One Shot Away

by T. Glen Coughlin

  “This is my boy,” says Pops.

  “The wrestler, tough guy, huh?” The attorney laughs at his own joke. “Frankie Scales,” he says, “like the scales of justice.” He pushes a pile of green and yellow files, tagged with names, to the side of his desk. He rifles through the contents of a cardboard box on an overturned milk crate and pulls a file. He reads for a minute, then gazes at them with his saggy old eyes. “Okay, let’s set the ground rules. Jim, you’re eighteen?”

  Jimmy nods.

  “Don’t talk to anyone but me and your dad about this. Any police show up on your doorstep, you say, ‘Talk to my lawyer.’” He leans forward. “From today on, I’m your lawyer. You got that?”

  Jimmy nods again.

  “I hear you got yourself a little girlfriend, is that true?” The attorney grins. “Well, you don’t tell her anything either. You start talking to her, you might as well go chalk it on the blackboard in school. You got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember, Frankie Scales,” he says. “Like the scales of justice.”

  Jimmy doesn’t feel reassured. Nothing his father does ever turns out right.

  “I don’t want either one of you talking about your case on the phone. Not on your home phone or your cell phones.”

  “They’re bugging my phone?” asks Pops.

  “Artie, you’re a big fish in a small town. The police could indict you and your son, or they could come and pick you both up, or they could drop the whole thing.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?” asks Jimmy.

  “All they have is circumstantial evidence,” says the attorney. “They don’t have a witness; they don’t have the wood; and they can’t verify the sale of the wood. Now, what they do have is you and your son in a truck filled with, what’d you call it?”

  “Lumber,” says Pops.

  “Right, lumber.” He scratches his head. “What, like two-by-fours?”

  “Like that, yes.” Pops coughs.

  Jimmy shuts his eyes. Stealing wood. It sounds moronic, like stealing rocks or dirt.

  “So, the police have a truck with lumber leaving the approximate area of the theft on the night of the crime.” The attorney cocks an eyebrow. “That’s all they have?”

  “Right, that’s it.” Pops looks at Jimmy.

  “I guess,” says Jimmy.

  “Could they find a witness?”

  His father lifts his eyes. “A witness?”

  “Someone who saw you. A guard or a citizen out for a midnight stroll?”

  Jimmy’s heart jolts. “There was a guard.”

  “He let us in.” Pops’s knee is vibrating so hard, Jimmy can feel it in his chair.

  “Pops, tell him the truth,” says Jimmy.

  Pops clears his throat. “I paid him two hundred to turn his back.”

  “Well, stay away from him,” says Frankie Scales. “The police may have already flipped him. He could be talking.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Pops. “That old guy …”

  “You don’t know and I don’t know, so stay away from him.”

  They sit for a moment in silence.

  “How do you think it looks?” asks Pops.

  “With you getting stopped, and now you tell me about a co-conspirator, who may or may not have been approached.” Frankie Scales shakes his head. “We’ll see and hope for the best.”

  Jimmy shuts his eyes. Hope for the best? What does that mean?

  The lawyer stands. “I’ll need a check for five hundred or four in cash.”

  Pops yanks his wallet from his back pocket. He places a stack of bills on the desk. “It’s all there,” he says.

  “I’m sure it is.” They shake hands.

  Jimmy follows Pops from the office. He’s numb.

  Trevor

  TREVOR ENTERS HIS MOTHER’S ROOM FROM THE ADJOINING door and freezes. London’s shirtless, sitting on the edge of his mother’s unmade bed, pulling on his socks. His dark hair sticks up, uncombed. Their eyes meet.

  “Morning,” he says.

  “I thought my mother was here.”

  “She’s taking care of a mess. The toaster oven in nine A caught fire.” He shakes his head. “Ruined all the work I did in that kitchen.”

  Trevor can’t think of London’s hairy chest in bed next to his mother without being nauseated. “I’ll come back later,” he says.

  “No, no, please, come on in,” says London.

