ON Edge

by John W. Mefford

  Tomas started laughing like he’d just seen one of those viral YouTube videos where someone would get their pants lit on fire. “Alfonso, man, you’re all jumpy and shit. Look over there; it’s just a damn rat.”

  Alfonso saw the long-tailed rodent slithering along the base of the brick building. He wasn’t going to act like a wuss, but those things were beyond nasty.

  Suddenly, a thought came to mind. Actually, it was more like a seed of doubt. “Hey, Tomas, you said tonight was going to be our big payoff. But you know, we weren’t exactly successful on our last job.”

  “I know that. You think I’m stupid?”

  He shook his head. “Just sayin’ Boss Man may not think we should get a payday.”

  “Look, dog, he knows we did the best we could. He told me straight up that sometimes scaring the shit out of someone works even better than dropping them. It sends a message: don’t fuck with us.”

  “No doubt that dude is probably still curled up in a fetal position,” he said, trying to muster a laugh.

  Tomas popped him on the upper arm. “You worry too much, Alfonso. But, man oh man, I’ll never forget you going Mike Tyson on his ass. How’d that ear taste?”

  “Don’t be harping on that shit. I was just in the moment, doing my thing.”

  “I’m down with you, man.”

  Hard-sole shoes clipped the concrete—four steps. Before he could turn his head, Alfonso felt the presence of a man just behind his shoulder. “Just like Tomas told you,” the man said, “I’m down with you.”

  It sounded like he was mocking them. Alfonso looked up and saw the glow of the man’s gleaming white teeth. They didn’t look real. He decided to ignore the demeaning comment and focus on the long-term gain. He formally introduced himself, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Boss.”

  In the blink of an eye, the man pulled something out of his coat, swung his arm around Alfonso’s neck, and pulled him against his chest. Alfonso felt the barrel of a pistol against the side of his head.

  “He didn’t mean it, Mr. D.” With fear etched into his face, Tomas held up two hands. “Honest, I forgot to tell him.”

  Alfonso squirmed, but he could feel the bulge of the man’s biceps against his neck. The arm felt like it was made of steel. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a mousy squeak.

  “You’re fucking hilarious. Are you trying to mimic these rats running around this shithole?”

  Alfonso tried to respond, but his head was locked down, and he could hardly breathe, let alone speak. His eyes went to Tomas. Would he be able to talk some sense into this “Mr. D”?

  “Mr. D, it’s all a simple mistake. We meant no disrespect. We love working for you. We’re your go-to guys for anything. Ain’t that what you told me earlier? We’d be your A team?”

  “For being a guy who supposedly has street smarts, you’re pretty fucking stupid, Tomas.”

  The man loosened the grip around Alfonso’s neck.

  Alfonso sucked in air as if he’d been underwater for the last five minutes. But on the fifth breath, the gun fired. He literally peed his pants and then watched Tomas drop to his knees while pressing both hands to his chest.

  Alfonso stopped breathing.

  “You said we were your A team,” Tomas said as blood gushed from his mouth.

  The man moved closer and shot Tomas again in the chest. Tomas released a sound that resembled the pop of a tire; then his eyes flickered, and he dropped to the concrete.

  Alfonso didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He was frozen in fear.

  “It’s kind of a shame,” the man said, moving over next to Tomas’s lifeless body. “There was some potential there.”

  “I…” Alfonso started to speak, but his brain couldn’t find the words. He had no words. He had no way out. Tears filled his eyes as he felt the curtain of his life about to shut for good. With what little cognitive function he had left, he noticed the man was wearing gloves on both hands. The man set the pistol on the ground next to his foot. Was that the end of his retribution? Maybe he would spare Alfonso’s life, ask him to work solo.

  “Mr. …” His brain was so fried he couldn’t even remember the letter. He tasted the salt from one of his tears as the man lifted back up, removed another gun from his opposite pocket, and pointed it at Alfonso.

  “It’s ‘Mr. D,’ motherfucker.”

