The Corruption Within

by Ty Griffin

  But no. The figure had been wrong. Its movements too menacing. Its proportions too unnatural.

  That’s crazy, though. I was tired after several nights of sleeping on the street and emotional after talking with Gabe. Maybe my mind had just run wild. I mean, what was more likely? That I saw some supernatural creature lurking in the shadows of a little bar in Rockham, or that it was really nothing, like Gabe said?

  That brought my thoughts back to Gabe. How he had given me a job and a place to stay, at least for the night, without knowing anything about me. I thought about how he treated everyone that entered his bar, me included. He seemed to genuinely care about each customer. Like he had somehow turned his restaurant into a second home and his patrons into a family.

  Not once had he mentioned my past or what kind of shape I was in when we met. He introduced me to his customers as a friend, an equal. Obviously not an equal in position, as he was the boss, but equal in importance to the business. It was a strange feeling.

  And he took charge when Paul and I were frozen stiff in the alley. He … rescued us, I guess. He didn’t hesitate, just took on whatever that was in the alley. He said it was nothing, but his face when he shoved me back into the bar—he didn’t look scared, just fierce, like he was preparing himself for battle.

  And what was that flashing light?

  My thoughts continued to circle, daylight not bringing the clarity I had hoped for. Eventually, the sound of a door closing below interrupted my obsessing. I glanced at the clock by the bed—10 a.m. Crap! I was going to be late for my second day on the job. I jumped up and threw on my clothes, the same ones I had worn for nearly a week, and headed downstairs.

  Opening the door to the dining area, I saw Gabe taking chairs down off the tables. When he saw me, he smiled good-naturedly and said, “Good morning, kid. How’d you sleep?”

  His casual greeting was the complete opposite pace from my frantic thoughts and caught me off guard. It was like he didn’t even remember anything had happened the night before. “All right,” I said.

  He nodded toward a cluster of grocery bags lying on the bar. “I stopped by the store this morning and picked up some things for you. There are a couple of shirts, some toiletries, and whatnot. Nothing fancy, but I figure it’ll give you a head start.”

  Dumbfounded, I watched silently as he walked behind the bar and pulled a couple onions from the refrigerator. He stopped when he noticed me staring at him and gave me a questioning glance.

  “Why are you doing this?” I finally asked. “You don’t even know me but you give me a job, let me sleep in your place, and now you buy me clothes? Why?”

  He gave an almost imperceptible shrug, set the onions on the counter, and pulled a cutting board off a shelf. “Everyone needs a little help every once in a while.”

  I stepped up to the bar across from Gabe. “Yeah, you said that yesterday. But why are you helping me?” I pushed. I tried to hide the rising frustration and distrust in my voice.

  Gabe took a deep breath as he grabbed a knife and began cutting the onions. “Hey, I get it, kid. It’s hard to accept help sometimes. Especially if you’re used to taking care of yourself. But don’t let your pride get in the way of a chance to get back on your feet.”

  It was too much. I had seen too much of humanity’s base motivations to believe anyone did anything unselfishly. For someone to be giving away so much at the beginning of a relationship, there had to be some serious expectations coming, and I could not stand the idea of sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Oh, come on, man!” I said with more anger than I intended. “Don’t play me. No one does this. Not for a stranger! What are you playing at? What’s your angle?”

  Red started at Gabe’s neck and crept into his face, but the words had already started, and I never was able to bite back my anger for long. “Is this about last night?” I demanded. “Are you trying to pull me into something? Or are you trying to hide something and hoping to keep me quiet with some crappy clothes?”

  Gabe’s eyes gleamed with angry fire, his entire face now red. “Look, kid. If you don’t want the clothes, don’t take them. But I’ve been nothing but level with you, and I sure as hell am not going to let you come into my place and yell at me,” he said, emphasizing each word with his knife.

  “Level with me?” I yelled. “Then tell me what happened in the alley after you shoved me inside!”

  Gabe froze, the color draining from his face, his eyes going wide. I’d caught him in something, and we both knew it. He quickly tried to compose himself and said, “That was nothing. The doctor said Paul had a panic attack. His wife came and picked him up from the hospital. I’m sure he’s home resting now.”

  “And the … the thing that was with him in the alley?” My voice softened. I felt like an idiot asking that way, but my curiosity outweighed my embarrassment.

  “Nothing. Just some street punk. He ran off as soon as I showed him I wasn’t scared of him,” Gabe said, his voice perfectly flat.

  Anger flashed in my mind again and I began to yell “don’t bullsh—” but was cut off by the jingle of the little bell above the door.

  Two cops walked in. The first was a woman, who from her posture and demeanor was the superior officer. She was short, maybe five-four, and squat, although I wouldn’t even attempt to guess her weight. She had dark skin and curly black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her full lips and round, wide-set eyes brought a sense of symmetry to her plump face.

  The male officer came in second. He was obviously younger, probably only a few years older than me. He was taller than me, maybe six-two, with shoulders so wide they made his head seem unusually small. He had beady, little eyes and a wide, flat nose. When he stepped inside, he slid his sunglasses up to perch on top of his dark, flat-top hair—like a douche.

