Memoirs Of An Antihero

by Drew Blank

  “What the fuck do you want, asshole?” One of the blue-faced goons barked upon seeing me, obviously not noticing the guns by my side.

  “You guys open for dinner yet?” I hollered as I marched forward.

  “Get the fuck out of here, faggot! We’re fucking closed!” The goon that greeted me roared back.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.” I lifted the guns into everybody’s eye line at the same moment Phil came up behind me. “Why don’t we call it a day, huh fellas?” I hated using guns, but I had to admit, they had an intimidation factor I wasn’t going to possess otherwise while wearing sweat pants and a flannel shirt. I was really hoping I would not have to use firearms on a bunch of guys carrying around household bludgeoning devices.

  “Goddammit!” One of the smaller yellow-faced soldiers backed up with his hands raised chest level, dropping the crowbar he had been clutching. “I knew we shoulda brought fucking guns. Why the hell did we listen to that crazy fuck?” He bolted for the side exit and I let him go.

  “Any of you other pussies wanna leave?” Phil had his weapons drawn as well and was trying his damndest to sound tough.

  “That fucking worm told us no guns” the blue-faced spokesperson began to tell us. “Now I’m glad I didn’t listen.” In less time than I could react, the thug had retrieved a handgun from inside his black bomber and pointed it directly at Mr. Chin’s head.

  “Whoa,” I said, trying to calm the irate soldier. “No reason to involve him in this.”

  “That little fucking chink is waving a goddamn knife in my face,” he spat from his blue painted lips. “He’s fucking involved, cocksucker.”

  “C’mon man. No fucking guns,” another blue-faced goon frantically whispered from the side of his mouth. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “I’d listen to your friend.” Phil had really let the power of the gun go to his head as he warned our painted foes.

  “Nobody is fucking going anywhere!” The ringleader bellowed. “Now drop your guns, or Charlie Chan here fucking gets it!” Slowly, I bent over to place my guns on the floor, flashing Phil a look to do the same. Before I could hear the clink of guns on tile, frightening shrieks filled the restaurant. Without releasing my weapons I looked back up to see Mr. Chin’s arm extended straight into his aggressor’s armpit, his long skeletal fingers still wrapped around the handle of the knife. The blue-faced gunman yelled as blood sprayed from under his arm, his hand unable to continue gripping the pistol. As he fell to his knees squealing in pain, Mr. Chin retrieved the knife and thrust it again into the goon’s shoulder blade.

  “My name is not Charlie Chan.” Mr. Chin was always reserved but friendly. Mema had even used the words “meek but sweet” to describe him. To see him standing up against a man less than half his age and twice his size to protect the object of his affection was simply amazing. The two attackers left standing stood frozen with fear. Again pointing the guns their way, Phil and I approached, confident the pack had lost the will to fight.

  “You two had better start running.” I pointed the 9mm directly at the terrified minions. Without a further word, they sprinted for the side exit.

  “Now, what in the world do we do with you?” I questioned the blue-faced attacker that Mr. Chin had all but dissected as he continued to pour blood onto the floor.

  “Go…fuck…yourself…” He could barely piece together the words as we stood over him.

  “Well that’s just not good manners. Take this fucker outside,” I said to Phil, making a point not to use his name. “You don’t need to kill him, but we also won’t need him conscious for anything.”

  “Gotcha.” Phil saluted as he leaned down to grab the thug by his jacket. “Come with me, friend.” A streak of red followed the duo as Phil struggled to pull the wounded soldier to the door. Before I could focus my attention on Mema and her protector, I heard Phil howl. The bleeding goon had somehow managed to wrangle a tiny pocketknife free and thrust it into Phil’s left thigh, tearing flesh down to the knee.

  I rushed to Phil’s aid, immediately stomping the persistent attacker in the stomach.

  “Dude, we were going to let you go!” I said before another kick to the gut. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” With a few more well placed kicks, the blue-faced goon finally lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “Philsie, can you walk?” I tended to Phil while Mr. Chin checked on Mema’s condition. I knew it was only a matter of time before more of Blueboy’s brigade raided Mama Mema’s. We had to get out.

