Joe’s hobby is making things. Things like cannons, and having watched him repair the back wall of his shop on numerous occasions, I can say that Joe is only improving in his skill. I think his true calling is limb replacement. Joe, who hasn’t seen his left leg since before I was born, likes to craft different kinds of prosthetics.
Walkers. Runners. Climbers. Kickers.
He’s working on a great set for me: one boot to plant, and one with a sharpened skate blade on the kicking leg.
It’s not cheap. I know he’s going out of his way for me. No HMO in the world would subsidize his work. But Joe is a philanthropist. If I need it, he can make it. Legs with concealed holsters. Legs with hidden compartments. Ceramic legs. We even tried PVC legs once, but they were noisy and brittle. What Joe truly has a surplus of is creativity.
And oh, you should hear Joe on his good days. He’s a conspiracy nut. He knows every possible scenario. He’s certain he’ll die at the center of a massive plot, something that shakes the whole city. Doesn’t like other people to talk. Loves to talk himself, as long as he doesn’t think you’re recording him.
You have to walk through two metal detectors to get into his store, and two more to reach his private workspace. But I get the red carpet treatment. Joe just smiles and lets me through. If I don’t beep, he worries. He knows that if I’m missing metal, then I’m in trouble.
I’ve been parked outside of his shop for at least twenty minutes now, working on my story. How did I lose the legs? Or do I need a story? I could go for pity. Pity legs would be free. Or deeply discounted. I’m not one to beg, but I need a way to get around like nobody’s business.
I drag myself to the back of my van and open the doors, staring out at the empty street. I drop my piece de resistance to the ground, dropping myself into it a second later. It’s low, but not too low for me to push the van door closed. I slap my way up the sidewalk, hoping the scuff marks on my hands will earn me some sympathy. Here I come in my little red wagon.
Joe melts the instant I come through the door. Whether it’s from pity for me, or nostalgia from the Radio Flyer I’m using to get around, I don’t know. Don’t care, because I can tell I’ll be walking out of here today. Joe and I, we have a system. Ever since the first day I came in, he’s been able to communicate with me like nobody else. He sees the problem and he fixes it.
“Did I ever tell you why they fought the Gulf War? Did I tell you what that was all about?” Joe booms across the room.
I shrug. Not that it matters. This speech is going to continue either way. There’s only one other shopper, some kid looking for a cheap backpack, a GreenPeace type who’s nervous just being in this store. Joe’s doing his best to make sure the kid leaves and doesn’t come back.
“The Gulf War was not fought over oil, or land. The Gulf War…” Joe is winding up now, “THE GULF WAR was not fought for special interests, not for oil, not for a bunch of ragheads in sand huts…” and he has the kid’s attention, “and especially not for skinny pus-nutted no-load shitbag scrawny college pencil-pushing cockbreath son-of-a-bitches,” (Joe was a Navy SEAL, and their eloquent manner of speech has never left him), “who want to buy backpacks designed for men who FIGHT AND BLEED for their country, and stick a bunch of happy whale stickers and pot-leaf patches all over the…okay, he’s gone.”
The kid actually left a trail of burnt rubber on the way out of the store. Behind his dark glasses, I know Joe is giving me a wink. “I’ve still got it.” He hobbles over to me. “What happened to your legs?”
I shrug. Joe shakes his head and staggers back behind the counter, the conspiracy train has been momentarily derailed. What I like about him the most is that he’s never asked for my name. I know him, he knows me, that’s good enough.
He pulls aside the curtain that marks the line between legal and illegal, safe and sane, righteous and cowardly. Which side is which, is all a matter of personal politics. I roll through the front side of the store towards that curtain, past castoff boots, Army Butt Packs, cots, books (Pimp Your MRE: Easy, Fast, and Deeeelicious!) and other items that would be handy on any camping trip.
