Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  John sensed apprehension from Patrick when he had relayed the events of that night. If it wasn’t in his voice, it was in the way he shifted on his stool as he spoke. Truly he did not derive any pleasure from re-living the tragedy, contain any sense of pride for what he’d done. And that was good. It was a chink in the man’s armor. It showed a conscience. John Brooks’ only brush with conscience was when he had to spell it.

  “You want anything else?” his waitress asked.

  John shook his head and handed her two twenties. More than enough. “Keep it.”

  “Thanks, hon.”

  He waited for the waitress to disappear into the back before he stood and approached Bob’s stool. The bartender was wiping down the counter.

  “Never misses a game does he?”

  The bartender glanced up. “Who Bob? Not a chance. Rain, sleet, or snow.”

  John gave a smile. The bartender turned and started wiping the opposite end of the counter. John reached under the bar, removed the bug, and stared at it with bottled rage as though the tiny device in his palm was more culprit than transmitter for the atrocities he’d heard tonight.

  He ignored the bartender’s goodbye as he left.

  • • •

  John Brooks sat parked in Gilley’s lot, engine idling on a battered Dodge Dakota, bought and paid for in cash upon arrival in Harrisburg. He was playing back the conversation between Patrick and Bob on the hand-held device he had used to record the give and take. When it came to the part about Amy sticking a nail file into his dead son’s balls, John hit rewind, and played it again. He listened, immediately hit rewind, and played it again. During an attempted fourth run, John Brooks had a momentary lapse in restraint and squeezed until the device splintered in his hand, setting free a slice of plastic that pierced deep into his palm. He tossed the broken device to the floor, but did not pull the plastic shard out. He pushed it deeper into his flesh, swirling it, teasing his nerve-endings. The pain was good; it gave him a sense of control again. He pushed harder on the plastic, blood streaming down his arm, warm and sticky, pulling his sleeve to his skin like cling wrap.

  Better now, John Brooks pulled the plastic shard from his hand, wiped his bloodied palm on his jeans, and flicked the shard out his window like a cigarette butt. He pulled away from the bar humming “Cats in the Cradle.”

  18

  Patrick felt Amy straddling him but refused to open his eyes. He knew he’d be looking up at a devious grin that was more than ready to talk loud and jar the hell out of the bed that was his hangover crypt.

  “I know you’re awake,” she said.

  One eye creaked open. “Please let me die in peace.”

  She yelled: “What’s wrong, baby?!”

  The one eye snapped shut. He grimaced and moaned.

  She bounced on his chest. “Wake up, sleepy head!”

  Both eyes creaked open this time. “Why do you hate me?”

  Her grin was out of a cartoon. “Good morning, my love. How do you feel?”

  “You know how I feel. What time is it?”

  “Almost ten. I let you sleep in.”

  “Thank you. Any chance I could go to eleven?”

  “My dad’s been up since six.”

  “What? He was hammered last night. How the hell was he up so early?”

  “Up and playing with Carrie and Caleb by seven.”

  “The guy’s a freak. He had twice as much to drink as I did, and I feel like crap.”

  “Yeah, well, even though I take no pride in saying this, my father is what you’d call a functioning alcoholic.”

  “He wasn’t functioning too well last night. He wanted to drive home, you know.”

  Amy hung her head for a second. “Yeah … he’s like that. Taking his keys is like taking his machismo.”

  “It’s dangerous. He was really drunk, Amy. I mean, I’ll admit, I had a buzz going, so I’m not trying to act all high and mighty here, but to think of him behind the wheel, in the state he was in …”

  Amy rolled off Patrick’s chest and took the other side of the bed. She seemed to have no other answer but: “I know.” After a brief silence that Patrick wished would last an eternity, she asked, “How did you get his keys?”

  Patrick rolled onto his side and faced her. “I sang to him.”

  “Oh God. No wonder he gave them up. Poor Daddy.”

  “It worked didn’t it?”

  “Did you have fun?”

