by Mike McCrary
The waiter comes by. I wave him off and he doesn’t know what to do at first. Probably the first time a customer has given him the brush off. Not sure he likes it either.
“Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Nice, right?”
“Yes, it’s nice.”
“Real nice.”
“Jesus. Yes, it’s a nice place. Moving on. So what happen next? Let me guess, you fly back and they tell you to go to a condo, right? We get off on the same floor, our places are next door to each other. You find a table full of dangerous stuff and two envelopes, right?”
He nods slowly with eyebrows raised. “Creepy shit.”
His eyes glaze for a moment, then he looks to my napkin-covered gun. He removes his gun from his jeans and covers it with his napkin on the table just like I did. His eyes are getting wider by the second. I can feel his heartbeat from here.
“At the condo, why did they come to my place first?” I ask.
“I guess yours was closest to the elevator.”
His words stop me cold. He’s probably right. It’s really that simple. They were just moving down the line. If they’d simply switched the order of the condos Mama McCluskey and her son would have gone to Skinny Drake’s place first. He’d be dead right now, I’m guessing. It’s all such a cosmic crapshoot. Who dies when and where. A drunk driver runs into you on a Wednesday afternoon. “You’ve got cancer” conversation at a cold, sterile doctor’s office on a random Tuesday morning. A home invasion in the middle of the night. Getting added to a trust with a death squad that does not want to share.
I look over to Skinny Drake. He’s a mess. The wheels are spinning fast behind his eyes, but I’m not sure he’s connected the dots on how close he came to getting killed at that condo and I’m not going to freak him out any more than he already is by bringing it up. He’s already chewing his nails like a motherfucker.
“Was there anybody around you? On the other side, next door?” I ask.
“What?”
“Did you see anybody in the other condos next to you? Like other people, like us?”
“No, maybe, how would I know? How do I know if they’re part of this insane thing or do they just live there? Just living their lives like normal people.”
I lean back.
I don’t know.
I don’t know shit.
I look to my hands. They’re shaking like hell. This doesn’t happen. My hands, steady. I’m afraid and I don’t like it. My head is starting to fog with my vision going in and out. Like looking through a porthole on a ship that’s bouncing, being thrown around in a raging sea. A moving circle of sight surrounded by black.
“What are we going to do?” Skinny Drake asks.
I don’t know. I don’t know what to tell either one of us.
“They’re going to find us.” He’s becoming more and more frightened with each word, with each passing second.
I don’t know shit.
“You don’t want me here, right? It’s pretty obvious. You don’t want me anywhere near you.”
My hands still shake. I shake back.
He keeps going, getting more and more worked up, nearing a full-on breakdown. He’s even speaking in a different voice, one that’s bending with fear. “You’ll slip away when I’m not looking, right? It’d be smart for you. I’m dead weight. Seriously, what the hell am I going to do against those people? I’m fucked. You’re going to leave me. Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you?”
I take in his face, watching the water forming in the corners of his eyes. At this moment I realize something. It’s us against them.
Ding at the door.
I snap my fingers in Skinny Drake’s face. “We have to think.” I lean in, making sure he’s looking into my eyes. Need his full attention with this shit I’m about to lay down. “We are going to get through this thing, together. We are going to fight, together. You’re a complete pain in the ass and, yes, you are correct, you’re an unbelievable, almost unbearable amount of dead weight and you will probably end up getting me killed. But hear me say this—we are together. Getting me, Skinny Drake?”
He smiles through his fear. Nods and extends his trembling hand. I look to my hand. Steady as a rock. I give him a firm handshake with a wink. He blows me a kiss. I kick him as hard as I can under the table.
We share a laugh.
“Do I have to be called Skinny Drake?”
“Yes. Yes you do.”
A large man slips into the booth, pushing me over toward the wall. Another large man does the same across the table on Skinny Drake’s side. The large men each place a gun on the table.
They don’t bother with the napkins.
Chapter 30
We sit in uncomfortable silence.
Seems like forever, but it’s probably only been a minute, or even less. The waiter came back and made a snide comment about me waving him off last time. He didn’t say shit about the guns on the table however. I guess the Open Carry laws have sunken in around here.
Our two guests sip their coffee and never make eye contact. I tried to engage in conversation, but got nothing back in return but a stone wall of silence. Skinny Drake is more nervous than he was before they showed up. Didn’t think that was even possible.
I keep looking back and forth to my napkin-gun, thinking how useless it is right now. An impotent weapon covered in a syrup-stained veil. I envision whipping the gun out from under the napkin and putting multiple bullets into these two massive assholes. It could happen, I guess, but even if I got the shots off without getting me and/or Skinny Drake killed, what do I do about the other people in this place?
They’re gonna notice.
They’re gonna get a great look at us.
They’re gonna have a great story to tell.
The cops will be all ears and will be all over us. Rather not add the police to our growing list of enemies. Not completely sure the cops aren’t on us from the condo already. They could be on a full-out manhunt while we sit here with these assholes. Anything is possible right now. We could be on FBI’s Most Wanted list by now.
