Blind Luck

by Reggie Stanford

  He returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table before opening the paper. The coffee on the stove started whistling and Marchani poured himself a steaming cup, and continued reading. A headline caught his eye.

  Successful Businessman Shot in his own Home From Behind. Police Still Investigating.

 

  He dropped the paper on the table and finished his coffee in big gulps. He cleaned up after himself in the kitchen and walked into the bedroom. He picked up his pants from last night, that he had lain on the chair and put them back on. Then he opened the drawer and picked up the top shirt and through it on. Ten years ago, when his wife had died, he was left all alone. He had to take care of himself now, to clean his own pants and socks and keep his shirts ironed. Or to make sure there was food in the kitchen. This wasn’t easy at the start but he was used to it by now. He grabbed his keys, and opened the front door. He stepped outside and locked it behind himself, before going across the lawn to his car. He sat inside his Ford LTD Station Wagon. He seemed tiny in the sizeable Hatchback. With a huge struggle on the engines’ part, it leapt into action and he started on his way.

  He made it in half an hour; there was no heavy traffic to slow him down at this hour. He parked in the old abandoned factories parking lot. He dug out the old key and opened the gate. He pulled the enormous switch on the wall, and lit the couple hundred meter squared lot with enormous lights. Marchani’s Gym shined in all its glory in the morning darkness. He walked by the wrist-thick chains used to hold the punching bags, went around the ring and straight up to his office up in the gallery. He had a few minutes before the morning guys would arrive for the first practices.

  I dictated the address for the cabbie, and he quickly changed merged into the outside lane and was heading along with the rest of traffic. There are just over ten thousand taxis in New York. On Ocean parkway alone, there could have been more than a hundred all in a line. This was definitely the easiest way for me to travel without being seen by the police scouting the city for traces of me. It was how I could be invisible.

  It was pretty late. The usual traffic at this hour, it died down a little from people going home, but the nightlife was just starting. It took forty-five minutes to get to the address I had given him. I read the total off the metre, and reached in my pocket to grab my wallet, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was only at this time I remembered that everything I had in my pocket had been moved to a little plastic bag at the police station. From where I had escaped, and where they had definitely already started a headhunt for me.

  I asked the Indian cabbie to wait for me while I ran inside and got some money. I think he understood me, because he didn’t start yelling when I got out of the car, which was a good sign. I didn’t seem like someone who was on the run, and was being chased by the government.

  When I got out of the taxi, and there was a giant brick building in front of me. The memories resurfaced. I was 15 when I was first here. I stood here in amazement the same way staring up at the sign the way I was doing right now. They hadn’t changed the sign, it was just darker from the dirt through all the years. I still knew what it said though.

  I started towards the door. Twenty years ago, on my first day I had no clue to expect, but since then, I had been here over a thousand times so I wasn’t surprised at all. I didn’t find any either; I was greeted by familiar swinging of the chains, the swinging of jump ropes, and the thumping of gloves on the bags. Even Al’s voice could be heard, he was always yelling instructions for his students. I could see him, leaning on the ropes of the ring as I had always known him to do.

  It was as if he sensed my presence and turned towards me slowly. He went silent. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It’s been at least five years since we last met and we hadn’t even talked since. The old man hadn’t changed a bit, except he had a little less hair maybe. I went over and greeted him with a hug.

  “What are you doing here son?” he said with awe.

  “Al, we gotta talk.” I said, trying to sound serious, but didn’t want to worry him.

  “Come on, we’ll go up to my office.” He pointed at his office for me to follow, as if I didn’t know where it was.

  “Boys, give it a few more reps then hit the showers. We’ll continue tomorrow.” He called to the men in the ring.

  We went up to his office. I asked him for some money, and went back to the taxi. I didn’t want to keep the driver waiting any longer; I was probably already suspicious enough. I tipped him a fifty, to forget my name and face. I hurried back to his office and we started our talk.

  “You must be in some deep doo, Roy,” He started.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You’re clearly not here for practice. You don’t have any of your gear, or even a single cent. On top of that it’s too late. You must be here for something else. What is it?”

  He didn’t need a whole lot of logic to figure that out. He was my dad instead of my dad. My real dad worked so much that our house was basically just his place to crash before he got up and went back to work.

  As a kid, to get out of my bad ways, I had turned to sports. Boxing was my alternative means of alleviating my excess anger and energy. I could also use it out on the street, and if someone is good at it, there is a lot of money to be made. I took the time and effort to find a club nearby where I lived. That’s how I met Al and his dirty old boxing club. The old timer had Italian roots, his grandparents moved from their motherland to the land of opportunity.

  “Did you hear about the murder on Station Island?” I asked.

  “I just read about that this morning. Why? You aren’t getting mixed up in any of this are you?”

  “The police think I am the murderer.”

  “What do others think?”

  “Come on Al, shooting someone from behind? Could you even believe that it was me?”