I always get a wave of nostalgia here. Every time is like the first time. I feel like I’ve lived here my whole life. I remember the first day I walked in, just looking for a tip on a more powerful weapon. Joe took one look at me, turned white as a sheet. There was nobody else in the store. He stuck a gun right in my face. I didn’t even flinch. Probably because I was too scared to move. But he didn’t shoot. His eyes were watery, black and deep, like he was looking into Hell. Then, he just nodded his head, told me he thought I was someone else, thought maybe he was having a flashback, and gave me the gun. Just like that. Brought me to the back, showed me what he could do with legs. I don’t know if I believe in kindred spirits, but I know Joe’s one of the good ones.
The metal detector behind the curtain goes crazy as always, and Joe glances up once, quickly, just to make sure it’s only me coming through. Once I’m in, he bolts the front door with the push of a button, shutting down all lights. The store is officially closed to pedestrian business for as long as I need it.
Crossing over that curtain is one of my favorite trips. “It’s like a different country back here, no passport necessary for any proud patriot,” Joe would say. Out there is the equivalent of a yuppie camping store with higher-quality merchandise and lower prices. Out there is full of patches and pins that only crazy bitter vets and crazy bitter teenagers sew onto their jackets. Back here is purpose. Back here is where you only say things you mean. And you only buy things if you intend to use them. No questions asked, but help can be offered if desired.
I hand Joe a letter I wrote in the van, detailing what’s happened so far and what’s happening next. Joe knows all about the list, and he’s been nothing but encouraging and helpful. He deals with some of the lesser elements of the city, so he’s got his finger on the pulse. I think he gets a kick out of having a hand in rearranging the hierarchy. He’s helped me plan through about number six. He never got to see the person that took his leg. I’m a bit of vicarious revenge fantasy for him.
Joe pulls out pipes, tape, padding, solder, butane. He’s a rare bird in this business. First off, he’s Jewish. Secondly, he’s not afraid of anything. Most of these guys are armed to the gills, waiting for some mythical invasion, but Joe seems calm. Almost comfortable. I asked him about it once, and he told me the right people looked out for him. They always look out for cripples.
“I’m tired of those college pukes coming in here.”
I nod.
“Bunch of shit. Guess what I found out?”
Joe falls into a working rhythm, and out come the conspiracies: How the French and Indian War is still being fought in cyberspace and in boardrooms, and I tune him out as he rounds the bend into his most common thesis: that an underground Druid sect has organized a twisted, inbred bloodline that has supplied all of our presidents since the Kennedy assassination in a plot to slowly drive us into poverty and socialism. Joe rolls into one speech after the other, and I row my little red wagon around the storeroom, drifting down the aisles like Pocahontas on a stainless-steel canoe down a canyon on my favorite concrete river. The banks overflow with their lethal bounty.
Acetylene. Gunpowder. Primers. Reloaders. Ball bearings. Barbed wire. Fun fun fun ‘til her Daddy takes her femurs away.
“You been sleeping much lately?”
I shrug.
“You look like Hell. The news is just starting to pick up on Susan. Good stuff. Number eight now, right?”
I nod.
“You should get some rest first.” Joe approaches me with two big cupped pieces of acrylic. “Let’s hope you haven’t lost too much weight. We don’t have time to re-mold.” Joe hoists me out of my wagon and sets me on a table. He pushes each cup over my thigh. A nice, snug fit.
“All right. Give me a minute to finish,” Joe says.
Aside from my last two blackouts, I haven’t gotten a whole lot of slee
p. I haven’t eaten much either. I’ve been saving up for the next section of the list. There are so many things to buy. I hand Joe a map of the park and a list of questions, which he’ll answer later in his familiar pencil scribble. Last minute details.
I’ve had some thoughts on the way over here. This is what my list says now:
10. Vasili
9. Susan Schrader
8. Grace Brooks – need camo webbing and paper bags.
7. Shakes – maybe sooner
6. Caligula
5. Delia Sugar
4. Hooded Jack (?) – could be driver
3. Dr. Robert Fortescu – could afford black car
2. Veronica Madden – vehicle?
1. ???
Joe gives me a lot of quiet time. It’s almost as enjoyable as the library. He’s pretty excited about the middle of the list. Has all sorts of advice about collateral damage. He is of the opinion that I’ll need explosives. He starts to share some ideas, but I’m too nervous to think about it. I’m focused on my first real public execution.
