Say Goodbye

by Brett M. Wiscons

  “I promise.”

  By the time the sirens arrived, Vinny was unconscious. Still breathing, but not really with us.

  **********************

  I rode in the back of the ambulance with my baby brother and held his blood soaked hand in mine. I felt a tight grip and then a release. He went into cardiac arrest and flat-lined as we sped north on Cannon Drive to Presence Saint Joseph’s Hospital. The ride took less than three minutes. He was dead on arrival. I was inconsolable. They put me in a private room with a landline since my phone had broken earlier. My first call after about 15 minutes of shrieking and punching the vending machine in the waiting room lobby was to Vinny’s wife Cassie. I was barely audible.

  I could normally compartmentalize things—even when it came to death and horror. But not this. I owed Vinny though. So I pulled myself together enough to call his wife. She must’ve dropped the phone when I finally got the words out. I told her which hospital we were at and that she’d need to come down right away to identify the body. I was still in shock. I called Jen next and asked her to head to Cassie’s and drive her to the hospital. My next call was to my mother. Oh, dear god. How I wished I had some sort of religion to lean on in that moment, but alas, I didn’t. I just had to deliver the terrible news like a grownup. She didn’t answer. I didn’t leave a message. Chances were, since it was after ten at night, she had been sound asleep for an hour by that point. I’d have Jen call her in the morning.

  I borrowed a nurse’s cell phone and headed outside to call Murph next. Word got around fast. He’d already heard from Maggie who’d heard from Ginny.

  “What do we do now?” he asked. His voice sounded as lost as mine.

  “You still got that buddy with the safe house?”

  “Yeah. Hutch has it. It’s over in…”

  “I don’t even want to know where it is. Take my family there tonight. Now. How’s your car situation?”

  “I’ve got a loaner. Will Jen go for it?”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck if she goes for it or not!” I was pacing around the parking lot. I’d bummed a cigarette off of an orderly and was down to the butt. You could always count on the folks in healthcare to preach clean living but be the biggest alcohol and nicotine junkies around. Thank god for that. “I’m leaving right now. Make her understand,” I said.

  “Where the fuck are you going?”

  “I’m going to Florida.”

  “Florida? What the fuck? You can’t run out on us like this. Not now.”

  “I have a guy down there I need to see.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “No, not him.”

  “Now’s surely not the time to be joking around, Bear.”

  “It’s how I cope. Bug off.”

  “Whatever. So how do I force Jen and the kids to go to this safe house?”

  I didn’t want to even say that Hannah Jane’s initials had been carved in Vinny’s head, but Cassie would know soon enough. So would the rest of the family.

  “Well, let’s just say A.W. left another clue as to who his next target is. One more time, is this house with your guy Hutch one hundred percent impenetrable?”

  “He was a fucking SEAL. I’d say so. He’s got an artillery like the USS Antietam.”

  “That should work. What time is it?”

  “It’s late. Almost ten thirty.”

  “I’m headed to O’Hare. I’ll catch a red-eye to Sarasota.”

  “Just wait until I get there. There’s no fucking late flights to Florida on a Sunday night, man.”

  “Fuck, you’re right.”

  “Your best bet is the first one out. Probably six a.m.”

  “See you when you get here.”

  **********************

  When all of my siblings were at the hospital together, there were more tears. More misunderstandings about why and how this could have happened. I kept my mouth mostly shut and offered a shoulder to cry on or an embrace. I knew it was my fault. I suspected they all did, too. My relentless need to chase dragons is what killed Vinny. It would undoubtedly be what led to my demise eventually, too. I convinced Jen to ride with Murph and take the kids to the safe house. For all I cared, Cassie and her kids, Ginny and hers, and Murph, Maggie and their brood should follow suit. Hell, they should take Ma there as well. Nobody in my circle was safe.