  “I think I can.” He flinched as he tried to place his foot on the ground while leaning against the wall. “Or maybe not.” His pained face said it all.

  “Mr. Chin! How’s Mema doing?” I was quickly becoming overwhelmed by the situation. The happenings on Byrne Avenue were of no concern to me. Getting my friends to safety was all I cared about.

  “She still breathing, but she got hit hard in head.” Mr. Chin yelled the update in his thick accent. “She need to go to hospital.”

  “We’ll get her there. Just keep an eye on her.” I tried to remain calm as I wrapped the flannel shirt I had been wearing around Phil’s thigh.

  “Don’t get too close, mister,” Phil joked, while obviously in a great deal of pain.

  “Don’t worry, Philsie. You’re not dead and this ain’t heaven. Hold still.” While tightening the flannel tourniquet around Phil’s leg I pulled the two-way communicator from his ear and placed it in my own.

  “Jim?” I wasn’t sure if he was even listening, but I was hoping he was okay. “Jim?” I said again.

  I’m here. Jim responded in my ear.

  “Great! How are things back that way?” I asked, trying to assess the entire situation.

  I have no idea. He replied. I told you, I’m here. At that moment I heard a roaring from outside that sounded unmistakably like the ancient Grand Marquis that had been resting in front of Jim and Phil’s brownstone.

  The car screeched onto the curb, crashing unapologetically into one of Blueboy’s minions and sending him sailing through the air.

  It occurred to me you guys did not have an escape plan. I watched Jim’s lips move through the window as he spoke in my ear. Get in. Quickly!

  I scooped Mema up in my arms and laid her gently on the back seat of the old junker. Mr. Chin struggled as a crutch for Phil as the mismatched pair hobbled to the car after me.

  “You sir, are a life saver!” I excitedly praised Jim as I squeezed into the back seat with Mema and Mr. Chin, allowing Phil to keep his leg outstretched in the passenger seat.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” Jim stopped me. “We still have to get these two to the hospital.” Throwing the shifter into drive the steel relic screamed from the curb to Byrne Avenue.

  “No hospital for Phil.” I leaned over the seat as I talked to Jim.

  “What? Why?” Both of my friends asked in unison.

  “Carver ‘s going to be looking for the two guys that hijacked his bus,” I reminded them, trying to muffle my words so Mr. Chin couldn’t hear. “I guarantee he will be scouring the hospital for us. We’ll drop Mema at the ER and Mr. Chin can watch her. Phil’s going to Tom’s.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re right.” Phil agreed while clutching the deep wound on his leg that was still pouring blood. “Tom’s it is.”

  “Mr. Chin,” I addressed Mema’s brave suitor “we’re going to drop you off at the emergency room. Get Mema help as soon as possible.”

  “Where you go then?” He asked in his broken English, obviously confused.

  “Phil has no insurance. There is a free clinic just down the street from the hospital that will sew him right back up.” It seemed like a feasible lie.

  “Oh. I see.” He seemed satisfied.

  “And don’t worry. When Mema wakes up I’ll let her know who the real hero was tonight,” I reassured the lovesick cleaner with a wink.

  “Thank you, Drew.” He smiled as he stroked his hand through Mema’s hair. “Thank you for e
verything.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I told him. “Just take care of this woman. I don’t need to tell you how important she is to me.”

  The Marquis screeched to a halt in the ambulance drop off of the hospital. I leaped out the back seat and ran for a wheelchair.

  “Jim, help me get her in this thing!” I shouted as I wheeled the chair up to the car’s back door. “Mema? Can you hear me?” It seemed futile trying to wake her as I leaned in and wrapped my arm around her neck. She was still breathing and let out a slight groan when I lifted her from the bench.

  After Jim and I lifted her into the seat, Mr. Chin took over and began wheeling the chair to the entrance.

  “One second Mr. Chin,” I stopped him before he could get to the power sliding doors. Kneeling on the ground in front of the wheelchair, I embraced Mema tightly and squeezed her left hand in my right. I whispered into her ear. “You need to get through this you stubborn bitch. No one torments me quite the way you do.” While she did not respond, her fingers curled around my palm slightly, letting me know she was still in there and not ready to let go. My hold was interrupted by the ER staff, who swiftly took Mema from the wheelchair and placed her gently on a waiting gurney.

