on the run from everything and everyone, changes are necessary. My hair is now jet-black rather than the previous graying highlights that were invading what was left of the chestnut brown I owned for so many years. I dye it regularly, at the first hint of my old color coming through. It’s been cut short, so it’s not difficult or time consuming. Getting the beard right is the real bitch.

  I read once about how when a Chinese man goes away to prison, it’s referred to as “going gray.” Ever noticed how Chinese males who are well into their fifties and sixties have a full head of jet-black hair? They dye it, obviously, but in prison, hair dye is not permitted, so when they go in they are forced to allow the natural progression of gray to creep in. Thus, going gray. Guess I’m going in the opposite direction. My situation is prison-like, but this place is far from living in a full-on correctional facility.

  The house we rent in Zagreb is fine.

  Croatia is fine and surprisingly affordable. Many people speak some English, and there are quite a few who are fluent. It’s flush with expats from the United States. You never really discuss any details of their situation with them, just like you don’t discuss your details with them either. You stick to polite former-US chitchat—sports, food, bars you miss and whatnot.

  Some even talk lawns and grilling.

  I don’t seem to mind that as much here.

  Thanks to Ruby and her person who set up this little getaway, we have multiple identities at our disposal that will allow us to have access to cell phones and the Internet. We’ve changed them three times since we got here about a month ago. We’ve been on the run for longer. Different cities. Different countries. Our pool of IDs is going to run out soon at this rate. The money wires have been properly laundered, from what I understand, and our pot of cash is in a secure location nearby.

  Everything is fine.

  Our house, our lives are very normal.

  Very isolated.

  Very fine.

  Ruby is not fine.

  Ruby is insane.

  I knew this already, of course, but it’s gotten worse since she killed Choke. That incident unhinged something inside of her. It’s understandable. The death of parent is hard enough to deal with on its own. The degree of emotional difficulty must be significantly amplified when you arranged for the death. There are days when she won’t say a word, then she’ll spend hours crying behind a locked bathroom door, then she’ll smile and laugh like she’s the happiest girl in the world. It’s a mixed bag, and you never know which Ruby you’re getting day to day. She has killed three people in the last month alone. Not in the house and not all of them in front of me. She was courteous enough to do this all outside of town, and only did the one while I was there, but they are dead and she murdered them.

  How do I know this?

  She’s come home late at night covered in blood with a smile plastered on her face. It’s like that alcoholic spouse who sneaks to the bar for a couple of drinks and comes home bombed out of their skull.

  It’s like that.

  It’s nothing like that.

  She videos the killings and makes me watch. In HD. Afterward, she wants sex. Rough sex. I’d rather not discuss, but I will say it’s not what you want. Lately that hasn’t been enough. The sex, I mean. She’s been paying prostitutes, both male and female, to come home and join in. All very Tisha Durden–like. This has to stop. Tabling the idea that I’m not gay and this is all outside my respectfully wide comfort zone, this is also eating into our cash.

  We are on our own out here.

  There is no pension coming.

  We aren’t getting jobs. I’m only qualified to make movies, and she’s a crazy bitch. Not a ton of matching job profiles out here in the lands of Croatia.

  I’ve given up on sleeping. There’s no point to it. Sleeping in the same bed with Ruby is like sleeping next to a bomb. It’s going to go off any second, and you’ll have no warning and little time to escape. My eyes want to close so damn bad, but I will not let them. My mind is pancake batter. My life has mutated into this strange form of being. A life that has yet to be defined, and it’s impossible to measure success or failure within its confining construct. I hate to be trite, but it is what it is. It’s just an ever-forming mass.

  A tumor born of ugliness.

  A malignant tumor of ugliness that is escalating at a geometric rate.

  Geometric cancer named Ruby.

  We have weapons all over the house, and she’s shown me how to use them. We’ve spent Sundays before sunrise firing guns in the middle of nowhere. Nobody has ever complained. Gunfire in the distance in Croatia has little meaning, I can only assume. Ruby thinks training me in “kill tactics” helps us both. She’s convinced “they” are coming and she’s probably right. I haven’t seen any sign of anybody wanting to do us
harm, but what the hell do I know anymore. Maybe the ones she killed were out to get us, but I doubt it seriously. She kills for sport now more than anything. I’m just thankful she doesn’t feel the need to mount the heads on the wall.

  This is where I am as a human being.

  “It’s you and me,” she says. “We have no idea who or what is coming or when they will be here. You and me against the world, Jas.”

  She calls me Jas now. I hate that she calls me Jas now.

  I load the Glock like she showed me.

  This all has to stop.

  If she ever thought about it, she’d understand that we don’t talk. She talks. She talks at me. I nod and agree, but never give anything in return. I’m like a puppy with a slightly better vocabulary who she can force into odd sexual situations.

  Ruby will be home soon.

  I have no idea where she is.

  Rather not imagine.

  I know I cannot continue this way, with this life. The first reason is obvious: I don’t really enjoy my current lifestyle. The second reason is that eventually she will become bored with me and find a better option and she will, without question, kill me and take all the money.

  Ruby’s thoughts are far worse, but she’s not that far removed from Tisha. Like a Tisha clone, only the clone has been raised to kill, and the clone’s waves of insanity include murder and life-threatening sessions of testicle torture.