  I would have known they were cops even if I hadn’t seen the badge on the man’s belt peeking out of his suit jacket as he opened the door. There is something about the way cops scan a room when they enter, like they are always on the lookout for potential threats. They seem to carry themselves with an arrogant air of authority and move like they’re used to crowds parting in front of them. Everything about those two screamed cop, and when their eyes landed on me, I could tell they read criminal all over me.

  “Officer Tilley.” Gabe nodded to the female officer. “Lark.” Then to the male. “Good morning. You’re a little early for lunch. I haven’t quite opened up yet. Haven’t even turned on the grill.”

  “Just coffee, please, Gabe,” said the female officer.

  “Same,” grunted the male.

  “All right. Give me a minute to get some brewing.”

  Still angry, and unenthused about the interruption and the company, I leaned past the cops to grab the bags Gabe had brought and headed upstairs.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You blew it, Wesley. The man gave me a job, let me sleep in his place, and bought me clothes. I couldn’t just say thank you and keep my fool mouth closed? No, I had to spout off and get myself fired. Moron!

  I dumped the bags out on the bed and took stock of what he had given me. There were a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a stick of deodorant in the first bag. The second had a couple of T-shirts and three long-sleeve, plaid button-ups. The third had a pair of jeans, a package of boxers, and some socks. Apparently instead of assuming I had been wearing the only clothes I could find, Gabe had assumed I preferred the homeless lumberjack look.

  I changed and, finding the new clothes fit well enough, tore off the various tags and stickers. I shoved my old clothes in one of the bags and took the toiletries to the bathroom. Let me tell you, brushing your teeth and putting on deodorant are greatly underappreciated details of life. Those two simple actions made me feel more human than I had in a long, long time. Once done, I dumped the toiletries and the remainder of the clothes in the bags and headed back downstairs.

  When I made it down, I heard the female officer speaking. “That’s three assaults in
two weeks, all along Walshack Street. You know something about this, Gabe. I know you do.” Her voice, while not quite accusatory, was demanding.

  I stepped through the back room door, and the three looked up at me, pausing their conversation. Gabe glanced down at the bags in my hands and then back up to my eyes. I stared back defiantly. I needed the job, we both knew it, but I was still angry, and stubborn, and wasn’t about to apologize. Especially not in front of cops. I knew he was probably going to fire me, but I was going to take the bags with me. I felt a small pang of guilt at the thought, but I needed the clothes and wasn’t going to give them back.

  We held eyes for a moment before Gabe said, “Wesley, we’re almost out of tomatoes. There’s a farmer that sells vegetables out of the back of his truck a couple blocks north of here. He’s usually there by now. Just tell them it’s for me and he will set you up. Take some cash from the drawer on your way out.”

  I fumbled for words for a moment. I had been sure he was going to fire me, rightfully so. I’d prepared a retort and a finger gesture to use while I was leaving, but I hadn’t prepared anything for this. And then I saw the question in his eyes. He was offering me an olive branch and waiting to see if I would take it.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I tossed the bags on the floor in the storage room and closed the door behind me. I walked to the register, careful to not make eye contact with the cops and aware that the three were waiting for me to leave before starting their conversation back up. I grabbed some cash from the register, held it up for Gabe to see how much I had taken, and stepped out to the street.

  One of the nice things about Colorado is that it’s a good deal more difficult to get lost than a lot of places, at least in cities like Rockham that are near the foothills of the Rockies. As long as you have a reasonably clear line of sight, you can always look to the mountains to determine which direction is west. Stepping out of the restaurant, I knew the mountains were to my left, so north would be directly forward.

  It only took a few minutes to find the farmer, buy some tomatoes, and return to the bar. As I was walking up, the two cops exited onto the street. Officer Tilley eyed me up and down. “Wesley, was it?” she asked in full police bravado.

  “Yep,” I said curtly.

  “Wesley what?”

  “What?” I asked. I knew what she wanted and I knew I was being petty, but I never was one for volunteering information to a cop.

  “Don’t be a wiseass,” sneered Lark.

  Tilley shot Lark a cautioning glance, then narrowed her eyes at me. “What is your name, Mr. Wesley?” she asked with cold professionalism.

  “Petterson.”

  “Wesley Petterson. Okay, Mr. Petterson, we come around here from time to time. I’m sure we will see you again.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I said, the sarcasm dripping from my lips.

  I stepped past the two and walked inside. Gabe had apparently finished preparing the burger toppings and was dumping a large container of ice into the beer bath. “Just stick those in the fridge for now. We can cut them up before the dinner rush.”

  I walked behind the bar and stuck the tomatoes in the fridge like he’d said. “Gabe, I, uh …” I had to swallow hard. Pride doesn’t go down easy. “You’ve been really good to me. I’m sorry for yelling, and thank you … for everything.”

  Gabe extended his hand. I shook it. He nodded and said, “Okay, let’s get to work, huh?”

  Grateful to not have to drag the conversation out, I smiled and said, “Yes, sir!”

  The lunch crowd passed through smoothly, although calling it a crowd is generous. A handful of customers trickled in. Gabe greeted everyone by name and introduced me, just as he had the day before. I tried to learn everyone’s name but generally forgot by the time they left.

