Say Goodbye

by Brett M. Wiscons

  “What the fuck!” I said. “Turn this up, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, it’s a terrible predicament the church is in. Once again.” He reached for the clicker and reluctantly began to raise the volume.

  “Shhh, quiet! No fucking way,” I said. The newscast cut to a reporter in Lincoln Park near the William Shakespeare statue where I’d chatted with Chill many times before.

  “This is Eva Lowery for ABC 7. I’m here in Lincoln Park and behind me, covered under that white sheet, is the body of supposed drug lord ‘Chill’ Willis. It was found this morning by joggers. His head has been removed from the rest of his body and there was a note found in his clenched hand with just three letters written on it. The letters are VJW.”

  I glanced over at Vinny.

  “Those are my initials,” he said. “What the fuck?”

  Murph attempted to calm his fears because that’s what Murph did.

  “There must be a thousand people and places with those initials. Let’s not go into panic mode,” he said.

  Father Jimmy, who had to be somewhat relieved that the focus had shifted off of the latest scandal and onto the gruesome death of Chill, said, “Gentlemen, I’m so sorry for your loss…es. I hate to cut our meeting so short, but I’m needed out in the sanctuary. While we can’t understand the nature of why these deaths occurred, please know that god has a plan for both Bella Bella and Chill.”

  I stared daggers into my old friend Jimmy’s eyes. Through clenched teeth I said, “See you out there.”

  **********************

  My siblings and I did what we do at serious moments—we joked around. It was our way of handling things. Some cousins were in for the services too and it was good to see them. There was Holly Whitman, the painter who now resided in France. She had been out of the country for over twenty years. Her trademark black hair was beginning to gray down the middle and she was quite thinner than the last time I’d seen her in 1997. She still had that rapier Whitman wit though. She’d never married. Never really dated much. Back in the ‘90s, we wondered if she were a lesbian. It seemed so trivial now. Her brother Nicky was in town, too. He had gone away to the Navy but settled in Saint Louis about 12 years ago. He was married with two young sons. We were all growing up, I suppose. Some of us just weren’t maturing.

  Vinny came back to our little huddle. “So I’m watching the Discovery channel last night,” he said, “and they were talking about all of the billions and billions of bugs in the world. They say it’s estimated that there are ten quintillion individual insects alive at any point. You know a quintillion has eighteen fucking zeroes behind the one? That's about fucking two hundred million insects for every human on the planet. Just imagine if those fuckers united and rose up and took us out?”

  “I’m imagining right now, Cliff Clavin.” Cousin Holly said with a smile and her eyes closed.

  “Yeah, we’d be fucked,” he said.

  “New shirt, Vinny?” I asked him.

  “You’d better believe it. It’s that new brand UNTUCKit. Fits like a dream. I just don’t understand how they haven’t gotten the rights to the slogan ‘Fuck it, just UNTUCKit.’”

  “Seems only fair,” I said. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

  I was a little jealous of his waistline, I had to be honest with myself. I’d ballooned up to two eighty and didn’t see any relief in sight. Maybe working on this case and trying to deduce who A.W. was would help me slim down a bit. That and not finishing all of the food left behind on my kids’ plates. It was a hard habit to break.

  Saint Clement began to clear out just shy of five o’clock that afternoon before the five thirty mass was set to commence. Those who were interested decided to go have a drink at a nearby pub. The closest one was Burwood Tap, so Jen called ahead and made sure kids were allowed and if they could sufficiently service the extra-large party we intended on bringing. Kingston Mines, a blues club, was only a block further, but alas, they didn’t open until seven that evening and it was a twenty-one and over establishment. Vinny saw Gary Clark Jr. there once when he was coming up in the scene and had been a fan ever since.