  Alfonso heard a crack and then felt his flesh rip from the bone. He looked down to see blood seeping from a hole. It had happened. He’d pushed it too far. He glanced up and saw only the man’s teeth. Smiling. Enjoying it.

  Another crack, and his body folded like a cheap lawn chair. His head bounced off the concrete. He tried to move, but his limbs didn’t respond. Although somewhat blurred, his eyes remained open, as if he were destined to watch the final moments of his own life.

  He saw the man place the gun he’d just fired in Tomas’s hand. Then he grabbed the other pistol off the concrete and rested the gun in Alfonso’s hand. Alfonso felt the extra weight. A signal was sent to coil his fingers around the grip and shoot that smug bitch in the face. To watch his pearly white teeth blow out the back of his head.

  But he’d never get the satisfaction. As his vision caved inward and the odor of rotten eggs invaded his senses, he finally realized that his hunger for respect would never be fulfilled. His daughters would have no father. That was what now upset him the most.

  And all he’d had to do was keep flipping burgers.

  34

  In some respects, the grand opening of “We, Three Kings” was a lot like any number of highbrow events in Austin. Lots of pretty people—some could even boast about not having to pay for their attractiveness—and a wide array of options at the free bar. Normally, I might go for a glass of wine. With Nicole, we’d typically name our top two options. She’d go for a chardonnay, and I might try a merlot.

  I was a solo act now, so that plan was no longer feasible. Looking around the expansive art gallery on the trendy 2nd Street, it appeared that just about everyone else was paired up. Even Tito—one-third of the aforementioned three kings who had their work on display—was rocking a pretty woman on his arm when he wasn’t explaining the inspiration behind one of his paintings to one of the high-rollers.

  The ones with the real money, the folks who came to buy art, were at opposite ends of the social spectrum. Some wore belt buckles the size of a manhole cover, while some went with plain chinos and a solid-color shirt, usually a purple or beige. The female versions of each type were, for obvious reasons, more appealing to view. You had your typical bleached blonde who basically dared you to remove your eyes from her voluminous cleavage to stare at an array of diamonds that might be worth more than a house in South Austin. Then, you had what many called your tree hugger, the younger woman who was just as daring. As in, dressing so simply—baggy jeans, flats, a shirt that looked like it had just been picked up at Goodwill, and hair cropped at the neck—daring you to wonder if she was actually a female or someone who was going for the genderless appeal.

  I sighed and grabbed a craft beer. As I brought the chilled glass to my lips, I could still smell the stench of blood on my hands. If the place hadn’t been so crowded, I might have dunked my fingers in the suds.

  With no one exactly bending my ear, I meandered around the gallery, stopping every few feet to take in the essence of each painting. The two other artists certainly had a different vibe than that of my old high-school buddy. I was looking at a painting that stood about five feet tall. It looked like some version of Jesus swan-diving off a cliff with Christmas lights along the banks of the shore. It was called Lit.

  I tried not to lift an eyebrow and moved on. It wasn’t long before I was thinking about Ray and his hammered face. Actually, it was his fear that had left a mark on me. He didn’t seem to scare easily. He was born and raised in Austin, and I was sure that he’d been involved in his fair share of scrapes. He’d probably had his life threatened more times than a referee in a Texas high-school foo
tball game. All in all, he was laid back and seemed to let shit roll off his back.

  But not this time. He had dusted off his Shit Hit The Fan backpack and left town, just like that. He didn’t want to involve the cops; he didn’t want to think about it. He was hell-bent on getting off the grid and starting life over again, far away from Austin. And he’d recommended that I do the same.

  Then he’d offered his PI business for me to take over—if I stay alive long enough, I believe were his words.

  That sonofabitch wouldn’t tell me what had freaked him out so much, besides having his brains busted in. He had to know who Dad’s mystery client was, or at least a good clue. He and I both had obviously spooked this client. Now, unless I just waited for another street battle with the bang-bang brothers, I really had no leads as to Dad’s client and what had sent Ray on the run.

  A nudge on my arm.