  During one of the lulls, I tried to casually bring up the cops that had come in that morning. I couldn’t help but wonder what they wanted with Gabe. But he changed the subject quickly, making it abundantly clear he didn’t care to talk about it. I decided he deserved to have his secrets and let the subject drop.

  Sometime around mid-afternoon, the restaurant emptied out. Gabe set to prepping food for the dinner rush while I washed dishes and took out the trash, a significantly less terrifying activity in the bright afternoon. I was adding a few beers to the beer bath when Gabe stepped up beside me and said, “We need to talk about rent.”

  “Rent?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You need a place to stay. I have that apartment upstairs. Seems like a good fit.”

  “Oh, uh, yeah! That would be great!” I said. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Did you see the books up there?”

  “Yeah?” I drew the word out in confusion.

  “That will be your rent. One book every two weeks. You read a book every couple weeks, whatever book you want, and on Sunday mornings we sit and talk about what you’ve read. If you can’t find something in there you want to read, the library is just a couple miles from here.”

  “You want me to read for my rent?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “Any book I want?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then we just talk about it? Do I have to write a report or something?”

  “No report. Just tell me about the book and what you thought about it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take rent out of my check? That seems a lot easier.”

  “Hmm. Yeah, but an employee that’s not an idiot is much more valuable,” he answered, his face flat.

  Did he just call me an idiot? You know what, who cares. It’s free rent.

  “Uh, yeah. Fair enough. Thanks, Gabe.”

  Just then I noticed Gabe’s eyes shift past me, and I followed his gaze to the door. As I watched, a man opened the door. He was pale, maybe in his mid-thirties. He was a few inches shorter than me, maybe five-nine or five-ten, but several pounds heavier. He wore loose khaki pants and a white tank top. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, and he had the well-defined muscles that come from spending a lot of time lifting weights rather than from hard work. He wore several gold chains around his neck, and poking past his ears were sleek, black temple tips with an expensive brand logo from the sunglasses perched on the back of his head.

  I felt the muscles in my neck tighten and my palms begin to sweat. I like to consider myself a fairly progressive person, not judging a book by its cover and all that. But that man’s look made a specific statement, and I recognized the quality of his tattoos. I had seen many like them. They were prison tattoos.

  The instant before the man’s foot landed inside the restaurant, a bright light flashed from behind me, briefly casting my shadow against the wall. It was like the flash from a camera, but one thousand times brighter and a sharp blueish-white.

  At the same time, Gabe said, “No,” in a tone harder and colder than I had thought him capable of.

  I closed my eyes on instinct, and it took me a moment to realize that the light hadn’t hurt. When I opened my eyes, I saw Gabe and the stranger locked in a staring contest, neither making any indication that they had seen the bright flash of light.

  The stranger stopped halfway through the door. After an intense moment, he raised a hand to his chest. “Whaaat?” he said in mock offense. “You don’t want my business, homie?” As he spoke, his lips curled into a sarcastic smile.

  “We can talk outside, Barnett,” Gabe said as he walked toward the door in agitated steps.

  Barnett stepped back and swiped his arm from his waist toward the street in an exaggerated invitation. The two men stepped onto the sidewalk and faced each other like two boxers toeing the line. The door swung closed, and I could not hear what they were talking about, but it was obvious they did not agree on the matter. They gestured at each other with short, jerky motions, pointing and swinging their arms.

  I watched them, dumbstruck, and by the time I realized I should do something, the two were parting ways. Barnett flashed Gabe the
finger and walked off toward a shiny, black Cadillac. A glare on the restaurant window obscured my view, but I saw someone open the back door of the car and Barnett climb inside. The man then walked around the car and got in on the opposite side.

  Gabe stepped back into the bar, leaned against the door, and let out a huge sigh.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Fine. He’s just a thug. He’s all talk and always backs down after beating his chest for a couple of minutes.”

  “Always? Does he do that often?”

  “Eh, not often. Every few months or so,” Gabe answered dispassionately.

  “What does he want?” I asked.

  He just shook his head slightly, stepped back behind the bar, and began wiping down the counter. It was obvious he did not intend to answer my question, and I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. We worked in silence for several minutes, each lost in our own thoughts.

  A question kept nagging at the back of my mind, and eventually I had to ask. “Did you tell him not to come inside because of your rule that you do your best to help everyone that walks through the door?”

  Gabe looked at me seriously and said, “The help that man wants is not help I am willing to give. And the help I am willing to give, he does not want.”

  I tried to focus on my job that night. I tried to learn customers’ names and stay ahead of the orders. I tried to ignore the nagging questions running through my mind. I tried to leave well enough alone, but I never was very good at backing down.

  Several strange things had happened in the day and a half I had been working at Gabe’s Bar and Grill. It was like someone had dumped a bunch of random pieces from a jigsaw puzzle on the table. I didn’t have enough pieces to stick any together, and I didn’t know where any of them went in the puzzle. I just felt like if I found the rest of the pieces, the picture they formed would be peculiar and uncomfortable.