By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  Kane’s eyes darted around the empty room, searching. Then he looked back at me, hard, cold, sizing me up. When he finally spoke, his voice was a raw whisper. “Answers, huh? Maybe I got something to say about all that, but I ain’t saying it here. Ain’t safe. He’s got people, and this place gots ears.”

  My stomach started doing flip-flops. I didn’t know who he was talking about, but I could guess. I leaned in closer to the glass. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Get me out of here.”

  “Are you insane? I wouldn’t even know where to start—”

  “What are you, a moron? Post my bail. You do that, and we’ll have plenty to talk about.”

  * * *

  I drove past three bail bond places before I shook my head and talked myself out of it. What would my wife say? She would remind me that this guy was a criminal, a killer.

  I didn’t think mentioning bail was a good idea when I called her, especially after I dug myself into a hole by suggesting a slight reschedule. The logistics of the evening had started worrying me. So I told her that maybe we should meet at the restaurant.

  Not very romantic, she’d said. I had been too buzzed up after meeting Kane to think straight. I’d forced the plan, had come off too brusque. She’d said fine and hung up.

  It was going to be quite the celebration if I didn’t pull it around. Maybe I’d have time to stop and get her flowers.

  All that meant I was late getting to the station. The captain wasn’t happy. When he wasn’t happy, he made me wash and wax the truck.

  A clean fire truck didn’t put out fires any more than a dirty one. But firemen spend a lot of time waiting for the alarm to sound, and waiting is always a little better with something to do. So we wash that truck over and over. Didn’t bother me. It was a fine way to kill a shift.

  By the time I got to buffing the wax, I was spending more time checking my watch than rubbing the rag over the chrome. When I heard my name called, I assumed it was the captain telling me to finish her up.

  It wasn’t the captain. It was Detective Brockman and his partner Weisnecki.

  “You oughta get some coeds to clean that truck for you. Get ’em all soaped up and charge people to watch.” Brockman let out a wolf whistle. “Ha. That’s what I call a fundraiser.”

  I tossed the polish rag on my shoulder, wiped my hands on my work pants. “Detectives. What can I do for you?”

  Weisnecki twitched his square mustache. “Ben, we know you went to visit Kane McInnis. You want to tell us why?”

  Brockman barely let him finish his question. “More importantly, soldier, how about you tell us what he had to say.”

  “You’re going to be disappointed, fellas. He didn’t say anything.”

  “He didn’t?” Brockman growled. “Seems unlikely. Did you two get together to do some yoga? I bet not. What did you talk about? What did he say?”

  “It’s like this,” I rubbed my forehead, “I have a friend who is a private detective—”

  “You hear that, Mark?” Brockman put his hands on his knees and pretended to laugh. “A private detective. Man oh man.”

  “Anyway, my friend told me that Moshi was connected to a bookie named Bones. I’m sure you guys know that. I just wanted to hear McInnis tell his side of the story. But he wasn’t talking.”

  Weisnecki laughed out loud. He wasn’t pretending.

  Brockman, however, lost all humor in his face. “What, are you looking for some big payday? Think you’re going to find a stash of Moshi’s winnings? That what you’re after?”

  “No, I didn’t even think—”

  “That’s right you didn’t think. That’s the problem with amateur detectives and punk wannabes who stick their noses where they don’t belong. No thinking. And no thinking means people get hurt.”

  “Come on, I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t trying to mess with your investigation.”

  “Oh, there’s no more investigation, soldier. Case closed. McInnis killed himself in his cell about an hour ago. And wouldn’t you know, you were the last person he talked to.”

  “What?” Kane’s words came back at me. He knew he wasn’t safe. He knew he was a target. This felt wrong.

  Weisnecki cracked his knuckles. “Why don’t we start over? Let’s try to remember this conversation you had, word for word.”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer. Both detectives flinched at the sudden scream of the fire alarm. They tried to shout something at me, but I couldn’t hear them. Instinct kicked in and I ran to put on my gear.

