Airbag Scars

by Jim Heskett

  Patton and Donovan rode the elevator down the first floor, then exited to the little garden out front of the apartment building. Patton raised a leg at the first opportunity, spraying a collection of bushes. The dog’s powerful shoulder muscles bulged as it balanced on three legs.

  A squirrel dashed by and Patton had to make a quick decision between continuing his piss and lunging for the squirrel. He chose to pee, even though his ears raised and his body tensed at the sight of the little pest.

  Donovan needed to show up with Micah in hand, alive, and keep this discovery secret until then. They would have no choice but to forgive Donovan and welcome him back into the family. But if he did that, he’d obviously have to leave Caitlin behind in Denver, and he’d driven halfway across the goddamn country to get her back. He didn’t want to have to start all over again with that later.

  “Shit,” he said, which made Patton stop his peeing and look up at him, those big brown eyes wide with curiosity. “This is going to get messy.”

  Chapter Eight

  AS MICAH drove through the Five Points neighborhood of downtown Denver on his way to the Pink Door strip club, a growing sensation of déjà vu spread over him. He’d been to Five Points many times in the year he’d lived in Denver, but this was different.

  He’d been here last Friday night, the night he’d lost to a blackout. And as he made a right onto the next street and saw the Pink Door’s neon sign casting its glowing light onto the sidewalk, that feeling intensified. Like a headache without the pain.

  Micah could call the police and tell them everything. That was an option, but a rather poor one. His history with the police told him if he did that, he’d end up back in jail, and he’d never know the truth.

  He parked at a shabby pay-by-the-hour lot across from the strip club and took one last look at bail jumper Roland Templeton’s file as he worked up the nerve to leave the car.

  Here to do a job. Not to drink.

  He stared at the flickering neon lights as he crossed the street. The door was indeed pink, and made from the same cushy material as those cheap diner booths. Billowy and covered in a glittery sheen.

  When he focused on the door the establishment was named after, that déjà vu turned concrete. He’d been here that night. This became a certainty, and this bar had something to do with finding the owner of the missing shoe that had materialized under his bumper.

  He entered the club, and the overwhelming force of the music within squeezed him. Whump whump wub wub. To his left was a small window with a half-dome cut out, like at movie theaters. A sleepy-eyed man stared absently from the other side. Micah took out his wallet and slipped some bills through the hole in the glass, and then entered the club proper.

  Inside the spacious establishment were a couple dozen tables and three stages anchored by poles in the middle. A mostly-naked woman surrounded each pole, twirling and gyrating. The woman in the larger, middle stage had enormous fake breasts and tall red heels, which she stomped on the stage as she circled the area. There was a noticeable amount of violence in each of those stomps. Micah briefly made eye contact with her, but she wore no expression on her face.

  A beautiful and fully-dressed woman walked by him. Long red hair and green eyes—exactly Micah’s type. She carried a tray with several glasses of various kinds of liquor, each one catching and reflecting the room’s lights like a twinkling collection of diamonds.

  A burning came to his chest. He had an impulse to snatch one of those glasses. The desire struck him suddenly, and his hand was halfway in the process before he understood what he was doing. He gaped at the hand like it belonged to some other body, and he couldn’t control it. No, no, no.

  He forced himself to look away from the tray, and instead focused on the dancing girls, their tanned bodies a wash of glitter and layers upon layers of makeup.

  His finger probed his pocket until he grasped Boba Fett, and he concentrated on the little plastic head until his heart rate slowed a few steps.

  He sat at one of the small tables and surveyed the rest of the club. Lots of jarring neon and velvet in every direction. Blacklights along the ceiling illuminated each patron’s teeth and light-colored shirts.

  He waited for memories of last Friday to appear, but nothing interesting or useful stuck out to him.