The idea of pulling this hit in front of a bunch of children sickens me. This is why I’ve added paper bags to my shopping list. I know I’m going to vomit. I know I’m going to have visions of the life that was, with its perfect house and weekend outings and beautiful daughter.
And another vision hits me.
Joe blurs out, the room wavers, and I see a man in white.
Dr. Robert. Smiling over me. He’s got a jar in one hand, and I can’t see what’s in it. He leans close to my ear, and his skin smells like sterile bedding.
He whispers, “First, do no harm.”
He holds the jar up. I see what’s in it, and I’m confused. I try to move.
“We had to tie you down. Shouldn’t have kicked so hard. But you’ll learn. Sometimes, you can never apologize enough. Know what this is?”
He sloshes the jar in front of me, some faded lump of maroon and white and yellow floats in there.
“It’s a bookend,” he says. “Fancy, yes?”
I think I know what it is, but I don’t know where it came from. I know what he’s going to say. I only hope it’s a lie.
“Such a shame when an older man comes along and steals your daughter’s heart. What’s a mother to do?”
He runs a finger down my chest, his nail scraping circles through my thin hospital gown right above my left breast.
“I’d like a matching set.”
And he pushes down harder—
“HEY!”
Joe has me by the shoulders, shaking me a little.
“Where’d you go?”
I look down, shake it off. Joe knows better than to push for details. He turns and walks off to his workbench. “Flashbacks are a bitch, huh? Forcing you to look at what you shouldn’t remember.”
My body shakes. To stop the bile rising in my throat at the memory of that jar, I get my mind back to work. She’s gone. Can’t bring her back. Can only make sure someone pays for it. Do I move the Doctor up? Take him sooner rather than later? No. Everything is arranged for a reason.
I tap my finger on the list. Dr. Robert.
“We’ll get him. Just wait, we’ll get him.”
I slide my finger up to Veronica Madden.
“I’ve been looking,” Joe says, “and she hasn’t been seen in a while. I think she’s gone. I think we’ll never see her again, and frankly, I couldn’t be happier.”
I tap my finger on her name harder. Not a good enough answer. I want her dead.
He rests his hand on mine and slides it higher on the list. Ever the military man, he’s keeping me in line. Now. Brooks and new equipment.
This is why I’ve added camo webbing: I’m going to set up two sniper stands. The first will be where I’m not, and it will be covered in the webbing. None of the families should notice it until after the shooting has started. I’ll rig some remote flash pops to simulate muzzle flare. The reverb from the rifle report should echo enough to have no discernable location. The visual clues should lead them in the wrong direction for a few minutes. The other stand will be where I do the shooting, pretty far from the field, and it should give me time to get away.
Joe is back, this time with fully assembled legs attached to the acrylic cups. He pushes my thighs in, recreating me. One of the cups makes a farting sound as my leg pushes in and I stifle a laugh. These times are deadly serious with Joe.
“Rise,” he says. “Rise and walk.”
I hop off the table. Joe has been experimenting. The joints are springier. I don’t wobble as much when I walk. This, I like. It’s almost natural. I decide to be brave and try to pivot. I swing with my arms out, stopping after going around about a three-quarters turn.
Joe is crying. I smile at him.
“Walk,” he says. “I gave your legs back. Walk.”
I oblige him, walking around the aisles, pulling my wagon behind me. I can hear him shouting encouragement, not that I need it.
“Built-in sneakers. They flex like a false foot. But no more loose shoes or untied laces. What do you think?”
I nod my head. Joe puts his hands on my shoulders and we hobble slowly, our little ritual, towards the full-length mirror at the back of his storeroom.
There, my reflection surrounded by the castoff barrel of a Sherman tank, tattered flags and dusty boots, I feel beautiful.
I see Joe beaming behind me, a proud father who has given birth to me for the umpteenth time. I smile, much as I hate it, and I force myself to look at my face.