  As I threw on my heavy coat, I watched them slink away like hungry cats.

  * * *

  Minutes later we were at the blaze. Black smoke from the two-story stucco rose up into the blue of the twilight sky. I had come to hate fires, big fires. My stomach got a bit queasy, not so much from nerves, just the raw adrenaline and anxiety of facing a relentless beast. Maybe some people thought that fighting a fire was as easy as holding a hose on a bunch of flames until they fizzled out. The truth was different. It was an athletic activity. Grueling, demanding, draining, and never ever easy.

  Fire is alive. It doesn’t want to die. It searches out any path it can find to keep itself living. Like a wild animal, if you force it into a corner, it will attack. Well, let me tell you, I’m the guy who attacks back.

  I grabbed my axe and ran inside.

  The plan was always the same: evacuate, isolate, terminate. More than putting out the fire, the primary goal is always to make sure no one dies. In a building this size that means a quick and thorough scan to see who’s there and get them the hell out.

  I heard feet stomping up the staircase so I grabbed the guys next to me and surged forward. The dense smoke blocked our way. I peeled off Petey Ivers, told him to take the rooms to our left. Made Kenny Shrubb take the ones to the right.

  Kenny was always a little too eager to work the hose, didn’t want to spend the time figuring the fire out. “Come on, man, let’s just take care of it!”

  “Search the rooms, Shrubb! We’ll get all hands on soon enough!”

  The heat was getting to me. I instinctively flipped my left wrist up to check the time, though I couldn’t see my watch through all the gear. Tried to do the math in my head. Putting out a burner like this, forty-five minutes tops. Back to the station, clean myself up. I’d be late for sure, but my wife was patient . . .

  “Drake!” The shout from upstairs jarred me. I knew I needed more focus. I growled at myself, turned back to the front.

  Kenny Shrubb stood at the base of the stairs. He looked confused, shell-shocked. He always did.

  The voice called down again: “We clear down there?”

  I looked at Shrubb. He said, “Ivers already went up. Nobody down here. Side bedroom freaked me out. Burned up Ouija board sitting in a puddle of wax near the window.”

  I grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him up the stairs. He continued, “Burn pattern looks like it jumped up the curtains and took over the ceiling. I gotta tell you, man, I looked at it a long time. I could swear I saw the smoke forming a pentagram . . . that’s the sign of the devil!”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Shrubb.” My tolerance for mumbo-jumbo was always low, but even more so now. I pushed Shrubb again, a little harder than I had to.

  At the top, the heat formed a wall that allowed no passage and no mercy. Ivers looked over at me. “Bad up here, Drake. Whoever owned this place stuffed the rooms with furniture and racks of clothes. A real pack rat. Too much fuel.”

  He shouted to be heard over the roar of the flames. I shouted back: “No way to vent the roof?”

  He shook his head while gripping the large hose. “No way. Can’t risk getting the ladders up here. No stability. Briggs and Hurley are hitting the exterior on the east side with the master stream.”

  Long minutes passed. Another team came up to replace us. Ivers signaled me down the stairs, but I couldn’t move. I had to get this fire out. I waved him off, stayed on the line. It w
as unreasonable of me, but the heat and the stress . . .

  I fell to one knee, my eyes tearing from the smoke. I couldn’t blink out the sting fast enough. Someone lifted me up by the armpits. “Get out of here!”

  I relented, anger eating away at my stomach.

  My hand found the railing as I inched down the stairs. Thought I was taking it slow enough, but my brain was full of too much fuzz. Don’t know if I missed that last step or if I slipped on the water from the hose. But I was down. Twisted my damn ankle.

  They dragged me out of there. Gasping for air, I slumped on the ground near the truck.

  The building was a goner. The job had switched to containment. I shook my head; this was going to take awhile.

  I muttered, “I’m sorry.” But no one could hear me, especially not my wife.