  “I know but I had still had to ask. A trigger sometimes just needs to be pulled, that’s how we keep the wicked on their toes.”

  “It was his wife.” I stated. He gave a reproachful look.

  “You know, this doesn’t even surprise me. You had it all, I promised you a chance at first place. Top prize. Instead you were always busy with the ladies. The bad ones.”

  “Al please don’t fucking do this right now! I have had enough shit to deal with, without looking at my past.”

  “Alright. Fine. I understand,” he said staring off into space. “Do you have a plan? You gonna go find a safe house? Dodge the police for a while?”

  “I was brought in already.”

  “What?” He asked, showing interest for the first time during our conversation.

  “Yes. They arrested me and I waited until I could make my escape.”

  His expression showed a mixture of worry, and incredulity. I decided to clarify the details.

  “You need to understand when I say I had no other choice left. If they stick me in the cell and do a little digging, I’m never getting out of there and you know that too.”

  He shot a glance over his shoulder, as if he suddenly became of the danger of being seen with me right now.

  “Well then champ, what’s your plan?”

  “I need to find the woman. If she confesses, I can still save myself.”

  “Do you know where you’re going to look?”

  “No idea.”

  We talked a little longer, mainly about the past five years. We said our goodbyes, but before I could walk out the door, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large key ring and dramatically put it out on the table. I recognized the keys to his Ford. He nodded, and I took the keys. I didn’t have the words to express my gratitude. I could use his car, which would make my task immensely easier. It was only icing on the cake when he said I could spend my nights here if I wanted to. There was a sizeable couch in his office, which was probably as old as he was. It was ugly, full of holes with the stuffing coming out, and reeked of swe
at, but it was a bed nonetheless. I lay there and stared at the ceiling. I was unable to sleep at all. I wasn’t thinking about the past, but rather I considered my future and what tomorrow would bring. I wanted to make the best of it, so I wouldn’t waste this window of opportunity this old man had given me.

  It’s obvious she wouldn’t be in her estate back on Station Island. She’s probably off hiding somewhere while the storm dies down. Or she might still be on her way to wherever she planned to wait it out. I would bet everything I have, everything I ever had, that she has her little friend with her. I can see them right now, greedily counting up the coins. Why else would they kill the real Mr. Kirkwood?

  These are always the reason people commit murder. Human nature is rather predictable. It’s either out of love, or for the money. Talisha doesn’t really seem like the loving type anymore, I think she’s in it for the money. Patrick Kirkwood was a very well-known businessman. He had good connections, and immense wealth. Talisha was probably ready to do anything, from the start to get a hold of that. Instead of merely considered murder, that may have been her choice of “business” from the beginning. She made plans with her partner to find some poor sucker to dupe, and frame him for the murder. There was only one major flaw in this plan: they picked the wrong guy. I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t even have the pleasure of doing myself. They took advantage of my honesty and trust and that infuriates me. Now that I’m mad, I will stop at nothing to set things right, and clear my name. They have sealed their fates, and they won’t get a second chance at me. I closed my eyes and drifted off into sleep.

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Baker was sitting in his office while listening to the chiefs monologue, and thinking about how things turned bleak so quickly.

  “Baker, you have really fucked up this time.”

  “I know sir. I will fix this as soon as I can sir.”

  “No you won’t.” Said the chief.

  “Why not?”

  “I got a call from New York this morning. The FBI is joining the investigation. There is a murderer on the loose, and who knows where he is? They said from here on out, this is a matter of national security. Two agents are going to be here around noon. I want you to give them everything you have on the case at that point in time and resign from the case thereafter.” Ordered the Chief.

  * * * * *

 

  In the morning, I woke the sound of a door slamming shut. By instinct I rolled over to my other side, as if I could hear more and get a better look. The lights came on, and I heard footsteps through the gym. They climbed the steps slowly, taking them one by one. They got to the door and threw it open, it was the old man.

  “Morning kid!” he greeted me with a smile.

  I didn’t say a word, I merely waved.

  “I brought you some breakfast.”

  He put a cup of coffee and a box of doughnuts on the ground beside the couch. I sat up and grabbed the coffee and took off the lid and took a sip.

  “Thanks Al,” I said, raising the cup. “I really needed this.”

  I put the coffee back down and dug into the doughnuts. I hadn’t even noticed just how hungry I was. I still haven’t had any of that fateful pizza, when the cops knocked on my door. It has been over 18 hours since I last had any food in my stomach.

  “You know if I were coaching you, then I wouldn’t let you eat that garbage, but I’m not so I don’t care. Besides, I doubt prison food is any better.” He said with a wink.

  “Thanks. You always knew just what to say Al.” I replied sarcastically.

  In just a matter of minutes, I scarfed down the entire box of doughnuts. If the poor old man only knew what I had been living off of recently. I don’t even have the guts to tell him I had started smoking again. He probably would have had a heart attack.

  “You have any plans for today?” He asked.