  “She be okay, Drew.” Mr. Chin gripped my hand as he looked me in the eyes. “Go take care of friend.” He apparently saw that I had tears welling, because he followed up the handshake with a sympathetic hug.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chin. Thank you.” I gave him a final pat on the back and then sprinted back to the car.

  “While you two were having your extremely gay moment, I am sitting here bleeding to death. Can we go now?” Phil tried lightening the mood as I slid into the back seat.

  “If you’re not careful, I’ll tell Tom to use the staple gun on you,” I warned Phil as Jim stepped on the gas and sent the Grand Marquis careening back into traffic, the opposite direction of several speeding police cars, presumably heading to Byrne Avenue.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Tom had grown accustomed to my calls for medical attention. He was a little surprised to hear it wasn’t me that needed his expertise that afternoon, but with a few dollars thrown his way he was happy to help. As we rumbled down the streets of Cross to the tattoo studio, I made countless calls to Reggie’s phone, each time getting her voice mail. I even tried Moxie’s phone, although I told her to never turn the ringer on. No answer.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I pounded the back of the driver’s seat with my phone, bubbling with rage and frustration. “Where the fuck are you Reggie?” I screamed into the stale air of the Grand Marquis.

  “Does she have any family? Anywhere she might go?” Phil asked, trying to be helpful.

  “No. No family. I have no fucking idea who she hangs out with. She could be anywhere,” I said helplessly.

  “Well, let’s get Phil patched up and then we’ll figure out a plan,” Jim interjected sensibly.

  “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” I ran my hand across the stubble on my head, trying to stay focused. “Philsie, how you holdin’ up?” I leaned over the seat to check on my friend.

  “It hurts like hell,” Phil groaned, “but I’m sure it will be fine. Sorry if I fucked anything up back there.”

  “Are you kidding me? You were awesome!” I tried to lift Phil’s spirits. “Need I remind you how many injuries I have endured in the past month or so? It happens. I really couldn’t have gotten to Mema without your help.” I patted him on the back as Jim pulled into a spot in front of Tom’s building.

  “Now, enough with the fucking pity party. We’re here,” I said as I squeezed his shoulder on the way out of the backseat. “Yes sir,” Phil agreed as he flung open his door. “Will you at least help get me in there?”

  “Fine, you big fucking baby,” I teased as I placed his arm around my neck and pulled him from the car.

  “What? You’re not going to carry me like you did Mema?” Phil asked in fake disgust. “Are you suggesting I am fat?”

  “He’s not suggesting it,” Jim hollered over the roof of the car humorlessly, “you are fat. Now get inside.”

  Tom buzzed us in quickly, anticipating our arrival. I managed to be Phil’s crutch all the way into the studio where I let him flop into the black leather dentist’s chair. Tom already had the necessary tools laid out next to his workstation, ready to operate.

  “So, that one’s Phil,” Tom growled from his stool. “Couldn’t remember which one was which. I knew he wasn’t Twisty, but that’s about it.”

  “Nice to meet ya.” Phil said meekly with a wave, even though he had already met Tom a few times before.

  “Yup. Take off yer pants.” Tom’s bedside manner needed work, but you get what you pay for.

  “It’s not usually that easy, is it Phil?” I joked as he pulled his jeans down.

  “Shut up,” Phil could barely respond. His nerves had taken over the moment he saw the real damage done to his leg.

  “That looks like it fucking hurts.” Tom nodded to Phil’s bloody wound. “You’re not gonna feel a thing in about a minute.” He leaned forward with a syringe in his gloved hand.

  “What’s that?” Phil asked nervously.

  “This will go a lot faster if you just don’t ask any questions. Read a magazine or something.” He motioned his scruffy head toward the table covered in ancient tattoo magazines that sat next to the dentist chair. “And don’t fucking move.”