  I left the hospital at 2:07 on that Monday morning and began to make the drive over to O’Hare. The only thing keeping me from crashing my car head-on into the guardrails was to find this prick A.W. and figure out just what hornet’s nest of his I kicked. I stopped off at a CVS a couple of exits before the airport and grabbed a small suitcase, some fresh underwear, a pack of plain white t-shirts, a few travel-sized toiletries, a Snickers, and a liter of Evian. I forgot I had Vinny’s murder weapon on me, so when I got out to my van, I first tore into the Snickers and polished it off in two bites. Then I ripped open the underwear package from one side and slid the bloody pen in between. I had a feeling my friend in the sunshine state would be able to pull some prints off of it.

  I arrived at O’Hare at 2:47 in the morning. No phone. Worn down. No, beaten down. I’d put on a fresh new t-shirt in the car and sucked down the entire liter of water. I left my van in long-term parking and took a shuttle to Delta gate G. I had just enough time to stop at the ticket counter and buy a one way ticket to Sarasota and maybe catch a couple of winks before the flight took off. From wheels up, I planned to drink my weight in Jameson.

  SIXTEEN

  I was asleep at my gate when I was nudged by a foxy female employee of the airline. Six feet tall and the reddest hair I’d ever seen.

  “Sir? This is final boarding to Sarasota. Are you getting on the plane?”

  “Depends. Are you?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry. I work the ticket counter. Are you okay? You don’t look too great.”

  “My brother just died. Any chance for a grief fuck in the Delta Lounge before this plane departs?”

  She showed me sympathetic eyes when she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t sleep with married men and besides, your flight is leaving in a few minutes. I am terribly sorry about your loss.”

  “Oh, phooey. Well, thanks for waking me up.” I looked at her name-tag. “Kaitlyn.”

  One of my coping mechanisms was the urge to bed down anything that moved. I was ready. She passed on my attempt. There would be another opportunity.

  I was able to snag an exit row seat, praise Buddha. It was a row with only two chairs on each side of the aisle. As the flight attendants came by to prepare for departure, I asked one if they were serving drinks yet. I was quite thirsty for some my favorite Irish whiskey. He assured me that as soon as we were airborne, he’d bring me back a double. And who said morning drinking was bad for your health?

  The woman next to me was of Indian heritage, she told me. She was meeting her husband in Sarasota for a quick vacation. They’d never been. I asked why he wasn’t on the plane with her and she told me something that had never occurred to me. She and her husband always took separate flights. The reason, she said, was that in case one of the planes went down, their children wouldn’t be orphans. While the odds are quite slim of an American commercial airplane falling out of the sky, I had to admit to myself, the odds are even slighter for two crashing. He was on the next flight out at seven fifteen that morning. They were planning to rendezvous at a timeshare in Siesta Key. I knew the area well, I told her. She asked if I was heading to warmer weather for business or pleasure. I said a little bit of both. I feigned a smile, but inside I was numb and hollow.

  The flight attendants then began their spiel about safety procedures upon this Boeing 737. Where the exits were located, as well as the bathrooms. They then asked each of us sitting in the exit rows if we in fact could, in the case of an emergency, help with de-boarding the plane. The Indian woman to my left with the window seat might have weighed 87 pounds but was completely confident she could remove the exit window and guide us all to safety. That w
as good, because while I agreed with a verbal “Yes” that I would assist if it came to it, I was going to resemble a skunk in the next forty-five minutes, so it would be an interesting situation if an emergency did indeed arise.

  I had two double Jamesons on the rocks and then promptly passed out for the duration of the flight. I woke up when we bumpily landed in sunny Florida at roughly 8:50 that Monday morning. Without a phone, I was a bit hamstrung when it came to scheduling an Uber or Lyft. I was completely comfortable, however, reverting back to my old school ways and hailing a taxi cab from the sidewalk. I loved the Sarasota airport. It was so small and cozy. It still looked like it was decorated from the ‘80s. Before I jumped in my cab, I went to the Delta ticket counter and asked if I could borrow their landline phone. I had to call an old friend.

  After two rings, a familiar voice answered on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Westwood? It’s me, Bear Whitman.”

  He chuckled. I assumed he was shaking his head in disbelief. “To what do I owe the great honor, Bear?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll see it that way.”