  “I’m going to go back into the city for a bit.” I said with a straight look on my face.

  “Be careful now, son.”

  * * * * *

  People starting trickling in for morning practice, so Al left me alone upstairs. I was thinking I would look around in one of the bad areas of town, question some people, in case people knew the bitch who was Mr. Kirkwood when we were in the restaurant. After all, she might have been a prostitute. This was the only clue I could start off of right now, other than that I had squat. It was stupid to show up there at six in the morning, because I wouldn’t have found anyone, so I had some time to kill. I decided to go downstairs for some practice. I headed over to the locker room, and headed right to the back corner. There was a single locker left locked. I recognized the lock on it. There were two keys to it; one was in my office desk at the bottom of the drawer, and Al had the other one.

  “Where is the locker key?”

  At first he had a dumb look on his face, but then realized my intentions.

  “It’s pinned to the corkboard in my office.”

  I ran up the stairs and went back into his office. The board was on the wall, filled with newspaper clippings and old pictures. Each one had the same guy on it, with giant boxing gloves on both of his hands. The emotions washed over me. A young man filled with plans and dreams. A career in professional boxing. It was a nice trip down memory lane. I grabbed the key and returned to the locker room. I opened the lock and found what I was looking for. A worn out pair of high running shoes, a T-shirt, shorts and of course my gloves. They all smelled old and musty which didn’t surprise me, as they had been waiting in there for years now. I changed quickly and hurried out to the gym. I picked a bag and started whacking away.

  I wasn’t even watching the time. It was eleven when I finished my practice. I felt my muscle memory kick in and felt natural at it, even though it’s been a few years and I had put on some weight.

  I took a long shower and enjoyed the relaxing sensation of the hot water. I got dressed and ran out to the corner store. I was uneasy stepping outside at first, not sure of what to expect. I kept checking behind me, to see if I caught anything suspicious. I bought two hot dogs and ate one on the way back and finished the other in the gym. I spent the rest of the afternoon planning out my route and what I would do. I was started to get really stressed, returning to the jungle to where the wild things are.

  CHAPTER 6

  If you want to find someone, anyone, then you have to look in places they frequent, and might just turn up when you’re there. For example, if you’re trying to find a stock broker, then you might want to take walk down Wall Street. Chances are, that’s where you’ll bump into him, or his friends. If you’re looking for a prostitute, then you probably want to check in the more died down areas of town, which for me was Williamsburg. This part of the city was plagued with crime, corruption, poverty. The population was mainly composed of Eastern European immigrants from after the second world war, Italians, Spanish, and orthodox Jews from working families.

  It was starting to get dark by the time I hit the road. The old Ford’s engine’s purr had a calming effect on me. She glided on the pavement like a mother ship on the ocean.

  I took the scenic route, even though it was riskier. The police were on the lookout for me, and here I am cruising around town without so much as a driver’s license. I got onto the Brooklyn Bridge, making sure to remain at the same speed as those around me. The blue and golden reflection form the eastern river decorated the late afternoon scene. I continued down the streets slowly, looking down each one and checking for people. As I went further and further east, the whole mood of the streets shifted. Litter all over the sides of the streets, the houses appeared as if they wanted to cave in on themselves, and were covered in dirt. No one has ever cared for these buildings. Graffiti masked most of the loose bricks, but none of it had that artist’s touch. Crude words on the wall made anyone want to get out of there. The people who had been returning home from work were starting to get replaced by hookers. This was the Crack scene here in Am
erica. Anyone with some brains could get rich by selling rock here and now if they knew how to do it. That is, until they are shot or caught. This was exactly the kind of place I was looking for.

  I picked out one of the street girls, pulled up to the curb next to her and rolled down the window. The usual looking deal, and she immediately came over. It took her a few shaky steps in what looked like maybe 8 inch heels, and when she got to the car she leaned in and rest her arms on the window.

  “Hey pretty boy. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for someone. She’s, short with black hair. Know anything about her?”

  “No, but why do you need her anyways? Am I not good enough for you?

  “I just need to talk to her...” I started

  “Why? You a cop?”

  “No. I need to ask her something.”

  “There ain’t nobody here like that. Now get the fuck out of here.” And she slowly hobbled her way back to the corner where she had been before.

  I messed up. I can’t let them know I need anything other then what they have to offer. They don’t sell each other out. I could have been her old pimp, or a cop. They can’t know that, end if they don’t trust you they’ll never give you what you want.

  I left the car at Wythe Avenue, and continued on by foot. I tried a few more times with other girls, but none offered any help. I told I would even pay them, but they kept their mouths shut. Or she really didn’t exist here.

  On the other side of the street I spotted a bar. There were colorful neon lights indicating how cheap their beer was and that they had exotic dancers ready to entertain anyone whom it may interest. There were a few hookers standing at the sides of the bar. I figured I would ask them too, and if I don’t get anywhere then I’ll just call it a day. I called to them, just as one was extinguishing her cigarette.