Psychosomatic

by Anthony Neil Smith

  “How sure are we there’s not a camera crew around? Crabtree’s a walking comedy act. Like that mailman from Seinfeld.”

  “Newman was evil.”

  “No, just an asshole who thought he was evil. He never pulled it off entirely.”

  Against all odds, Tompkins figured out how to open the door and seat himself. Crabtree eased from the driveway and drove out of the neighborhood.

  Terry shifted into gear and followed slowly, hoping Alan hadn’t magically grown wiser since their last meeting, when the fat man laid six hundred in Terry’s hand, grinned at their shocked faces, and left without a word. They had been prepared to listen to another sob story, slap him around, take his wallet, and repo the stolen car. Instead, they got paid. It was a disappointment.

  “So, should we stop him now before he gets bold and kills Tompkins?” Lancaster said.

  Terry barked laughter, feeling back in control for a change, thumping the wheel in rhythms like on old Santana albums. He thought of Carlos in the sixties, big fro, psychedelic swirls painted on the guitar. “Bold? Bold ain’t the word, amigo. Alan Crabtree is the antithesis of boldness.”

  *

  Alan drove north on Highway Fifteen on the twisty two-lane road leading into deep woods. The homes were built in little clusters miles apart. A few farming areas, or people who pretended to be farmers. Cows and horses scattered near dilapidated wooden fences. He listened to talk radio out of New Orleans the first ten minutes, thinking Tompkins was either stoned or mute. The man barely said two words since Alan explained that they needed to meet with other agents discuss a plan for catching Norm and his hired killers. He didn’t question it or anything.

  Then Tompkins began babbling. Alan had to talk back, and he didn’t like that as much as the silence.

  “If I haven’t told you already, I appreciate your help,” Tompkins said. “I’m surprised anyone cares about me enough to protect me this way.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “You seem to take personal interest. I’m not just a job to you. I’m a real human being. Right? I can tell. You watching my house and all, trying to stay out of sight. I get it now. Like a guardian angel.”

  Alan remembered some of a hit man guidebook, this underground thing he’d found cheap on E-bay: Don’t get attached. While you may sometimes have to open up, express your emotions, as well as pretend to care about your target’s emotions, too, remember that it’s acting, a job, like an eight hour shift for a telemarketer. Do the work, take the good with the bad, wash it off, and move on.

  What a dumb-ass writer.

  Alan didn’t care about Tompkins. He worried his natural fear of pretty much everything might get in the way come crunch time. Shooting Cap had been about survival. Lydia and Norm wanting Tompkins dead was simply about money and power, a hostile takeover of his shares in the company. Maybe that’s why it felt different, like he had an unfair advantage by lying to Tompkins, all because someone was paying him. How could mob enforcers and Ninjas live with themselves? What was the secret? Alan hoped he wouldn’t have to find out, hoped that Tompkins would take his advice and disappear, change his name, whatever. Give him twenty bucks and point him towards the next town.

  *

  Terry and Lancaster hung back far enough that they had to speed up when Alan turned onto a side road without a signal. Panic set in as they reached the dirt path, a cloud of red dust obscuring the view.

  “Shit, he might really do it. What’s the angle on this? Maybe he’s bringing Tompkins to meet the real killers, guys with nerve,” Lancaster said.

  “You heard what he did to Ronnie. I’m starting to think Crabtree graduated from Cowardly Lion stage and moved on to Bad Ass training.”

  “So if we want our second pay day…”

  Terry didn’t drive too fast because he couldn’t see through the dust. It was a narrow road, probably only used by hunters, or teenagers looking for privacy. As the view cleared, the Kia was almost right in front of them. They braked hard, inches away from the back bumper, their own dust drifting ahead.

  “Get your gun,” Lancaster said.

  “What gun? I didn’t bring a gun.”

  “What the hell?”

  A shrug. “It’s Crabtree. I didn’t think I would need one.”

  Lancaster pulled out his nine, said, “I’ll make sure you don’t get any on you.”