  Trevor goes behind the counter in his mother’s kitchenette. He plugs in the blender. He needs something to fill his stomach after the weigh-ins. He removes a package of protein powder from the cabinet. His phone rings. He says, “Hello,” but there’s no one there. He checks the phone: “private number.” Last time Gino called, it was a private number.

  “I fixed the clog in your sink,” says London. “You don’t want to know what was in the drain. First, I remove a wad of crud, looked like something from the black lagoon, and then I find a nail file. Believe that?”

  Trevor dumps the powder into the blender. He’s trying to concentrate on making the protein shake. He doesn’t want to look at London, or hear him. Trevor opens the refrigerator for skim milk.

  “You missing a nail file?”

  “No.” Trevor clenches his teeth with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “Well, it was there.” He slips on a pair of work boots. “It would help if you’d get a little more involved around here. I could put you on the payroll.” He pulls on a shirt.

  Trevor studies the back of the protein package. Forty-four grams of protein. London is sleeping with his mother. Fat calories 30, total fat 3 grams. London is sleeping with his mother. Does she have real feelings for him?

  “How about some painting tonight?” asks London. “I need the ceiling in five A painted pronto. I had the roof fixed, and there’s a water stain right over the bed.”

  “Tonight?” Trevor’s already painted four rooms at ten dollars a room. That’s below minimum wage. He doesn’t want to paint any more rooms. Especially not tonight, a Saturday. Maybe the team will get together, or he and Jimmy might do something.

  London folds his arms. “This is a motel. That room could be making money.”

  “I never wanted to move here in the first place,” says Trevor.

  “What’s so bad? You have a roof over your head, your own room, not to mention a mother who would do anything for you, anything in the world.”

  “She regrets it, and I hate it here.”

  “She regrets it? Are you sure? Because she told me things were finally coming together for her.” London steps closer, cornering him next to the microwave. Trevor feels his height and weight. “I’m asking you man to man, give this a chance. Your mother is a good woman.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve known her a lot longer than you.” Trevor tries to pass, but London doesn’t budge.

  “I know you’re having a hard time.”

  “You got us here and you chained my dog outside when I told you not to. Now you’re messing with my mother.”

  “What was I supposed to do, let your dog eat my motel? Remember, I’m not a rich guy. I couldn’t let you live in that house for free. But I did the next best thing.”

  “Get away from me!” He’s trembling.

  “I ask you to paint one room, one room.”

  “I’ve already painted four rooms. I have a match today. I’m not painting anything!”

  The door opens. Camille’s carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Look what I found in seven A,” she says, then frowns.

  “We were talking.” London straightens the blanket on the bed.

  “About what?” Her eyes narrow on London.

  “About everything,” says Trevor.

  “Har-ry,” groans Camille.

  London grabs his coat and goes out the door.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “You’re sleeping with a manipulating asshole,” yells Trevor. “That’s what happened!”
/>
  She follows him into his room. “I wanted to talk to you. I’m so sorry sweetheart, so sorry.”

  “Sorry about what? Living here? Sleeping with London? What?” Trevor faces the window. A blonde girl he’s seen a few times slips out of a room and enters a taxi. She’s got to be a hooker.

  “Sorry about everything,” she says.

  Jimmy

  THE FIRST MATCH OF THE SEASON IS ALWAYS AGAINST THE COLTS. The gym will be standing room only. Jimmy should be warming up with the team. Instead, he’s in the locker room, slumped over on a bench, shirtless, barefoot, wearing a pair of green boxer-briefs covered with shamrocks. He hasn’t slept a full night since going to the lawyer’s office. A feeling that something bad is going to go down is cemented in his brain. He can’t shake it.

  He examines his reflection in the mirror hanging in his locker. His eyes are half closed. His cheeks are hollow. His lips gray. He needs to go back to bed for a week.

  Diggy bursts from a stall, smiling. “I just killed a mule in there.”

  Jimmy tries to laugh, but can’t release the ache in his chest.

  “What’s the matter?” asks Diggy.

  “I’m over. A pound and a half.”

  Diggy finishes washing his hands, then sits next to him. “You can run that off.”