“Should I ask for separate checks?” I ask.
That actually gets a smirk from the one across the table. The one next to me shuts him down with a cold look. Like a wife elbowing her husband when he embarrasses her. Or is this the good asshole, bad asshole routine. Timeless. The bad asshole pours some cream into his coffee and gives it a stir before tearing open a single sugar pack.
I look over to Skinny Drake and give him a smile, trying to calm him and let him know it’s going to be okay.
I know it’s not okay.
He knows it too.
Why do I bother?
“You boys gonna talk any? Throw out a single damn word? Anything?” I ask. “Should I order some more food?”
The one next to me clears his throat and opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak. Looks me in the eyes and shakes his head.
Tease.
I’ve had enough.
“Look, I’ve got a gun under this napkin and so does he. We can go Wild, Wild West up in here or you can scoot the hell out this booth and let us go. Comprende, Fucko?”
I realize almost immediately that Fucko might have been too much.
A paw grabs the back of my neck and slams my face into my pancakes, holding it there, rubbing my nose into what’s left of my meal. I can feel the butter and syrup slip and slide under my face.
I am going to kill this guy.
That is if I can ever get off this plate.
Can’t help myself, I steal a quick lick of maple goodness off the plate.
He pulls me back hard letting my body bounce off the back of the booth. My neck snaps back. A bit of pancake slips off my face dropping onto my lap. Skinny Drake just looks at me. It’s clear he doesn’t know what his expression should be at a moment like this. He scrapes his finger across his cheek, letting me know I have something on my face.
The two large assholes still say nothing. Sip thei
r coffee. Silent slabs of meat put on this Earth to intimidate and cause harm. This is what’s in my way: mute meat. Silent assholes. These two are what’s keeping us, blocking us from freedom. Our freedom to continue to run for our lives.
Our waiter hurries over to our table. He’s leading an older man in a short-sleeved white dress shirt with a horrible tie over to us. The older man with the shit tie is holding a shotgun, a stained kitchen apron wrapped around his waist. Management, I assume.
“Them, Ron,” the waiter says, pointing back and forth between the slabs of meat sitting with us. “They came in a few minutes ago with guns and then shoved this poor girl’s face in some pancakes.”
“That so?” asks Ron.
“It is,” I say. The syrup is starting to harden like cement on my face.
“Why’d you do that?” Ron asks the one next to me.
The asshole slab is still silent, barely makes eye contact with Ron either. He simply takes another sip of coffee.
What does it take to get something out of this fucking guy?
“Why don’t you slide your big butt out of that booth, partner?” asks Ron, alternating his shotgun’s aim between the two men.
The waiter takes a step back, backing away from the table and taking off toward the kitchen.
Smart. I wish I could leave, too.
The asshole slabs take more sips of coffee.
“You not hear so good?” asks Ron.
Skinny Drake shakes. I look to my napkin-gun. The men look to their guns on the table. They set their coffee cups down.
“Don’t,” Ron says.
His face is holding strong, but if you look closer you can see signs of crumbling. There’s a little something in his eyes. Something he’s hanging onto. Maybe a family he’d like to get home to. There’s something he’s holding tight to that these assholes simply are not.
I slowly slip my hand up onto the table near my napkin while looking to Skinny Drake, hoping he’ll follow my lead. He sees me, but shakes his head violently back and forth like a kid who doesn’t want to take his medicine. I kick him under that table. He throws me the stink eye, but ultimately puts his hand on the table near his napkin.
The waiter returns, holding a hunting rifle now. Ron nods to him in appreciation. I can’t help but wonder if this happens a lot around here. They seem to be prepared.
The two assholes look at each other.
They each place their hands on the table with palms flat on the table. Not a complete act of aggression, but not a friendly sign of peace either. They each have a hand inches from their guns.
“Last time, boys. Slide out from the booth with hands empty, please,” Ron says, keeping his shotgun dead on the one next to me. The waiter has his rifle barrel a couple of inches from the head of the other one. They both look nervous, uneasy. This is not part of their normal day. These other men, the large asshole slabs, do not seem concerned. As if having a gun on them is a way of life. This thing here, it is part of their normal day.
“Now,” Ron says, pushing his shotgun closer.
This is not part of my day either. At least not until recently.
The large asshole next to me turns to Ron and simply says, “No.”
Chapter 31
Everything’s a swirling blur of mayhem.
The asshole next to me grabs Ron’s shotgun, flinging the barrel to the side as he snatches up his gun from off the table. Ron pulls the trigger a half-second too late. His blast blows the front door in half. Asshole puts two bullets in his chest, sending Ron rocking backward to the floor.
The waiter triggers a shot off into the head of the asshole next to me. Blood and skull scatter. I squeeze my eyes shut, spinning away from the mess while still in the booth. I manage get ahold of my gun under the napkin as I butt-spin in the booth. Slipping and sliding I wiggle my body enough to get under the table. Frantic sounds from the other customers can be heard all around me, happening above the table and in every direction. Screams. Plates smash. Tables get overturned. Chairs fall. Feet running. Cries for it all to stop. An eatery under siege and scared shitless.