  I was placing my arms in the sleeves of my jacket as I walked out the front doors of the sanctuary and into the lobby when I took a peek at the guest book. I’ll be god dammed if, not more than fourteen lines down, the initials A.W. appeared. I looked over my shoulder half expecting to get thumped on the head, but it didn’t happen. I ripped the page out and stuck it in my inside breast pocket. I decided then and there that I needed a plan. What that plan might be, though, was anyone’s guess. C’mon, Bear. Get those levers and pulleys working in that dome of yours. You’re the self-proclaimed great Bear Whitman. Figure this shit out before someone else dies. How could I smoke this jerk out? Odd that two people who were close to me died in such a short span of time. It could be a coincidence…or it could not.

  ELEVEN

  What should have been a low-key night of commemorating a long life lived turned into Murph, Vinny, and I going completely off the rails. Murph had a little bit of blow with him and I was in the mood. It had been years since I’d done a bump, but I felt the circumstances called for it. The Jameson must have given me the courage to join Murph in a stall and say hello to my old friend. The forecast outside didn’t call for snow, but we had all we could handle inside. Thirty seconds later we realized we had accidentally wandered into the women’s restroom. As I walked out of the stall to find two women, who thankfully, weren’t from our group, checking their makeup and pouting their lips in the mirror, I slipped into a character from a bad ‘80s sitcom and included a horrid southern accent to boot.

  “Oopsie daisy.” I motioned to Murph. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  They seemed to buy it. Murph beat a dead horse though anyway, opting for a bad Italian dialect.

  “Make-a sure-a you save-a some room-a for-a dessert-a,” he whispered and pretended not to see them staring at him.

  We made it back out to the group and I was loopy. I played it off as Jen approached to say she was headed back home to get the kids to bed. I told her I’d grab a cab home. There was Major League Soccer on a few of the screens. Also a Bulls game. Vinny was standing to my left and mentioned how he never cared much for soccer but was a big fan of the post-game snacks, so he kept up the charade of playing the sport well into middle school.

  “I was only in it for the orange slices,” he said.

  I burst out laughing due to my recent bathroom activity and put my arm around his neck. “You crack me up, Vinny!”

  “What’s your deal? You in a weird mood or something?”

  “Murph can offer you the same mood if you dare. You’ve been warned.” I moseyed off and saw Vinny approach Murph at the opposite end of the bar. They exchanged a few words and I saw them head for the bathrooms together to continue the party.

  As our group began to wane, I decided we should get the hell out of there and call it a night. I was starting to come down from the coke at that point and regain what was left of my wits. The three of us from the new Whitman Brothers Agency said our goodbyes and loaded into a Chevy Equinox driven by a gal named Ellie from the fine folks at Lyft. Murph and I got in the backseat and Vinny was up front. I strapped on my safety belt and wondered why we weren’t moving. Traffic was heavy, but Ellie could have at least turned on her blinker and attempted to merge from the curb. We were still in park.

  “Sir, could you put on your seat belt?” she said.

  “I don’t do that. Sorry,” Vinny said.

  “Sir, it’s the law. I could get in a lot of trouble.”

  “Vinny, come on,” I said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “No. It’s my life. If I want to risk it by not wearing a stupid seat belt, then so be it. I’m going to die young anyway.”

  Murph chimed in. “Let’s not get dramatic here. It’s probably just the blow talking. C’mon, man. I gotta get home.”

  I was sitting behind Vinny and decided to t
ake matters into my own hands. I opened my door, walked outside, opened his door and attempted to secure his safety harness for him. That lit him up.

  “The fuck off me! I don’t wear seat belts. Fuck it. They’re uncomfortable. It’s my life. It’s not your problem.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “What do I say to your wife if we stop short and you get ejected through the windshield?”

  “Who gives a shit? You’re the smart one, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” said.

  “Sir, we can’t go anywhere without all guests safely secured,” Ellie said.

  “Well then, I guess we’re up shit creek,” Vinny said. After about five seconds of silence, he continued. “Fine. I’ll take a fucking cab. Fuck this anyway.” He got out and Murph and I were so annoyed, we couldn’t have cared less. We didn’t even say ‘see you later.’ Had we known that was the last time either of us would ever see him whole again, we would have reconsidered.