  The woman with the tray paused at his table and bent toward him, pushing her cleavage in his face. She wore a bogus smile, bright red lipstick, and a beauty mark that looked drawn-on. “Hey, cutie. What can I get you to drink?” she said, her voice fuzzy and distant against the roaring music. Her green eyes twinkled.

  Micah’s mouth dropped open and he found himself unable to speak. He wanted a drink more than anything, but he also wanted not to drink more than anything. The contradiction filled him with such confusion that for several seconds, he did nothing but hold eye contact with the woman.

  Her smile faltered. “Anything? Last chance.”

  He thought maybe he could have one drink. What could one drink hurt, if it stopped at that? If it didn’t carry into the weeks-long binges that always seem to accompany him taking one drink?

  He cleared his throat, prepared to give the waitress his order, but she shrugged and retreated back through a swinging door. Micah looked down at his hands, which were clenching the sides of the velvety chair so hard that the veins on his forearms made rivers up his arms.

  A little dizzy, Micah stood up and looked at the bar. Fifteen people stood there, sipping evil out of glasses and bottles. Fear rumbled in his stomach. He didn’t want to be here, but he had a job to do. Find Roland.

  A booth perched in the back, hidden away to the side of the bar. A light hung over the table, illuminating the six hands of three men, but it was so low their faces were obscured. Micah shuffled a few steps toward that table and a bouncer standing next to the DJ’s booth enclosure took notice of him.

  Now Micah could see the face of one of those men through the darkness in that corner of the room. A burly man with a wiry goatee and a small scar under one of his eyes. Older than thirty-five, though, and definitely not as skinny as a scarecrow. Maybe this was the owner, the one Frank said he’d had “history” with.

  The bouncer looked at the burly man before taking a step in Micah’s direction.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the bouncer said, practically shouting it against the relentless churning of the music. The bouncer now stood in front of Micah, blocking the view of the back table.

  Why was that table shrouded in secrecy? Micah had to know.

  “I’m looking for the bathroom,” Micah said.

  The bouncer flicked his hand to the other side of the bar, away from the back booth.

  Micah hesitated a split second, trying to peer around the bouncer’s shoulder. The burly man in the booth stood, and the bouncer loomed closer, near enough that Micah could smell the liquor on his breath. That pungent mix of sweet and sour leaking from his mouth as he breathed.

  Micah nodded in surrender and retreated to the bathroom, which wasn’t silent, but muted the music enough that he could now hear himself think. He kneeled to check for feet under the stalls and found himself alone. Then he splashed some water from the sink onto his face and checked himself in the mirror.

  “What would Frank do?” he said. “Probably punch that bouncer in the face and stomp to the table, then demand to know if Roland Templeton was sleeping in a broom closet.”

  Micah himself might have done that a few years ago, before his life and his name changed forever. He’d done much worse than that back then. The only pieces of the man he used to be were collected in a shoe box hidden under the floorboards of his apartment.

  “You’re not that person anymore. Get your shit together, Micah. You’re going to walk up to the bar, order a Diet Coke, and get a better look.”

  When he turned to leave, a back door in the bathroom caught his eye. He tried the knob and found it unlocked, so he pulled the door open into darkness. After turning on the flashlight app on his p
hone, he pivoted the phone around, lighting up a small closet. There were kegs on the floor and shelves above that, lined with bottles of liquor and boxes. He flicked a finger along the boxes until he found one with no markings, then he lifted it from the shelf and put it on the floor. Inside that box was a small lockbox with a keyhole. Micah took out his keychain and jammed his house key under the lid, then worked it back and forth until the box broke open. Inside, he found a treasure trove of violence. Brass knuckles and several knives, but there were also pistol magazines that looked like they would fit a Springfield 1911. He knew the gun well.

  Micah picked up one pair of brass knuckles, some designer thing with little decorative goblin heads topping each of the rounded knuckle covers. Those goblin heads were crusted with blood.

  He tossed the brass knuckles back into the box when he realized this was getting him nowhere. The mission was Roland, not finding weapons in a closet.