  “My caller ID shows a Florida area code. What’s going on?”

  “I remembered you said you would always help me with a favor if I needed one. The time has come for me to cash in, my good man.”

  “Uh-oh. Everything all right, I hope?”

  “Quite the contrary. I’m on a public phone here at the airport, but is there any chance we can talk in person? I just landed in Sarasota.”

  “I’m in the Bahamas with my wife, but I can jump on my plane and be there by dinner. Marina Jack at six o’clock. You know it?”

  “I know it well. I’ll see you there. Thanks.”

  “Need a place to crash while you’re there and waiting?”

  “I wouldn’t mind it. But hold on a second. You’re married now? The great Brent Westwood? Tell me more.”

  “Ha-ha. I will when we see each other. In the meantime, head to the Aloft hotel off Ringling Boulevard.”

  “Yeah, I know the area. Thanks. You have a connection there?”

  “I own the hotel. I’ll get you the penthouse.”

  I almost sighed with relief. “Mighty kind of ya. See you tonight, old friend.”

  “I look forward to it. Stay out of trouble until I get there.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Westwood was true to his word. Upon my arrival at the Aloft hotel in downtown Sarasota, I was treated like the Sultan of Burnie. The level of ass-kissing was almost embarrassing. But not quite. I enjoyed the attention, though inside it still felt like knives were piercing my skin.

  After a little back and forth and tug o’ war, the bellman took my extra light suitcase for me and we both climbed the elevator to the top floor. He let me into my room and asked if there was anything he could bring me. I told him a carafe of coffee, a liter of water, a liter of Jameson, some sunglasses, three poached eggs, four strips of bacon, and a blueberry muffin would suffice. I tipped him a hundred bucks when he came back up to my suite with my requests. I took a mighty pull from the coffee and then twisted off the cap of the whiskey and poured a healthy amount in the to-go style cup. It was going to be a long day of drinking my troubles away.

  I had a great view of the hotel’s rooftop pool from where I was perched. There were some bikinis within eyesight so I decided I’d bring my spiked coffee down a few flights and take in the local scenery. By the time I got down there, it was around 10:30. My bleary eyes were hidden behind my shades and I plopped down on a chaise pool chair and watched the girls pass by.

  SEVENTEEN

  I woke up from my mid-morning nap at around a quarter past noon. I believe it was my own abrasive snoring that finally roused me. So much for the great Bear Whitman being able to go all night. At this point, he was a shell of his former self. A little too overweight. Probably too over the hill as well. I knew his mettle would be tested even more in the coming days and hours. I decided then and there to continue the self-medicating, self-loathing tour for a bit longer. I gingerly extricated myself from the pool chair and made my way up to the penthouse suite. I’d removed my wedding band on the flight out of Chicago.

  When I got back up to my room, I called down to the front desk and asked for the same bellman to meet me in my room. He was in his 20s so I was certain he’d be able to point me in the right direction for what I was seeking. He knocked on my door and when I opened it, I finally noticed his name-tag read Julian. He was Latino with dark hair and a trim, fit look. Like a young Ricky Ricardo.

  “Hi, what can I do for you, Mr. Whitman?”

  “Bear. Please. Julian, can you find something for me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Bear, yes, I believe I can. Just name it.”

  “I’d like an eight ball and a hooker in the next hour. Is that possible?”

  He acted caught off guard. “Sir, Bear, this is a chain hotel. I don’t really have much experience with those things.”

  “Very well. Then send up one of the other bellmen and I’ll give him the cash I was going to give you to do the hunting.”

  “How much?” he asked without batting an eyelash.

  I almost laughed. “Oh, I’ve got your attention now? Whatever the going rate is. I haven’t bought either in a few years. Just make sure they’re both clean. Catch my drift, Julian?”

  “I do, sir, and what’s my reward?”

  “Name it.”

  “Five hundred sounds fair.”

  “Make it six. Thanks, Julian.”