  While Tom was busy stitching Phil up, I called Twisty. I filled her in on the events of the day up to that point, followed with a plea for her to join us at Tom’s. She had a great knack for keeping me level headed, a service I was in dire need of. During my discussion with Twisty, my phone beeped, notifying me of another call. Taking the phone from my ear for a moment, I saw the screen displaying DOMINICK. It had not occurred to me that Dom would most likely be checking up on us once the police were on the scene at Byrne Avenue. Without adequate time to formulate a good cover story, our conversation would have to wait. I let the call go to voice mail.

  “Did you get a hold of Reggie?” Jim inquired as I reentered the studio, seeing me slide the phone back into my pocket.

  “Nah. That was Twisty. She’s on her way over,” I told him while taking a seat on the uncomfortable black leather couch. “Dom called while I was talking to her.”

  “What’d he have to say?” Jim asked.

  “I didn’t take his call. Wasn’t really sure what to tell him.” I hated that more and more of my conversations with Dom were predicated on lies, but I had to protect myself and my friends.

  “I’m sure he just wants to know that we are all okay. What’s the harm in checking in with him?” Jim seemed puzzled by my paranoia. At that moment his phone began to vibrate. Reaching into his pocket he pulled the phone out and read the display aloud. “It’s Dom.” Without giving me a chance to object, he flipped open the phone and answered it.

  “Hello? Hey Dom… Yeah… No… We got outta there pretty quick… Mema’s at County Hospital… Her head… Yeah… Mr. Chin is with her… No… We’re fine… Oh, we’re at Tom’s place until all this calms down… Uh huh… Really? Wow… Okay… Oh yeah, we will… Oh, he forgot to grab it… I will… Uh huh… Okay, Dom… Yep. See ya.” And he closed the phone.

  “Seriously, you need to relax,” Jim told me. “Dom’s got his hands full right now. He doesn’t give a shit how we got out. He’s just glad we did.”

  “Sorry. My mind’s just all jumbled right now. I really can’t handle much more at this point,” I apologized for my crazy behavior.

  “Oh, and I told Dom you didn’t have your phone on you. He then told me to punch you in the dick for him. I told him I would. That was a lie. But if he asks, can you tell him I did?” I couldn’t tell if Jim was joking or serious. He was the kind of person that had a very difficult time lying, even if it was about punching someone in the dick.

  “Yeah, sure. Don’t forget, I’m wearing the codpiece under these sweats, so if you feel bad about lying you can take
a swing.” I pointed down to my crotch invitingly.

  “No. I’ll be all right. Thanks though,” he politely declined.

  “How’re things going in there, Tommy?” I yelled over into the next room.

  “They’d be better if your friend could hold still,” Tom hollered back. “Mind if I knock him out for this?”

  “No, go right ahead. You have my permission,” I responded.

  “Great. Go get me a brick. One whack oughtta do it,” he laughed at his own joke. Phil was not laughing. As a matter of fact, he remained silent through the entire procedure. I knew Phil did not like his back alley surgery, but it was our only option and I knew he would be fine.

  Twisty arrived about a half hour after we talked with coffee in one hand and a box of donuts in the other.

  “Good morning, everybody!” She entered the glum room like an embodiment of concentrated sunshine. “I come baring fatty pastries for all to consume.” She was always extra chipper when she knew I was down. It was impossible to stay angry or upset when Twisty was in hyper-happy mode.

  “It’s four-thirty in the afternoon, sweetheart. Not morning,” I corrected her.

  “Well, my ass just rolled out of bed less than an hour ago, so it’s morning to me, you douche.” She spirited past me, tapping a powdered sugar donut on my nose. “Eat up.” I obliged and scarfed the messy treat down.

  “So, no word from Reggie or Mox?” Twisty plopped down next to me on the couch, placing her arm around my shoulders.

  “Nothing yet,” I dropped my head, discouraged.

  “She probably just needs time to chill, babe. She’s not gonna do anything stupid,” Twisty attempted to console me. I lifted my head and gave her a look that said it all. “Okay, fine. It’s Reggie and she is pretty fucking stupid. But she’ll come to her senses.” She gripped her hand around the base of my neck and squeezed, relieving the massive pressure that was building up.

  “God, I hope you’re right. I just can’t get the image of Randy’s kids being rolled out on stretchers out of my head. That crazy fuck would have no problem doing that to Moxie,” I said.