  “I know, but I’m already burnt. I haven’t eaten since yesterday at three o’clock. I had a protein bar and I can’t even take a crap.” Jimmy opens his bag, revealing a pair of silver-colored rubber sweatpants. “My father gave me these to sweat off water weight.” He looks around to see if anyone else is watching. “These suits are illegal.”

  “Illegal?” asks Diggy.

  “You know, against the regulations. I’ve got to go run in the basketball gym where no one will see me.” Jimmy pushes the silver suit back into the bag. He walks to the electronic floor scale, which sits on a block of marble next to the toilet stalls. Over it hangs a drawing of an orange, with the words “Remember the Five-Pound Orange.” Greco’s anecdote about a wrestler, who after weighing-in five pounds over whined, “All I ate was an orange,” is told at the start of every season. Greco finishes the story by saying, “Everything you do counts. Everything.”

  The scale shows 161.

  “One pound,” says Diggy. “You put that spaceman suit on and you can drop it in five minutes.”

  Jimmy leans against a locker and tugs on the aluminum-colored pants. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m hungry, and I’m wiped.”

  Diggy pulls the top of the suit from the bag. “Man, you can do it.”

  “It takes about thirty minutes to burn off a half pound, and my mind quit like five minutes ago.” His face runs with perspiration. He sits and hangs his head above his knees.

  “You don’t look good.” Diggy steps back. “You’re hands are shaking. You want me to get Greco?”

  “I don’t have the flu, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just tired of pretending. I’m the team captain. I’m supposed to have things under control, but nothing’s right.” Jimmy shakes his head at the floor, then looks up with a sudden thought. “If things go the wrong way for me, you’ll be captain.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re captain. I got three votes.” Diggy folds his arms. “Did you knock up Roxanne?”

  “No.” Jimmy heaves a deep breath. “But I probably already lost her.” He doesn’t want to tell Diggy anything else. Strong people don’t advertise their problems.

  Diggy sits next to him. “Jimmy, what are you bugging about? You can tell me. I’m the Dig-Master General, remember?”

  He used to call Diggy that. “All I can say is my father put me in a bad place and I’m gonna have to suck it up.”

  Diggy doesn’t budge. “Look, Jimmy, I got secrets of my own. You don’t have to worry.”

  “Diggy, if I do tell you, it’s got to be in the vault. Don’t go blabbing it around, especially not to Greco.”

  “One thing I can do is keep information underground,” says Diggy.

  “It’s something bad,” says Jimmy. “This is for real.”

  Diggy grabs Jimmy’s shoulder. “Look, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I can’t trust my own father.” Jimmy’s voice quavers. “That’s part of it.”

  Diggy laughs. “Once you know that, it’s not a problem anymore. I don’t trust mine either.”

  “He talked me into stealing some stuff with him and the cops already figured the whole thing out. I could be arrested today, tomorrow, the next day. I could leave the gym and detectives could be waiting for me.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  Diggy is silent. He looks stunned.

  Trevor

  GRECO LOCKS THE LOCKER ROOM DOOR, SEALING OFF THE noisy crowd in the gym. Trevor waits with the Minute Men, all dressed in matching hooded jackets and sweatpants. Greco looks them over. “Today is the season’s opening day,” he says. A few guys clap. “You’ve all put in the work to get here. I saw you all at the practices. I ran you from here to Lake Lakookie and you made it there and back.” A few guys laugh.

  “Wherever that is,” says Bones.

  “You put sweat equity in at the summer program,” continues Greco. “Trevor, you were there. How hot was it in the gym?”

  Trevor looks up.

  “Hot as J. Lo,” pipes up Bones. Everyone laughs.

  “The practices are in the bank, and you’ve made weight. You’ve already earned a win today. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was that?”

  “Yeah!” they shout.

  “And don’t let me see you give up. If you’re down ten points, you can still get a pin. You’re just a shot away from a pin at any point in the match. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah!”

  “One shot, one properly executed shot, is all it takes. Think about what you’ve done in practice. Let’s put them in.” The guys stand and toss their headgear in a small pile on the tile floor. Trevor drops his on the others and they form a circle around the pile.