  *

  Alan’s life was all about bad timing. He was just through his first try at the truth when he heard the brakes squeal nearby. Hands in his pockets, one curled around a twenty and the other around the pistol grip. Tompkins was shaking the way stoners do when faced with real danger.

  “But what about you guys? Feds are on my side, right?” Tompkins said.

  Alan shook his head. “You don’t get it. There are no feds. Norm wants you dead and if I don’t do it, someone else will. I mean it, man. Just find the road, turn left, and keep walking until you hit Wiggins, maybe four or five miles.”

  He had started to pull the money from his pocket when the brakes echoed, followed by slamming car doors. The distraction spooked Alan and gave Tompkins a little confidence.

  “Here! We’re over here!”

  Rustling bushes. Louder. Faster.

  Tompkins got cocky. “Nobody’s telling me to leave town, bitch. I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  “Back down,” Alan said, pistol sliding from the pocket of his khakis, slow enough that Tompkins didn’t notice.

  “Fuck you.” Tompkins flashed a spacey grin like he was in a rap video, no longer taking the little fat man seriously.

  Alan needed to be taken seriously. He boiled. His grip firmed on the pistol.

  Tompkins bobbed, weaved, played like a boxer, took a swipe at Alan and laughed. “I’ll lay you out and take your car, man. Here I was thanking you for saving my life.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Playing me for a fool.” Another swipe, this one too close.

  Alan arm came up, stiffened, Tompkins tripping back to get away.

  You run, you won’t make it. You give up, could be worse. He worth it to you?

  Tompkins was on his knees, shuffling through the dirt and leaves. “Keep cool, man, cool out.”

  Alan caught a glimpse of two men coming towards them, flickering between trees. He turned back to Tompkins, pulled the trigger.

  *

  Terry and Lancaster caught the final moments of Tompkins’ life. He stood like he was about to pounce on Crabtree, like it was all a game. Alan straightened his arm, big ass hand cannon. Tompkins went girly on the ground.

  Flash, bang, echo, and Tompkins flopped backwards before smacking the ground, blood all over his face down his chest.

  “Shit, Crabtree, man, what the fuck?” Lancaster shouted.

  Alan came back to earth from whatever place he had gone to make that shot. His face softened from stone cold to shock. He swung the pistol towards Terry and Lancaster, who both tossed up their hands and made soothing sounds.

  “Hey, hey,” Terry said. “Cool out there, partner. Whatever happened, we’re on your side, you know. Didn’t we give you a good deal on the car? Weren’t we true to our word?”

  They took careful steps, drifting apart to split Alan’s attention, treating him like a wild boar. He retreated, his gun still up and ready, back and forth. Tompkins’ body was in the way, so Alan stepped over it, nearly slipping on the blood. Lancaster jerked forward as if he were reaching to help steady Alan. The fat little man caught the movement and let off a wild shot in Lancaster’s direction.

  Lancaster went down grabbing his arm, a sharp “Motherfuck!” escaping before he gritted his teeth and hissed, dropped his gun.

  Terry backed way off, hands wide, skin going three shades of green. “It’s going to be okay, just fine. Calm down, hear me? Easy does it.”

  The .45 looked bigger to Terry, and it grew larger still as Alan took slow steps straight for him, the eyes no longer scared, the mouth a thin line of control.

  “
On your stomach,” Alan said.

  “Alan, buddy—”

  “Look at your friend over there. Say another word, see what happens. On your stomach.”

  Terry inched his body closer to the floor of the woods, trying to keep his eye on the gun in case he needed to move quickly. His cheeks twitched, eyes squinted, not wanting to take a bullet fully aware of it.

  “You can’t kill us, man. We’re connected. They’ll find out somehow.”

  “I paid you in cash.”

  “Still, there’s always a trail. Watch CSI. Always something to find the connection. Listen, you let us go, we’ll help you out. Nothing to it.”

  Terry could only turn his neck so far now as he stretched out on the ground, hands on his head. He thought Alan hadn’t moved except to lower the gun barrel. Ahead of him, Lancaster rolled on the ground in serious pain, blood slicking his whole right arm.

  “I can’t trust you,” Alan said. Simple fact, no question at all.