  “I did. It turned out to be a really good time. Things got a little serious towards the end though.”

  “I thought the Bears won?”

  “No, I mean between me and your dad.”

  Amy made a curious face and propped herself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

  Patrick had no intention of telling Amy he had divulged the taboo specifics about Crescent Lake to her father. Sure, he had to worry about Bob getting loose lips after a few too many somewhere down the road, but that was a bet he had no interest in handicapping right now, especially when it felt like his head was in a vice.

  “He started getting pretty emotional about what happened to us. He thanked me for saving your life. I told him you saved mine just as much as I saved yours. He liked that. He even cried.”

  “My father cried?”

  “Yup. He even called me ‘son.’ Twice. I got a little choked up myself.”

  “Aww, baby …” She snuggled in close and kissed him on the nose. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave you alone until eleven, then we have to get going. Caleb has an early appointment with Dr. Bogan tomorrow.”

  “I fucking love you.”

  She laughed, kissed him on the nose again, and left. Patrick was snoring a minute later.

  19

  John Brooks sat on the edge of the motel bed, cell in one hand, Hershey Bears game schedule in the other. He dialed his daughter’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. We’re good. You’ll need to be here no later than seven tonight.”

  “You sound eager.”

  “I am eager,” he said.

  She laughed. “See? I told you we’d have fun.”

  He conceded with his usual grunt.

  She laughed again. “Seven tonight.”

  John hung up and checked the bandage on his right hand. The wound on his palm was still raw from last night. The rage suddenly flickered. He made a fist, squeezing until blood leaked through his massive knuckles. He opened his hand, looked at the Bears’ schedule again, wiped blood on it. His rage finally simmered when he entertained feeding the bloodied paper to Bob Corcoran tonight.

  20

  Monica stepped out of Gilley’s Tavern and lit a cigarette. She stuck the butt between her full lips and wrapped the lapels of her overcoat tight around her neck with both hands to shield the cold.

  Idling ten yards away, John Brooks waited anxiously in his daughter’s new BMW. Given their current surroundings, the recently acquired Dodge Dakota that looked as if it had been rolled down a mountain would have been far more apt in passing the anonymity test, but for tonight’s performance the spotless new BMW was a necessity: It would be playing the distinguished role of bait.

  John tapped the horn. She nodded towards the car and took a final drag of her cigarette, flicked it to the ground where it sparked orange then smoldered. She strolled unassumingly towards the car and entered.

  “He bought me a drink,” she said after shutting the door.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She smirked and began fiddling with the heat. “Sure did, the dirty old bugger.”

  “How much time left in the game?”

  “Not much. He’s pretty loaded already. If he has a few more after …”

  “He will—especially if the Bears win.”

  “Can’t see how’d they lose. They were beating Adirondack six to nothing when I walked out.”

  John allowed himself a small smile. “Perfect.”

  • • •

  Just past midnight, Bob Corcoran
eventually swayed his way out of Gilley’s Tavern. John nudged his daughter. Monica sat up, instantly alert.

  “About fucking time,” she said.

  Father and daughter watched their drunken target manage his way towards a blue Ford Taurus. He dug for his keys, dropped them, bent down, and nearly tumbled scooping them up.

  “Wasted,” Monica said.

  John nodded, immediately hit reverse, and screeched out of the lot. They needed at least a two minute head start to prepare.

  Monica eyed her father playfully as he drove. “You better hope he takes Woodmere, old man.”

  John shot his daughter a look. He knew Bob Corcoran’s type—drinking and driving was not oil and water to a man like that. It wasn’t lemonade either. It just was. You drank—because that’s what you do—and you needed to get home. Designated driver? Fuck off. I can get myself home, thank you.

  Still, no matter how hammered, you weren’t completely stupid. You could take the quick route home, the route on the main road with dozens of street lamps and a cop aching to fill a quota around every bend, or you could be a clever little drunk and take the long way home down Woodmere Road … just as Bob had planned to do with his son-in-law last night.