  Greco grips a hockey-stick handle, painted red and white, the school colors, and mixes the stick around the headgear, stirring them. Guys place their hands over the headgear as if they are warming them above a fire. So, this is the team’s tradition, thinks Trevor. He’s heard that they stirred “the soup” before every match, but never understood it. Now, he’s in. It feels good. He searches the pile of new and battered headgear until he finds his. Last year, his father taped the straps of his headgear with cloth first-aid tape. “Now it should stay where it belongs,” he said.

  Greco grabs as many hands as he can, cupping them into a large mass. Trevor peers around the circle: Pancakes, Bones, Jimmy, Gino, Diggy, Turkburger, Mario, Cleaver, Salaam, Paul, and the rest of the guys. He feels good about all of them. Even Diggy. Maybe he’ll win today at 170 and the wrestle-off will be behind them.

  Trevor has to prove he can hold his weight class. “That’s Crow,” he imagines Greco remarking to another coach. “He can go the distance with anyone at one-fifty-two.”

  “God, keep us safe today. Help us do our best,” says Greco. “Let’s show everyone what we are made of!”

  They line up in the locker room—lightest to heaviest. Trevor looks down the row of red warmup jackets.

  “Let’s get stoked!” shouts Bones.

  “Show them some attitude,” yells Diggy.

  They charge from the locker room into the darkened gym and jog around the mat to their team song that blares over the loud speakers. Fans are cheering and clapping. In unison, the wrestlers bend over backwards, hands extended over their heads into neck bridges. They flip over to front neck bridges. They rehearsed the warmup routine a dozen times, and now with the music, under the spotlight, Trevor feels it was all worth it, all of it, all the practices, the sweat, the hunger, and the wrestle-off.

  Jimmy slides on his stomach to the center of the mat and slaps his hand on the red vin
yl. All of them, all fourteen, dive onto their stomachs, creating a giant pileup of gray sweats and red jackets. Trevor feels a knee in his back and Jimmy’s hot breath on his face.

  “Are we gonna kick some today?” yells Bones.

  They roar.

  “Minute Men on three! Let’s do it,” he yells louder. “One, two, three!”

  They roar again.

  Jimmy

  JIMMY DANCES ON HIS TOES LIKE A BOXER, SHUFFLING SIDE TO side in the corner of the gym. He made weight. At least that’s over. Six foot two. 160. He swings his arms in circles. He breathes in and out, in out, in out, in out, hoping that telling Diggy wasn’t a mistake.

  Pops, shouldering up with the Varsity Dads, laughs about something. Why isn’t he worried? How can he act like nothing’s happened, like nothing will happen, when nothing between them is ever going to feel the same again?

  This morning, Pops stuck his head into the bathroom. “You gonna win today?”

  “I’m not thinking about winning today. I’m thinking what you did was really stupid,” said Jimmy.

  “Stupid, how?”

  “Stupid because you thought you could get away with it. Stupid because it was me in the truck with you!”

  “What are you worried about? If something goes wrong, I’ll take the heat.”

  “It already went wrong,” said Jimmy.

  Pops stepped behind Jimmy and placed his large hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. An inch of Pops’ pinky finger is missing on his left hand. A work accident. In the mirror, the stump was whiter than his knuckles. “You shouldn’t be talking like that. First, you’re not showing me any respect, and second, I already told you, it’s being taken care of.”

  Jimmy shivered.

  Trevor is on the mat crushing his opponent. He is going to be hard to beat at 152. He does a knee drop to a single leg grab and earns a quick two points for a takedown. He looks quicker and slicker than Jimmy remembers. It’s Trevor’s strength. He’s not the JV wrestler from last year.

  Jimmy trots to the locker room and into a stall. He’s sweating. He swallows the burning bile in his throat and tries to puke. Maybe then he’d feel better. Nothing comes up. He’s still nauseous. He splashes his face with water. A roar sounds from the gym. Trevor’s match must have just ended.