  “Deal with us here, dude. We’ll get rid of the body for you. Something you’d have to do anyway, have you thought about that? I know you don’t want to leave him here, right?”

  It was exactly what Alan wanted to do. He rethought the plan, wishing he could make the final shots and let it go. Anyone who found these three would think it was a drug deal gone wrong. They were known criminals, while Alan was a nobody, in the clear. Lydia’s rich friends thought she was slumming with Alan, using him in a way better looking men wouldn’t stand for. A killer? Not likely.

  The little bastards on the ground had wounded him enough already. Several beatings over late payments administered by these fraternity rejects. Go ahead. You’re home free.

  Alan mumbled, “I’ve only been paid for one.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Look, you dispose of Tompkins. It’ll be your car, your fingerprints, Lancaster’s blood, so don’t think of trying to turn it back on me.”

  “Didn’t cross my mind.”

  “They find that body in the next few weeks, I’ll know you didn’t do a good job, and I’ll come find you.”

  “Got it. Clear as a bell.”

  Without another word, Alan eased his way down the path he had come from, making his steps quiet so Terry wouldn’t know where he was, the guy twisting his neck, his vision blocked by tangled tree roots and vines. Alan kept calm, didn’t run the last ten feet. He kept his eyes on the path, made sure he wasn’t being followed, then got into his Kia and turned back down the dirt path around Terry and Lancaster’s minivan.

  He kept thinking he did the stupid thing. Had them right there, easy to end it all. But he wasn’t a real killer. In the movies, guys like him turned out okay. It was the bad guys who gave in to emotions and made mistakes. He clicked the radio on and tried to simmer down, but he couldn’t. He had killed a helpless stoner, wounded a muscle-bound maniac, and left a con man as a witness.

  Shit, Alan thought as sweat chilled his skin. It’s far from over.

  NINE

  Lydia saw the potential in Alan despite the homeliness. Yes, he had slimmed down for her, paid closer attention to his hair and clothes, but that didn’t solve the pug face and overall stumpy nature. She overlooked that because he tried harder than any man she had ever known. He gave in to her mostly, didn’t mind risking a small fight. And the sex was all for her, she could tell. Lydia usually told him what she wanted. The other times she guessed he was reading Cosmo on the side and taking it seriously.

  Then Norm came back into her life. Rough around the edges, not as much of a pushover. He was more of a take charge guy, though less bright than Alan. Still, she liked the chase, the fighting spirit. She could get him to change his style, maybe shave his head and lose that stupid mullet and ball cap, trim the beard to stubble, dress him in outfits a little more urban. That appealed to her, taming the beast inside Norm so she could hold him on a leash, same as Alan.

  The trick was, she knew, having them both in her stable and liking it. Lydia would choose whom she slept with night to night, sometimes indulging in both. Working and playing together, a little family. When she daydreamed about it, the chair wasn’t in the picture. Her beautiful arms and legs were whole and attached, true flesh instead of rubber illusions. Lounging in her silk robe on the sofa until her boys came home, guns and cash in hand, another job complete. Meeting them with kisses as they began undressed her, then made love to her simultaneously while wearing their expensive suits. Yes, more, yes, all for me, for ME—

  The phone jangled her nerves and made her gasp a little, the daydream now a faded second of thought. Lydia tried to lift her arm before remembering it wasn’t real anymore, then closed her eyes and whispered, “Answer.”

  Alan’s breath exploded like static on the headset.

  “Calm down, I’m here. Alan? Everything go all right?”

  “No, it’s all screwed. Sweetie, it wasn’t my fault.”

  Sure it wasn’t, she thought. “Please calm down and tell me what happened.”

  He told her, quickly enough that she barely understood—the car thieves had followed him, must’ve have known about this the whole time. Her first thought flashed Norm in league with these guys, a big play to take her and Alan out of the picture. Maybe blackmail. She held that in check while imagining other scenarios. Could be they had followed Alan from the time he paid them off for the car, curious as to where he got the cash. Or, if not Norm, maybe Tompkins himself had called the little fucks in.