  “You made it, Oz.” It was Tito. I gave him a hearty handshake and was introduced to his lady friend. Her eyes seemed to be examining my face with its plethora of small abrasions and the nasty bruise on my forehead. “I cut myself shaving. And yes, I grow hair on my forehead.”

  She cackled like I’d just delivered the line of the century. Her response made us all laugh, especially when her laugh went falsetto. It was the strangest thing. Tito and I glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, and he shrugged as if to say, “You can’t pick everything about your mate.” Didn’t I know it.

  Tito was quickly ushered over to a potential buyer, and I restarted my lonely walk. Three steps later, I froze, nearly dropping my glass of beer. It was her. Nicole. Across the gallery, her arm hooked inside the arm of a man. He was shorter than I was by several inches and thicker through the chest. He had dark helmet hair and an obviously fake tan. He had to be “C.”

  I could feel the beer I’d swallowed defying gravity, making its way back up to my throat. As they moved through the gallery, I moved in the same direction. The man seemed to know everyone, at least in a surface-level way. A quick nod or passing handshake. He stopped, said a few words to another man, and introduced Nicole. She smiled. It seemed strained, as if she felt uncomfortable.

  Other than that, she looked like a million bucks—a tight-fitting black dress that showed off her shapely legs. Her hair was up in a bun. I pushed away countless thoughts of her with her hair up, on top of me.

  The glad-handing ended, and they were back on the move again. Neither seemed very interested in the art, which I found odd. Nicole—at least the Nicole I knew—would have been intrigued with the creative genius behind each picture. She would have sought insight from the artists, and then she might have tried to twist my arm into buying one of the less-pricey selections. Not that I had final say over anything really, but she had this cute way of leaning into my chest, and while convincing me it was what we should do, she’d goose me and pop her eyebrows. That would usually elicit a laugh and a wink—the kind that said we’d jump into bed as soon as we got home.

  They walked behind one of the twelve-foot walls of paintings. I shuffled along, waiting for them on the other side, still keeping my distance. There were probably fifty people between us. More than a few seconds passed. I sipped my beer and tried to look casual. A young lady was on the verge of giving me a courteous nod; then her eyes looked closer at my face. She steered away from me like my nose had a foot-long wart growing on it. A second later, the man I believed to be C walked from behind the wall. I waited for Nicole to show her face. C was now a good ten feet past the wall, and there was no sign of Nicole. I’d lost her.

  I flipped my head around and scanned the room. The crowd had doubled since I’d arrived. Great news for Tito and the other two kings, but not so much for me at the moment. I started retracing my steps.

  I bumped into a person, tried to spin away, but somehow raised my hand and cupped a breast.

  “Excuse me!” A woman who looked like my snooty mother had a scowl that could scare a scarecrow. I apologized as sincerely as possible and then offered to bring her a drink. She rolled her eyes and turned her back on me. It was for the best.

  I whipped around, hoping to catch Nicole without the presence of “C.” Would I have the guts to talk to her? I thought for a second, but that was all the time it took. The answer was a resounding no. I chided myself for even considering it, given she’d probably humiliate me in front of everyone.

  So, Oz, why are you looking for her? She’s old news. Put your focus on trying to find the person who killed your father, beat up Ray, shot at you. Move on already!

  I tipped my head back and downed the last of my beer. Just as I set it on a tray, I felt my phone buzzing, and I plucked it from my pocket. It was…Nicole?

  “Hello?” I sounded like a little kid.

  “No time to get into anything now, but meet me at my house at one a.m.”

  The line went dead. My heart started pumping like it was bringing up oil from a thousand feet underground. I had more than three hours to wait.

  35

  Twenty minutes later, Nicole and C headed out the door. I watched from inside as C handed the valet his ticket. I couldn’t hold off until one in the morning. Nicole had been direct, but it wasn’t dismissive, like she’d been to me over the last several days. An alarm had gone off inside me. I had tried like hell over the last twenty minutes to objectively look at all the data points—her cold demeanor for the last two months, the way she’d unceremoniously ended our relationship, her flippant attitude to me since she dropped the divorce bomb, and how she’d cut me off from my money and our home. There was nothing, not one single speck of evidence, to suggest she still had feelings for me.