I ignore the gap in my teeth where I lost an incisor and bicuspid. I tilt my head down to hide the blossoming pink flower of a scar that decorates my lower jaw. I can’t do anything to conceal the fat sluggy scars that trace the length of my face. My hair is combed well enough to hide my bald spot. My eyes don’t match. My skin is mottled and crazy-quilted. I try not to tighten my cheeks too much, because then the scars start to fold in on themselves and I look like a pumpkin three days after Halloween.
Joe is still bright and paternal.
I look at my legs, and he says, “Beautiful.”
And just like every other time, I nod my head and start to cry, because I agree with him. I try to mumble my thanks to Joe, but of course I can’t. I want to tell him how lovely I feel.
But there’s the lip scar. The damaged mandible. The disfigured tongue.
I mumble anyway, and Joe stops me, thank God.
“I know,” he says. “I know. I’m here to help.”
Joe lowers a camo comforter over the mirror.
“Who’s next?”
Chapter Eight
The security guard on duty in the lobby of the municipal building is bored to tears. He stares out at the sea of humanity filing in for jury duty, for marriage certificates, DBAs, and they all get the same impassive corpse-like gaze. Dead on his feet. Going through the motions. The few stragglers who try to get his attention to ask pre-screening questions melt under his dead eyes. He cows them into silence with the weight of his blue-collar ennui. They just give up and shuffle into the corral, waiting to pass muster. I approach one of his friends off to the side and ask him a friendly question.
“Kargn nee hher, wha kine iggit?”
He keeps working. I could try asking him the time again, but I doubt he’d understand. And we are on a schedule, after all.
This is how I pay the bills. Joe’s nice, but nice costs. He knows I’m broke, so he lets me pay in trade. It’s a little nerve-wrenching, but I can take it. He gave me the equipment I needed. Now Joe has some material he needs to move, and he needs to move it fast.
There’s a verdict expected to come down early this morning. Someone’s walking out free, or possibly leaving the courtroom to start serving a nickel upstate. Whichever way they leave the courtroom, the idea is that they leave the building in a bodybag. I won’t be around for any of that. I’m just a cog in the machine today.
I’m delivering ammunition. Five bullets. Enough to get me arrested or shot on sight if
they search me, but we’ll deal with that in a minute. The idea is that I am going to create a distraction as I go through the checkpoint. Someone else, whom I don’t know, will drop off a specially made clip for a 9mm handgun, and they’ll be a temporary home for these bullets, expanding rounds that cut through their targets like a buzzsaw. Joe explained to me how these were somehow in violation of the Geneva Convention, but that someone near and dear to “the cause” had need of them. Yet another person will be dropping off the gun itself. Or maybe that’s been subdivided too, I don’t know. Knowing’s not my job today. Get in, deliver, get out.
So I’m strapped down with bullets, all hidden nicely on my thighs. Joe will have plenty other operatives working here this morning, but we’ll never see each other. Fail safes. When it’s all said and done, there could be two or three fully assembled pistols in there. The odds of getting through and delivering Joe’s verdict get higher with each person sent in.
I drop my purse on the floor, the rocks and cans inside popping out a nice harsh note that gets the door guy’s attention. The guy watching the door shoots me his most menacing glare, but the sight of my face is enough to melt his icy heart. Actually, he looks like he’s going to barf. I shuffle forward a few feet as the line moves.
The cacophony inside pours over me; I almost feel like I can see the sound. All of these conversations, poor saps scheduled for jury duty, everyone trading horror stories about what they had to give up to be here today. I let the noise wash over me. It’s a different world in here. Wage slaves and white collars, unemployed, retired, grinders, slackers, everyone is briefly on equal footing. We must all be searched. We must all serve our civic duties.
I can do this. Easy. Sure. In Joe we trust.
My fingers brush lightly against my thigh, the ridges and valleys of the bullets, support straps of my legs, everything keeping me upright. Ahead of me, there’s a wall of people, all of them stalled and steaming like a line of overheating cars on the freeway. They trickle through the narrow checkpoint, some of them pulled aside and wanded, some of them patted down. Some have to take their shoes off, rich and poor, they dump their wallets and coins in filthy plastic trays. They try to make small talk with the disgruntled workers in the line.
Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance Page 6