  Not long after his stay at Gilley’s, John had spent a good portion of last night becoming familiar with Woodmere. He quickly found that the road held an allure for drunk drivers that was the epitome of a paradox: It was narrow and rough, lined with steep wooded embankments, and despite high beams, it was like finding your way through a cave with a dying torch. Yet after fifteen tactical runs last night, John Brooks had passed zero cars. Certainly no police. None hiding in dark corners either. And it made sense too: Why fish in a lake with no fish?

  Ten more runs were completed today to keep sharp. He’d passed only two cars this time, both going ten miles under the speed limit in broad daylight.

  And so now he did not, as his daughter joked, hope Bob Corcoran would take Woodmere. He was sure of it.

  “How sad it is when the delusional student feels they’ve surpassed the teacher,” he said to her.

  “Not nearly as sad as when the archaic teacher refuses to accept the fact that the seedling will ultimately grow taller than the one who planted it,” she retorted.

  “Keep dreaming, little sapling.”

  She grinned at him.

  He hit the accelerator and succumbed to a grin himself. It was fucking Christmas.

  21

  Bob Corcoran took Woodmere Road, just as he had done every night he left Gilley’s Tavern for the past umpteen years. Drunk or sober—and he was indeed drunk—he knew every hair-pin turn before he made it, every blind hill before he hopped it, every weathered stop sign before he slowed toward it. He knew the notorious embankments where even his drunken pride could not dispute anything over fifteen miles an hour. What Bob didn’t expect was for there to be a flashing car stopped twenty yards ahead, on the edge of one of those embankments. And he never would have expected such a car to be what looked like a brand-new BMW.

  “Talk about a hard-on in church,” he said aloud.

  He was hesitant to stop in his drunken state, but when a young woman who might have been the sexiest little thing his old eyes had ever seen stepped away from the car and waved him down, Bob pulled his Taurus right on over.

  • • •

  Monica had to hand it to her father; he had called everything to a tee. She watched the blue Taurus slow to a stop a few yards in front of her BMW, and waited for Bob Corcoran to exit.

  “Now you must be lost, young lady!” he called the moment he stepped out. He swayed on approach, the hazard lights on Monica’s car flashing rhythmic shots of a bearded smile as he got close. “Wait a second now,” he said, scratching his beard. “You were at Gilley’s earlier, weren’t you?”

  “Was I?”

  Bob scratched his beard again, smiled and said, “Ma’am, you can be sure I wouldn’t forget a face like yours.”

  Monica stepped closer, into the light. “That’s very sweet.”

  “Well, like I said, ma’am, a fella isn’t likely to forget a woman as sexy as you.” He looked at her car. “So I imagine you’re lost? Not many folks would come through here in a beemer.”

  Monica leaned against the BMW. “Bimmer,” she said.

  “Come again?”

  “It’s actually referred to as a bimmer. BMW motorcycles are called beemers. But I wouldn’t expect ignorant white trash like you to know that.”

  Bob’s smile slowly faded. He blinked several times. “I’m sorry?”

  Monica shrugged. “I called you ignorant white trash. And I don’t think your wife would appreciate you hitting on a woman half your age. How would you like it if my father hit on Amy?”

  If Bob Corcoran was confused before, his drunken head now looked close to short-circuiting. The pinnacle was when Monica dropped Amy’s name. He went to speak, but John placed a sudden hand on his shoulder and spun him.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” John said. “I could finish what my son James started with her.”

  It was all too much to register right away. Drunk or sober, Monica had expected the pause button to be hit. Expected Bob Corcoran to stare at her father, mouth open a crack in a state of wonder, brow furrowed as the pieces tried to come together. The fact that he was drunk only kept the pause button on longer.

  John slapped him.

  The blow rocked Bob on his heels. He quickly gathered himself and threw a right haymaker. John side-stepped the punch with ease, and Bob’s momentum nearly pitched him over.