No time think about what’s happening. From under the table I pull Skinny Drake down with me. Once he’s cleared the table edge, I plant a foot on the wall and shove-kick off the wood paneling with everything my thighs have to give me.
I’m a rocket.
My body blasts from under the table like a piston, firing me past the asshole’s legs and lands me, twisting, turning onto the floor. Can feel the scrapes of the tile burn various parts of me. I’ll cry later.
A gun blast sounds. As I come to a rolling stop I see the other asshole has shot the waiter and now is up on his feet with his focus and gun on me.
Got me dead to rights.
I’m on the floor with my gun planted on the floor under the hand I used to stop myself. Got no move here. His face is void of expression. Eyes blank as if he’s watching a rerun he’s seen a million times. He knows the ending by heart.
Pretty sure I know how this is going to end too.
“If you’re going to do it, then do it. No need for a show,” I say.
He smirks. I smirk. I call him a fucking asshole.
He cocks his head birdlike.
A gunshot sounds.
The large asshole’s body jolts forward. Blood spits from his mouth. As he turns around I see Skinny Drake behind him with a gun. He’s terrified, has dropped his gun to his side. The large asshole has not. He’s swinging his gun around. As fast as I can I whip my gun up and fire without much of an aim. Luckily he’s big as shit. Like broad side of a barn big. My shot tags him in the shoulder blade, spinning him back around to me. I scream. My body shakes, I can’t control it. I fire again and again and again…
My sight speckles with small globs of light peppering my vision.
Through the dotted constellation of lights I watch the asshole’s body jig and jive as my bullets cut him to shreds. The globs are covering my vision like a windshield during a hard rain. My brain slips into a warm milky state. Comforting and troubling at the same time. The shakes slow. Time slows to a crawl.
All vision goes completely white.
Globs won.
Last thing I hear is gun blasts.
Chapter 32
My head shoots up.
Trees and countryside rip past the window next to my face. I’m in the Porsche, but not driving, thank God. Really just happy I’m alive and not in that diner surrounded by death and assholes with guns. Got out somehow. Turning left I see Skinny Drake driving like a spastic hamster. He works the wheel as if he’s only seen driving on TV. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he makes quick head turns between me and the road.
“You back?” he asks me.
He’s nervous as hell again. I’m starting to realize that “nervous as hell” is a character trait for him. His steady state. Not that it’s not justified given what’s been happening since we met, but I hope that under normal circumstances he’s more relaxed. He’s kinda stressing me out, man. I choose to let sarcasm veil my terror. It coats. It soothes. It relieves. It covers up the rough spots in my life. Not to mention, it works. Don’t recommend it, but it does work for me.
My mouth is dry. Getting words out of a sewer hole is not easy. Feels like I’m trying to push speech through a sack of marbles. Feels like I might throw up, too. I crank down the window. The blast of hot air is not what I wanted.
“What?” Skinny Drake asks.
“I going to throw up.”
The Porsche swerves hard right sending me flying face-first into Skinny Drake. He jams the brakes hard. I fire forward, slamming my face into the dash, then spring back into my seat. Dude could have put a seatbelt on me. Idiot. He’s already out the door running full tilt around the front of the car.
I might have swallowed my tongue.
He flings the door open, spilling me out onto the gravel-covered shoulder of the road. There’s a rushing, a roaring from my stomach. I do indeed throw up. Feels horrible, the
n, suddenly, I feel like a million bucks. Coughing hard, I push myself up off the asphalt and stand across from Skinny Drake. I just stare at him. My new traveling companion. He takes his sleeve and wipes my mouth, then my face, then my forehead.
“Stop.” I pull back, then tell him, “Thank you, but stop.”
He stands down.
“What the hell happened?” I ask.
“What? When?”
I look at him, not believing he’s even asking me these questions.
“In the diner. The place where we were visited by the two large assholes. The place we almost got slaughtered in. What the hell happened at that place?”
He starts to speak. I hold up a finger and tell him, “Start at the spot where I can’t remember and—”
“How do I know where you can’t remem—”
“Hey.” I double-snap my fingers at him. “And. And my memory fails me right after you shot the guy and then I shot the guy. There. Start there. Go.”
He nods, takes a breath then shakes his hands out in front of him like he’s ready to start. “Ok. Here’s what went down. I shot him, you shot him and then you shot him and shot him and shot him and shot him and—”
“Skinny, jump out of your loop. What happened next?”
“You kept shooting. You went dark, man. Kept pulling the trigger until you were out of bullets and then, zip, you shut down. Face on the floor. It was a little scary, Teddy. On fire for a minute, tapped out the next. That scream you let out. Your face, it got all angry. Red as hell and mean. You went complete Hulk and then shut it all down, just like that. Out like a light.”
I take a step back. That’s never happened to me. I know he’s right, I know what he’s saying is the truth, and it’s scaring the hell out of me. Is this the new me? My new normal? Violent blackouts? Is this an evolution of my childhood quirk?
Must be.
What else could it be?