  He left the bathroom, keeping his eyes away from the back booth so he wouldn’t attract the attention of the bouncer. At the bar, so close to those shimmering liquor bottles and beer taps, his heart rate jumped up a few pegs. It would be so easy for him to take out his credit card and after a simple exchange with the bartender, come away with a drink.

  The bartender faced off with him. “What can I get you?”

  Micah’s mouth felt dry. He turned his head slightly, trying to spy the booth in his peripheral. But it was empty. All six of those hands were now gone.

  “Sir?” the bartender said.

  Micah stammered, trying to get the words out. “Nothing for me.”

  He took a step back from the bar and spun around, trying to see if the burly man with the facial scar was nearby. And as he did, that man came face to face with him.

  “You’re quite the curious type,” the man said. “You don’t seem like you’re here to enjoy the girls or beverages. So that makes me wonder why you did come here.”

  Micah said nothing.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Micah cleared his throat. “I know you did. I’m not deaf.”

  The man smacked his lips together a few times and smiled, teeth white as porcelain under the blacklights. “I don’t appreciate your attitude. I think it’s time you left.”

  The bouncer appeared from behind the burly man and grabbed Micah by the shirt collar. He yanked him away from the bar and out into the main floor as the strip club’s patrons set down their drinks and raised eyebrows at this scene unfolding before them.

  Micah knew from bitter experience that he could easily place his hand on top of the bouncer’s wrist and twist it counterclockwise to break his radius bone. Then Micah could push his forearm toward the elbow to get the man off balance and force him to the ground. At that point, the burly man would probably jab at Micah’s face, and if he was slow enough, Micah could grab his arm and use his momentum to drag him to the floor to collide with the bouncer, delaying both of them and giving Micah time to sprint for the door.

  But what good would that do? They would probably find a way to stop him before he got to the door, then four or five other employees would take him out back and beat him senseless with some of those goblin-tipped brass knuckles. Micah could take two or three of them in a fair fight, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to Roland.

  No, better to regroup and find another way.

  So Micah let the bouncer drag him to the anteroom where he’d paid his entry fee. “You’re not welcome at the Pink Door,” the bouncer said.

  “Yeah, I get that. But maybe if you could tell me what I did wrong, so I make sure I don’t repeat this mistake at my next hangout spot…”

  The bouncer smirked. “You’re a smartass. Mr. Darby doesn’t like smartasses.”

  “Noted,” Micah said as the bouncer tried to shove him back. Micah jumped away and slipped past him, and the bouncer tossed him a frown as that glittery pink door closed behind him.

  Roland Templeton may or may not be hiding inside, but there was something wicked going down at this strip club.

  Chapter Nine

  DONOVAN MAINTAINED one car-length distance at all times. He locked his gaze on the bumper of his target’s car and followed it through the slick Denver streets, into a church parking lot. Stained glass windows of saints with yellow halos over their heads stared down at him.

  Donovan eased into a spot on the opposite side of the lot, then reclined in his seat to watch.

  Michael McBriar (or Micah Reed, Donovan kept reminding himself) exited the car and threw a coat over his shoulders. He slugged a big hit from one of those giant Starbucks cups, guzzling for several seconds.

  Skinny, brown hair, brown eyes, and sporting a healthier glow to his skin than he’d worn at their last meeting. The black eye Donovan had given Micah was now only a shadow.

  A rage built inside Donovan at the nerve of this man who—with a few simple words in a courtroom—had set in motion a chain of events that had taken everything from him. Donovan’s jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck strained. How dare this bastard exist in the same universe?

  This man had ruined Donovan’s life.

  The last time Donovan had seen him, he swore the drunk bastard would get what he deserved. He knew he should play it cool, but couldn’t help himself. Anger overtook him and he exited his car to walk a straight line to Micah. “You,” Donovan said through gritted teeth.

  Micah seemed puzzled. “Me?” He cocked his head the same way Patton would. “Do I know you?”