  Events replayed over and over. I know I was distracted, but something else was bugging me. Something wasn’t right.

  A wailing woman broke my concentration. I searched her out, found her ringing her hands over by the deputy chief. She had more jewelry on than I thought possible. It weighed her down, but not any more than the grief all over her face.

  “My baby! Where’s my baby?”

  The deputy chief tried calming her down. Not an easy task. “We evacuated the building, ma’am. There was no baby.”

  The something that was bugging me kicked into overdrive.

  “She’s not a baby, she’s almost ten . . . she’s a big girl. I was only going to be gone an hour, maybe two . . .”

  I was on my feet. I found Kenny Shrubb.

  “Kenny, the room with the candles and the witch board. You searched the whole room, right? Under the bed . . . the closets?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His eyes went wide, his face went sallow.

  That’s when I ran back inside.

  It wasn’t much of a run with my ankle screaming up at me. I grit my teeth and pushed through a wall of flame.

  * * *

  I pulled the girl out of the closet and ran her out through the flames. She was in pretty bad shape. The EMTs said she would make it, though maybe they were lying to me. They could see it in my face that I needed her to live.

  The boys said I was a hero, but I didn’t feel like a hero. Tomorrow I would let them all clap me on the back. I might even puff out my chest for them. But tonight, tonight I just wanted to be gone.

  It was the longest fire I’d ever worked, and in the end we lost the structure. My anger and resentment made me think it was probably for the better.

  I went straight to the restaurant without showering. I would have been horrible dinner company, but since I was almost two hours late, I knew she wouldn’t be there. Guy at the host counter said she had waited a long time. He put a lot of nasal sound into the words long time. He also looked at me like I was a maniac. He wasn’t far from wrong.

  I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, bought a dozen wilted roses. She was going to be furious, but she would understand. She always did.

  I pulled into my spot and immediately noticed her car wasn’t there. I thought about turning right around and trying to find her. But where would I go? Where could she be?

  At my front door, two uniformed policemen stood patiently.

  I didn’t say anything to them, just eyed them both up and down.

  “Excuse me, sir, are you Benjamin Drake?”

  I didn’t answer them, and they didn’t continue. We stood there. I hid my hand, the one not holding the flowers, in my pocket. It was shaking.

  “Give it to me.” My fist clenched the flowers.

  “Why don’t we—”

  “Give it to me!”

  The cop exhaled. He gave it to me all right, more tactfully than I would have been able to. Some auto accident.

  Inside I howled, a long hollow howl. She was gone. Everything was gone. Everything.

  I looked at the two men. They couldn’t hear my howl. No one could have. And no one ever will.

  The younger cop wouldn’t meet my gaze, but the other one looked right back at me. “You got somewhere to go? Someone you can be with?”

  The flowers fell from my grasp, spilling onto the steps in front of the door. “Yeah.”

  * * *

  It only took five drinks to get me kicked out of the first bar. My judgment was probably already starting to get impaired, but I think the bartender was overreacting. I snapped at a young couple necking at the bar. I told them to get a booth or better yet a cheap room at the Purple Knights Motel. Don Juan wanted to plant a five-finger kiss on my face. The bartender threw a fit and showed me the door. The night was early.

  I hadn’t been so drunk since I was a kid. I can remember being at parties, wanting to get wasted. Back then, did I have any idea what that meant? Wasted. That’s where I was headed now. I was going to lay waste to my body, my thoughts, everyone and everything around me. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to come back.

  I left the second bar on my own because it was too quiet. I wanted noise.

  I fought not to think about my wife, and without really trying, I thought about Moshi instead.

  Kane McInnis was dead. They said suicide, but I wasn’t buying it. The whole thing was too neat, too suspicious, and it made Moshi’s death seem like a targeted kill. Even if Kane weren’t a professional, professionals were definitely involved.