  **********************

  After Julian assured me he’d have both up to my room within an hour, I poured myself four fingers of Jameson on the rocks and disrobed to prepare to hop in the shower. I cracked my neck and stretched out the lumbar. A couple of deep knee bends. Why was I the way that I was? I didn’t look at myself in the mirror before I got in. I couldn’t bear to see who was looking back at me. We are the sum of our thoughts and actions. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it. I compartmentalized Vinny’s death and my current and future actions. I justified things and kept reminding myself I was merely in one of the stages of grief—the one where you go off the rails and blow as much coke and drink as much whiskey and fuck as many hookers as you can so you don’t have to feel your feelings. I’d recover eventually if I didn’t kill myself first.

  I exited the shower after twenty-five minutes and turned on the little bathroom radio. I fiddled with the dial until I found a local jazz station. I took a good clean look at my meat suit in the mirror while avoiding eye contact. Jesus, I needed a personal trainer. I could have also stood for a life coach and maybe even a shrink. I popped on the hotel robe and finished off the blueberry muffin from earlier. I took a couple of generous pulls off the liter of water. I looked out the window of my penthouse suite and saw a giant hawk gliding through the cloudless sky. I let my mind wander to think what it must be like to be able to fly like that. Then I thought that there had to be some birds— even though they’re born to fly—that must have been scared of it. I felt like one of the scared birds. I would never show my fear, but that’s exactly how I felt. There was a knock on my door. It was time to numb the pain even more.

  Julian had arrived, as promised, within the hour. The girl’s name was Jasmine and after we shook hands, she said she had to go tinkle and wondered off to the washroom.

  “You sure she’s clean, Julian?”

  “Yeah, that’s what my guy at the agency told me. Go bareback if you want. You’re good, amigo.”

  I thought about it. I definitely had a death wish, so I might throw caution to the wind in that department.

  “She got any on her in case I change my mind and want protection?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s part of the hooker start-up kit.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll give it to you. You’re a funny guy. Here’s the bread I promised you. Where’s the blow?” I asked with furrowed brow.

  “She’s got it on her. Hid it in her snatch.”<
br />
  “Well, I’m not sure I condone that behavior.”

  “I’m kidding, amigo. It’s in her purse.”

  “I was gonna say. You want a drink, Julian?”

  “Nah, I’m still working until three o’clock. But maybe we can meet out tonight somewhere. Ever been to Owen’s Fish Camp?”

  “A time or two. What’s taking her so long in there?”

  “Maybe you should go check.” He nodded in the direction of the door.

  As I turned to walk towards where Jasmine was located, I heard a gun cock behind me. Motherfucker. “Hands up!” he said.

  I put them up without turning around. “Julian, I assure you, you do not want to do this.” I called out towards the bathroom. “Jasmine, unless you want to find your friend dead out here, I suggest you get the fuck out of my bathroom lickety-split.”

  She came sauntering out in the buff and I must say, even with a gun to my head, I noticed how well she was put together.

  “You got the money, baby?” she asked Julian.

  “Some of it, figure he’s got more on him.”

  “Look through my suitcase,” I said. “Knock yourself out.”

  I heard him rifling through my bag. I was still between he and Jasmine. As I saw it, I had one of two options. Let them rob me and hope they didn’t blow my brains out, or try and salvage the situation. I opted for the latter. With my hands still over my head and as Jasmine tried to walk by me, I took a quick glance into the wall mirror and saw Julian was going through my bag with his head down with one hand but the gun still pointed at me. I lunged for Jasmine, grabbing her and swinging around so that she was between me and a bullet.

  “Okay Bonnie and Clyde, let’s think this through. You can either walk away now and we all go on our merry ways, or I’ll snap this one’s neck right here and now.”

  “Go ahead,” said Julian. Hoping I was bluffing.

  “Julie! You asshole,” Jasmine snarled. “I think he’s serious.”

  “Yes, Julie, I am serious.” I tightened my grip and took a couple of steps backwards towards the bathroom.

  He took a shot that, luckily for me, was nowhere near my head. It was more of a warning shot, but it was fired in my direction.