  “Whoops!” John said.

  Monica laughed.

  Bob growled, turned, and dove at John’s waist for a tackle. He had a better shot at charging through a stone wall. John stood his ground and let the drunken man literally bounce off his massive frame. Monica laughed again. John glanced over at her and smirked. He then jerked Bob to his feet and spun him into a rear choke with his right forearm.

  Bob struggled and flailed, but had all the success of a rat in the coiled grip of a python. Monica continued laughing, felt the familiar tingle warming her belly.

  “Bob?” John said calmly into his ear. “Bob, hold still. If you keep trying to fight I’ll break your neck.”

  Bob stopped, panting wildly.

  “Good boy. I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to,” John said.

  Bob garbled a question beneath the weight of John’s arm: “The fuck do you people want?”

  John took a long cleansing breath before answering. “We want revenge, Bob. You see … Patrick, Amy, hell, even little Carrie and Caleb—they really fucked with the wrong family out there by Crescent Lake.”

  It all sunk in. Bob screamed and spat, stomped and kicked, reached and clawed behind him to get at John’s face. His fight was admirable, but John still held onto him with no effort, and Bob’s tank soon emptied. His back sank against his assailant in exhausted defeat. Monica laughed some more, but stayed put. This one was her dad’s.

  “We have to set things right, Bob,” John said. “Your cunt-of-a-daughter and cock-sucking son-in-law may have been lucky enough to visit hell once and return …” He gritted his teeth. “… but they sure as fuck won’t do it again.” He tightened his grip on Bob’s neck, placed his lips to his ear. “And you know what? I think I will do as my daughter suggested. I will fuck Amy. Your wife too.”

  John kissed Bob on the cheek then snapped his neck.

  22

  Back home, Patrick was dreaming about an alarm clock he couldn’t shut off. When Amy’s second elbow drilled into his side, coupled with a muffled yell into her pillow that sounded like “get it!”, Patrick abruptly left the dream world and discovered the stubborn alarm’s real-world accomplice was the telephone. He pawed blindly on his nightstand until he found it.

  “Hello.” His voice was soft and crackly.

  “Hi, Patrick. I’m sorry for calling so late.”

  Who was this? Was this Amy’s mother?

  �
�Audrey?” he said.

  Amy rolled over.

  “Yes, I’m sorry for calling so late,” she said again, “it’s just that Bob hasn’t come home yet and I’m starting to get concerned.”

  Patrick propped himself up on an elbow and looked at the alarm clock. The green-lit numbers were fuzzy. He blinked hard, stretched his eyes wide, and then looked again. 2:30 A.M.

  “Maybe the game went into overtime,” he said, swallowing a yawn. “The owners usually let him stay after hours. Did you try calling Gilley’s?”

  “I already did. They said he left hours ago.”

  Patrick sat up and clicked on the light. Both he and Amy squinted. There was only one thought in his head now, and he wondered if Audrey shared it with him. Likely, she was not concerned with infidelity—in the wave-less world of someone like Audrey Corcoran, infidelity, even if performed smack in front of her, would be quietly repressed until its status inexplicably reached the level of fiction—so what other line of thinking did that leave? Yes, Patrick was sure they were sharing the same fear. But he was damned if he knew how he’d voice such a concern. So he passed it off to Amy and handed her the phone.

  “It’s your mom. She says Bob hasn’t come home yet.”

  Amy took the phone and sat up. “Mom?”

  Amy listened, spoke, listened, spoke. Her voice was calm and decisive. Patrick watched his wife and thought about how life eventually came full-circle. Amy was the mother now; the nurturer, the one keeping it together. But then he had always suspected it had been this way in her family.

  “Just call the police, Mom,” she said. “I’m not saying anything’s wrong, but still, it’s our best option right now. Daddy probably just went to another bar to celebrate after the game.”

  Patrick wondered if Amy believed that.

  “Just call the police and tell them what you told me. They all know Daddy; I’m sure they’ll find him.”