  Later. She would find out later. For the moment, there were more important things. “You took care of them, right? Terry and Lancaster?”

  “How could I do that? Three bodies instead of one? There’s no way I could’ve gotten away with that.”

  Lydia felt scared. She watched the curtains flowing in the wind, wondering if there were killers outside her home already, waiting for the perfect moment. She was defenseless. They could do anything they wanted to her.

  “Come home, Alan. How far away are you?”

  “South of Wiggins, so I should be hitting Highway Ninety in about ten minutes.”

  “Hurry.” She hung up and sipped the straw control, spinning slowly to make sure she was alone. Someone was usually around to shut those windows, but the idea that the daytime would be as dangerous as the night never occurred to her before that moment. The pretty sheer curtains, the beige furniture with pastel pillows and throws, her four-post bed, her perfectly sculpted Jayne Mansfield limbs—none of them offered any protection from bastard car thieves or federal agents or real assassins for hire, not like her sweet vulnerable Alan.

  He was too far away at that moment, still a good half-hour out. She spoke into her mike, dialed Norm’s number. He was closer, maybe only a few blocks. Whatever the risk of Norm not playing straight with them on this, Lydia didn’t want to be alone.

  TEN

  Terry didn’t move until he was absolutely sure Crabtree was gone. He waited for the sound of the engine turning over before he scuttled towards Lancaster, who wasn’t groaning anymore. He lay curled on his side, a bloody mess. The bullet had passed through his bicep, pulped it.

  For a moment, Terry imagined running for it. Take the gun. Put Lancaster out of his misery. Drive, drive, drive. Only a split second, because he knew he wouldn’t get far without Lancaster. They filled in each other’s weak spots.

  Besides, Lancaster had already read his friend’s mind. “By the time you lift my gun, I’d have found a way to kill you anyway.”

  “Hey, we’re cool, buddy. You need some help.”

  “Fuck yeah I need help. A hospital, man.”

  Terry let out a deep sigh, trying to think of a better option.

  “No, not this time,” Lancaster said. “Damn the consequences. We can’t do this on our own. You can make up a story, say I was cleaning my gun. Let’s get out of here, try for Hattiesburg.”

  It was a college town about fifty miles north of the Coast, these woods outside of Wiggins the halfway point. If Lancaster wanted a hospital so
bad, he must have believed the wound was a life or death choice. He’d never flinched this much the whole time Terry knew him. They could probably get away with a trip to the ER, tell the docs it was an accident.

  Terry helped Lancaster to his feet, leaned him against a tree. Then he straddled Tompkins’ body, ripped the T-shirt off, and brought it to Lancaster, tied it around the wound.

  Lancaster nodded at the body. “What about him? I heard what you told Crabtree.”

  Terry walked over to Tompkins and bent over with his arms dangling. He patted the dead man’s pockets and pulled out a wad of cash and a cell phone, thought they might come in handy. He thought about putting the guy in the trunk, or maybe burying him, before saying, “No one’s going to find him today. And Crabtree can’t get out of this that easily, right?”

  Lancaster tried to smile. “Finding Crabtree is my new reason to live.”

  *

  Lancaster’s arm was in bad shape. Terry lied at the hospital, said it was an accident, that his friend was playing around and set it off.

  It was a town surrounded by woods, plenty of hunters here. Mostly, Hattiesburg was home to three campuses worth of college students and plenty of retirees in their walled-and-guarded subdivisions surrounding custom-built lakes.

  “You brought the gun?” the doctor asked.

  “Jesus, I didn’t think about it. After he dropped it, we headed for the car. I can go get it.”

  “Please—”

  “You’re not leaving me,” Lancaster said, sounding strained as he wrenched his neck to he keep an eye on Terry.

  “Fine, I’ll stay. I’ll run back for it later.”

  The doctor scanned the papers some ER nurse had shoved in his hand after they started working on Lancaster. “Jesus, that’s a lot of lost blood. How far did you drive?”

  “We’re out in the woods, over in the east.” Terry didn’t remember much about the area. “Out in Oak Grove?”

  “That’s west, and not so far.”

  “I said west, right? It’s pretty far.”