  TWELVE

  I snapped awake that Sunday morning at the obscene time of 6:49. This grownup life was really getting out of hand. Bella Bella’s funeral was at two o’clock that afternoon. Right smack dab in the middle of the Bears and Rams game. Oh well, I’d catch the score later. I gently nudged Jen on the shoulder to tell her I was going to head to the new office space and do a little work before lunch. “I’ll be home by eleven or so,” I told her. She nodded, half asleep. I threw on a comfortable jogging suit and an old Doobie Brothers t-shirt. I grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and washed it down with a tall glass of tap water. I wasn’t too hungover, but I still tossed back a fistful of ibuprofens as well. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window above the sink as I popped the pills. Shit, at least it wasn’t heroin.

  Before I walked out the door I shot a quick text to Vinny and asked how he felt and if he’d meet me at the office in an hour. He wrote back almost immediately that he was going for his ritualistic walk in Lincoln Park to pass out breakfast to an ungrateful homeless person, but he could be there around eight forty-five. I told him I’d see him there. I jogged the half a mile to the storage unit office space and then ran up the stairs to the top floor. My lungs were burning and my calves were screaming by the time I got to our penthouse suite. I sat down on one of the antique chairs to catch my breath and must have nodded off almost immediately.

  I woke up at 9:30 a bit out of sorts. I stood up and my back seized like it would for any out-of-shape dad in his mid-to-late forties. I took a glance in the oval mirror above the wet bar. I looked my age. Much more salt than pepper. Down below the mirror was my old friend Jameson. I twisted off the lid and took a pull from the bottle. In an attempt to stabilize my rotten back, I started doing a couple of yoga poses. It kind of worked. After a few minutes, I glanced at my phone but didn’t see a message from Vinny. When he said he’d be somewhere, he was always there. I knew something was amiss.

  I texted him. Nothing. Then called. No dice. Then I called Murph.

  “Bear, what’s up?”

  “Murph, hey, I’m worried about Vinny.”

  “Yeah? What’s the problem?”

  “Well, he said he’d meet me here at the office this morning around eight forty-five. An hour later and there’s still no sign. Just texted him again and then called and nothing. You know he’s always connected to his phone. Do you think it has something to do with the initials they found with Chill’s body yesterday?” Hearing that my brother’s initials were linked to the crime scene the day before gave me serious pause in the moment, but I tried not to connect the dots. Yes, I’d been out of practice for what seemed like a decade, but my instincts were telling me something bad was happening to the people around me. And on purpose, no less. First Chill. Now Vinny. I was beginning to feel real fear for the first time since I was a child. Combined with the mysterious shit that had happened with Bella Bella, it made my stomach turn. I was starting to suspect that this A.W. creature might be more significant than I first thought. I needed to figure out who he was. But first, I needed to find Vinny.

  Murph sighed into the phone. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  “Call Vinny again and see if he’ll pick up. Whether he does or not, get down here right away.”

  **********************

  An hour later, at 10:47, Murph arrived whistling the sax line from “Miss You” by the Stones and let me know Vinny’s phone went straight to voicemail and that his texts were being showed as “read.” As an iPhone user, this was most concerning, because it told us that Vinny—or someone—had, indeed, read the texts from Murph, yet didn’t respond. That could mean many things, I supposed. Maybe he was in a weird cell service area and his texts to us wouldn’t go through. Maybe he dropped his phone in Lake Michigan. Maybe he bashed it over the head of a homeless man.

  I called Jen and motioned for Murph to pour us a couple of Jamesons. I let her know of the situation and promised her Murph and I would just meet them all at the service for Bella Bella. I asked her to bring my black suit and accoutrements since I, and Vinny, for that matter, were to play the role of pallbearers. Murph said he’d gladly step in if the need arose.

  “So now what?” Murph asked.

  “Let’s keep our heads here. Maybe he’s just busy or out of cell range? Maybe he bumped into someone on the street and is catching up with them?”