  Donovan lost his words for a few seconds. Micah hadn’t remembered him last time, but he’d been stumbling drunk then. “You don’t remember me.”

  Micah extended his hand as if they were perfect strangers, with a blank expression on his dumb face. “I guess not,” he said. “Are you here for the meeting?”

  Donovan eyed the man, unsure what to do next. Impulse had driven him to confrontation, but the situation had now taken a strange turn. Possibly Micah didn’t remember him, which seemed unthinkable given that they were fist-fighting in a downtown alley a week ago.

  This has to be some kind of ploy.

  “Donovan,” he said and shook Micah’s hand. Donovan looked deep into Micah’s eyes, searching them for the truth. His anger subsided a few degrees as he struggled to put everything in perspective. There was an opportunity here. If the snitch didn’t remember him, maybe somehow he could use this to his advantage. “Yeah, I’m here for the meeting.”

  His wife Caitlin (ex-wife, whatever) had always accused Donovan of having a drinking problem, so maybe he could earn a little bit of her trust back if he could tell her he’d been to an AA meeting. Not that he had a drinking problem, but she sure seemed to think he did.

  If he could regain control of his life, she would see him in a new light. If going to an AA meeting was a sacrifice he had to make, then so be it. He closed his eyes, made a decision to stay, and nodded his response.

  They walked inside together, and Micah smiled timidly before descending a flight of stairs. Donovan followed him into a musty basement, where a circle of chairs sat in the middle of the room. A coffeemaker sighed and sputtered on a table against the back wall. Next to the coffee collection was a half-empty box of colorful donuts. When Donovan imagined AA people, that’s exactly what he pictured: drunks exchanging their alcohol addictions for sugar and caffeine. At least he’d been right about that.

  He poured himself a steaming cup and held it in front of his face as a shield. He had no desire to engage with any of these losers. A few of them made attempts to greet him, with plastic smiles on their faces. The cheeriness irked him, but he resisted the urge to run for the door or tell them where they could shove their grins.

  A parade of fat, balding men with their slacks and pattern sweaters trickled into the room and welcomed each other with hugs and smiles and pointless small talk about how their kids were getting good/bad grades in school or how the last movie they watched was excellent/terrible. Donovan focused on his cup of weak coffee and thou
ght about the half-full handle of whiskey sitting on his kitchen counter. The more he listened to the small talk, the more attractive that bottle seemed. After walking Patton, he would allow himself the remainder of the whiskey as a reward. He only had to endure this meeting for sixty minutes. Maybe forty-five, if he ducked out early… however long it took him to decide what to do next about Micah.

  He needed a plan. Something grand.

  A man clutching a blue book announced it was time to start the meeting. Donovan eyed Micah for any break in character, but either the snitch actually didn’t remember, or he was so deep in the lie that maybe it seemed real to him. If it were trickery, he wouldn’t be able to keep that up forever.

  After a few of them had read some opening statements from laminated cards, different people took turns speaking. Tales of drinking and sobering up, how their lives were once awful and now they were all kittens and rainbows. Their stories of loss and redemption drifted in front of Donovan’s face like ghosts. He only saw Micah; he saw a broken, evil thief-of-a-man.

  The snitch took his turn to speak halfway through the meeting.

  “My name is Micah and I’m an alcoholic,” he said. The group greeted him. “I’ve been sober about seven days, and I’m just now starting to be able to think straight. A month ago, if you told me I'd be sitting in a church basement of my own free will, at an AA meeting, I'd tell you that you were crazy.”

  Micah winced and sniffled. His eyes glistened and Donovan started to think that the snitch was laying it on a bit thick. No one could act this melodramatic in front of a group of strangers.

  “I’ve dug myself in a hole so deep,” Micah finally said, “I don’t know how I’m going to climb out of it. I might have…” he paused to take a deep breath. “I might have run over someone, but I can’t be sure.”