  Yet she wanted me to meet her at one in the morning.

  I couldn’t debate it any longer; I had to follow them. I whipped around and spotted Tito. I rushed over and pulled him away from his conversation.

  “Sorry, but can I borrow your car?”

  “The Tube?”

  “Yeah, the long green thing you drive around town.”

  “Uh, sure. You look like you’re in a rush.”

  I looked toward the door. I could no longer see Nicole’s bun above the throng of people. “I am,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’ll explain everything later. But it’s important.”

  He riffled through his pocket, then stopped. “You’re not going after those gangbangers, are you?”

  “Not tonight. I need to figure out who shot Sam, killed my father, beat up Ray—”

  “Ray? Someone else got caught up in this crap? What’s going on, Oz?”

  “Can’t get into it now.” I glanced at the door. “Has to wait until tomorrow.”

  He put the keys in my hand, and I rushed out the door. A moment later, I curled onto 2nd Street, which nearly flipped the Tube on its side, and drove by a two-door Jaguar at the curb. Nicole was in the passenger seat. The Jag pulled away from the curb. But I was in the wrong position. I was in front. Before I had time to figure out my next move, C turned the Jag left onto Colorado.

  “Crap!” I banged the steering wheel. The entire dash rattled like I’d just kicked a doorstop.

  There was too much traffic for me to do a U-turn. I quickly approached Lavaca, but it was a one-way street moving north, the opposite direction I needed to go. Next up was Guadalupe. The light turned red in the middle of my left-hand turn, and car horns blared at me.

  Screw them.

  One block down was Cesar Chavez Street, which bordered Lady Bird Lake. If C had headed east on Cesar Chavez, he would be long gone by now. I had to hope he’d gone west. I dodged around two slower cars and then hit the brakes at the stoplight. The Jag whizzed right by me.

  I took a breath and executed a lazy turn onto Cesar Chavez. I quickly realized C was moving at a high rate of speed. I pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and the engine growled, but the Tube responded as if it were being fed water instead of gasoline. I kept my eyes peeled to the Jag’s taillights, and slowly the Tube edged closer.

  As both cars passed under
MoPac, I had a good idea where they were going—my old home. The road turned into Lake Austin, and we zipped by a middle school and the Lions Municipal Golf Course. C hung a left on Redbud. He was taking the long way, but there was no doubt he was headed for my home. Ten minutes later, he pulled up to the curb; I killed the lights and coasted into the alley across the street, stopping in between two homes so I could see the Jag and the front of the house.

  I wondered if they’d go inside…and then what? Had Nicole thrown out this bait, hoping I’d bite the hook? Did she want me to peer through the window and watch her and C doing it on our bed?

  Don’t go there.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and waited. A second later, the passenger door opened. Nicole didn’t get out for what must have been a full minute. Were they making out? Was she trying to convince him to come inside, or was she doing the opposite and convincing him she had a headache and she’d call him tomorrow? My head was swimming with a thousand theories. And I figured that nine hundred ninety-nine of them had a strong likelihood of making me look like an ass.

  Just then, she hopped out of the car, leaned back in for a second, then shut the door and walked up the front sidewalk. She didn’t turn around and wave. She walked through the front door of our home. The Jag took off.

  Now was my time. Or was it? I glanced at the time on my phone. It wasn’t even eleven yet. She had said one a.m. But was that to make sure that C would be long gone? Or did she have something else planned?

  Another idea hit me. She’d become quite stingy with our money. Maybe C had convinced her to set me up. She could have invited me over, pretending she didn’t know about it, and then she would kill me, or have someone do it, when I walked into the house as if I were a jealous ex out to get my revenge. She didn’t have a gun, but given the bizarre world I’d entered recently, she could be a frickin’ arms dealer, for all I knew.

  The taillights of the Jag disappeared around the curve.