  Murph shook his head. “It’s just not like him, man. You know it. I know it. It’s time we discuss the elephant in the room.”

  I stared up at him from the antique table where I was seated. My breathing intensified. “The initials. Right. Hey, you said it yourself, Murph. Those letters could have been directed towards anyone or anything.”

  “Yes, they could, but we’re both smart enough to see now that they might be targeted at Vincent Joseph Whitman.”

  My phone rang. It was Vinny’s number.

  “It’s him. Praise Buddha.” I picked up my cell. “Hello? Vinny? Jesus.”

  While the call was definitely placed from Vinny’s cellular device, it was most certainly not his voice on the other end. Whoever had it in their possession had synched it up with a voice scrambler, their cadence robotic and disguised.

  “Wrong. Not Vinny. It’s your new friend AW. But your brother is nearby. Here, listen.”

  I heard the ungodly, faraway sounds of Vinny screaming in agony. It sounded like a whip was being implemented.

  “Look here, cocksucker,” I snarled into the phone. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but let him go or you’ll pay the ultimate cost.”

  “I already have,” the robotic voice answered. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Whitman. You took someone dear to my heart many years ago and now I’ll show you what pain feels like and what the ultimate cost looks like.”

  I didn’t waver as I said, “Fuck yourself,” and then hung up.

  “What the fuck did you hang up for?!” Murph asked. He was pacing the room, his eyes on me.

  “I don’t know!” I shook my head. “Instinct. It sounded like they were in some sort of empty space. I need the upper hand here.”

  “There is no upper hand. We need to find Vinny.”

  My phone rang again. Only this time, it was from a private number. The screen said, “Private would like to FaceTime with you.”

  I accepted the call. The screen was pointed directly at Vinny who was attached to some sort of archaic torture device. “Listen, cocksucker,” I yelled at the screen. The device was round and wooden: I went to the files in the way back corridors of my brain to realize it was a Catherine Wheel—last used in the Middle Ages as a means to break bones and bludgeon criminals and murderers to death. Vinny was totally nude and strapped to the front of the wheel. He didn’t make much noise. Murph moved until he was huddled over my shoulder as we both looked on in disbelief.

  In that brief moment, I went through the highlight reel of my professional career. I know I’ve done some things that won’t get me into heaven—assuming it exists—but what could I have possibly done to deserve this? What coul
d my baby brother have done? Nothing, except maybe just being in my orbit. Was it a simple case of collateral damage? First Chill, now Vinny? The two were connected, that was certainly clear now. Who could be next? I had to find Vinny. I’d never be able to forgive myself if something from my past was the cause of his early demise.

  “Do you see what’s going on here, Bear?” the voice asked.

  “I see. What do you want? Money?”

  “Money? No not money.” The voice was so calm. “I want what money can’t buy. Solace. You took someone so close to me that now I will take ALL of the people close to you as restitution. ALL of them.”

  The screen was still locked on Vinny. There was a spotlight on him. Otherwise, the room was pitch black. He looked like he was maybe eight feet from his captor.

  “How are you holding up, bro?” I asked

  Vinny winced as he looked at the screen. “How the fuck do you think?”

  The voice chimed in, “Bear, this is not one of those negotiations you see on television or in the movies. Your brother will be dead by midnight. There’s quite literally nothing you can do about it. I’m only giving you this call and time with him to tell him anything that’s on your mind before I tear him limb from limb. Money won’t remedy this situation. I have plenty, believe me. If only you had been a good grandson and visited Bella Bella at Sunrise. Maybe this could have all been averted.”

  I went rigid in my chair. “I don’t buy that,” I said.

  “You’re right. I was going to come at you no matter what. It was only a matter of time. This opportunity was just the path of least resistance.”

  “You motherfucker. Cocksucker.” I resulted to name-calling because I felt trapped and, quite frankly, my old friend fear appeared to be holding my hand.

  “Anyhow, I’ll see you at the funeral,” the voice said.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” said Murph as he crossed his arms.