  I remembered telling Pappy that I thought I should have been able to save Moshi. Now it was hard to figure out why I would possibly imagine that. I was thinking too much, because my mind jumped to the idea that maybe if I hadn’t gone back into that fire tonight to save that little girl, then maybe I could have made it to dinner on time. If I would have let that young girl die, maybe I could have saved my wife. She had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was an accident. She should have been with me. Celebrating.

  Despite all the drink, I knew it was ridiculous. But slowly, with every new drink, it became the truth.

  The third bar eighty-sixed me at two drinks. It was really only one. I’d spilled the second.

  Everything in the world was wrong. Nothing made sense. Could I find a way to fix it? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?

  The answer wouldn’t have to wait. I was already beginning to black out.

  I lost count of the bars. Before long I couldn’t find one that would serve me at all. Apparently the foreigner working the Junior Captain Jr. Mart had lower standards. I gave him some cash and walked out with a bottle.

  I blinked my eyes open. I was behind the wheel of my car. Going too fast, I saw the lights flash past my windows.

  My eyelids felt heavy, so heavy. I gripped the steering wheel hard. My neck started to get soft.

  My wife looked at me with that smile of hers. She held out her arms to hold me. She was more beautiful than ever, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She was made of light.

  A quick intake of breath. My head snapped back. I slammed on the brakes. I couldn’t see the road. My car spun hard, smoke and cinders coming up from the tires.

  The car came to a stop but I was still moving, moving down a dark spiral going who knows where.

  I kept gulping up air, my body in spasms from the hyperventilation. It was hard to see with all the dust I’d kicked up. It looked like I was in an alley.

  My breathing slowed. It was dark outside, but I knew exactly where I was. I was outside the remains of Moshi Scavone’s burned building.

  Blackness took me.

  * * *

  The sharp sound of broken glass brought me around. I opened my eyes; it was still dark. I looked at my watch. It didn’t make sense. Where was the sun? How long had I been there? My stomach groaned and my head ached. My eyes searched out what had made the sound.

  A small light bounced around inside Moshi’s shell of a house. Then it hit me—an intruder.

  I tried to get out of the car, but I doubled over, grabbing my stomach. I looked around the car for any stray food, but the only thing there was a bo
ttle of Old Grand-Dad. I twisted the cap off and took a swig. My stomach contracted in a fist; I almost threw it all up. Instead I choked down another swig.

  I stalked over to the building on my twisted ankle. The pain helped me ignore my hunger. My left eye twitched.

  Yellow police tape over the doors, the windows. A silly gesture since there were man-sized holes in the exterior wall.

  I entered the building when I heard the heavy bang of metal on metal. I moved my way toward it slowly, checking each step for solid purchase, making sure the fire hadn’t weakened the floorboards.

  Another metallic bang. A grunt.

  I didn’t have a flashlight, but I knew where I was going. Now that I was inside, I had a feeling I knew who I’d find.

  A string of profanities followed the next bang. I was close enough to hear heavy breathing.

  I stood at the broken doorframe of Moshi’s bathroom. The dirty bathtub he’d been found in reflected the light that was shining down from a cheap plastic camping lantern. The lantern light also lit up a hole in the wall, a hole big enough to hide a fireproof safe.

  The big man stood there, obscured by shadows and leaning on a long-handled sledgehammer. When he saw me, he stepped forward into the light. His angular face was covered in sweat and dirt.

  “Brockman, put down the hammer. Step away from the safe.”

  “Who . . . wait . . . Drake? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a concerned citizen. I heard a racket. This place isn’t stable, you know.”

  “This place is a crime scene. Didn’t you see the tape?”

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “Then get out of here. This is none of your business.”

  “You made it my business—when you had McInnis kill Moshi Scavone.”

  He growled and ran toward me, sledgehammer held out to the side in a double-fisted grip, like he was going for a home run.

  The whole world slowed down. It was like watching a movie fight scene, and all I could see on the screen was the business end of a giant hammer coming at my face.