A Dead-End Job

by Justin Alcala

  I hardly noticed Luna returning to the car and starting to read some of the books from Beth’s nieces when I remarked on the time. I’d been in the car for hours. It was lunch time. I looked in the rearview mirror and made eye contact with Luna through the reflection. She stared up with her deep brown eyes but didn’t say a word.

  “You hungry, kid?” I asked. She nodded. “Great, I know a place around the corner.”

  If Luna wasn’t here, I’d have staked the place out for at least a few hours more, but I was okay with leaving. Having Luna to look after didn’t feel like a burden. I enjoyed making someone else happy for once, especially since I was inept at doing it for myself. We headed to a cheap diner down the street where I used all but ten dollars of my emergency money. We sucked down the lunch special: greasy steak sandwiches and fries with ice-cold pop. Once we were done, I thought it would be best to hurry back to the flat before traffic stiffened. I wanted to go over my checklist, inspect my equipment, and clean up before returning to The Violet Hour. I’d take the van for tonight’s expedition as returning with the sedan could raise suspicion for anyone who saw us earlier. That meant that I’d need to tune it up as well. It was strange, but I had a strong hunch that Dillinger would be at the lounge tonight. It was dangerous to go off of impulses. You needed to have ice water in your veins. Regardless, I wanted to be ready, so we headed home. There was plenty to do and not a lot of time to do it.

  11

  A choir of angels sang from the heavens. Wind chimes jingled. Gregorian monks chanted to the tune of a pan flute. Then suddenly, a woman’s voice, gentle as snow, spoke up.

  “Welcome to the Karma Repair Shop,” the speaker greeted. “Where we’ll shock your chakra with kindness. I’m your hostess for this meditation session, Clarity Moonchild. Now, before we begin, let’s start by finding a comfortable place to sit.”

  Death, who’d been fidgeting his bony legs along the stiff plastic airport chair, inspected the seats beside him. An old man snored like an opened mouth hog to his left and to his right, a young lady held a pair of Pomeranians, who yapped incessantly at him. Death shrugged and squeezed the earpieces tighter into the spot where fleshy people would have ears.

  “Good,” Clarity complimented. “Now, take a deep breath that goes all the way into your belly. Let the breath remind you that you’re alive.”

  Death slowly shook his head.

  “The key to relaxing,” Clarity announced. “Is releasing your inner conflict and struggle. Feel your body let go of its worries. There are no schedules.”

  Death pulled up his airplane ticket, which showed a boarding time for his connecting stop from Kansas City International Airport at 12:30PM to San Diego. It was now 3:17PM.

  “There is no work.”

  Death felt his phone vibrate. He peeked at the touch screen leaning on his arm rest and saw six texts from Jumbo. One was titled, 911. This is Jumbo, but not Jumbo. Call me ASAP.

  “There is no pressure,” Clarity proclaimed. “Because you are a simple, humble and loving human being. The Universe does not need you to continue. Nothing, in this moment, is a matter of life and death.”

  Death ripped the earbuds out from his hood and let them fall on his lap. He sat in his airport chair as the Pomeranians continued to bark. His gaze explored the dirty white tiles and advertisement pasted walls of Kansas City International Airport. Death watched a nearby woman shush a screaming toddler in one hand while rocking an infant with her other. He overheard a pair of middle-aged men arguing over what might make America great again. He followed a hurried man in a three-piece suit throw his Styrofoam fast food container on the floor near a garbage can, then watched as a poor little custodian with the name Jose on his uniform curse as he quietly picked it up.

  “I don’t get it,” Death mumbled to himself. Or so he thought he did.

  “Yeah,” the old, once snoring, man answered while he rubbed his eyes. “I don’t either.” Death swiveled his neck and bore down at the old man.

  “I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about the same thing.”

  “Don’t be so sure, bubeleh.” The old man smiled, pressing a plaid trilby hat on his head. He was short with bushy grey brows and a stringy mustache. He had small, glinting eyes and a wide grin. “I’ve been around a long time.”

  “You don’t say,” Death praised with a dry tone.

  “Oh, yeah. Saul, by the way.” He extended his hand. Death eyed the man’s liver-spotted palm. He wondered if Saul was on the list anytime soon. A few days early couldn’t hurt. Death decided against it.

  “I don’t do handshakes.”

  “Suit it yourself,” Saul shrugged. Just then the woman with her dogs stood up and shuffled to the restroom line. Saul stared at her backside as he dug in his pocket, removing a few shelled peanuts that he started to pick apart. “Like I was saying, I know what you don’t get.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, you’re talking about life. I mean, you’re looking at your ticket there, fussing in your chair. There’s dogs barking and babies screaming. It’s enough to make anyone ask the same question.”

  “Huh.”

  “But can I tell you something, bubeleh? You’re looking at it all wrong.”

  “I am?” Death questioned in his unflinchingly bromidic tone.

  “Oh, of course.” Saul patted Death on the arm. Death ogled where Saul had unwarrantedly touched him. “Even weeds have flowers to smell.”

  “I’m losing you, buddy.”

  “Look around. What do you see, bubeleh?”

  “Eh.” Death sneered. “Existence.”

  “Bingo. Whether you like it or not, it’s there. Now, there’s only two real choices once you dignify that existence ain’t going anywhere. You can either get angry about the barking dogs or you can enjoy their owner’s nice ass.”

  “Oh, wow. Well.” Death looked at the ticket in his hand and stood up. “Thank you, weird old man.”

  “Saul.”

  “Thank you, Saul, but I think it’s time to get yelled at again by the ticket agent again.” Saul tugged Death’s cloak. “Think about what I said, bubeleh.”

  “Trying to forget it.” Death tugged his cape and straggled to the ticket counter.

  The employee working the computer chased another frustrated customer in front of Death away with a blend of disgust and politically correct script. Death watched the defeated customer return to a sea of other angry passengers. He took in the ticket agent’s subtle deep breath and temple rub. She looked exhausted.

  Death wondered if his complaint would really do anything besides add to the orchestra of whining. He thought about what Saul said. Death realized that things sometimes were just out of peoples’ control. The plane would come when it did.

  “Maybe Saul was right,” Death muttered.

  “Sir,” the ticket agent called out through a mouthful of bubblegum. “It’s Susan. Now, how can I help you…again?”

  “Oh, uh, hey, Susan.”

  Susan blew a bubble and then bit down viciously, popping it.

  “I,” Death stammered. “I just wanted to say that it’s okay. You’re doing what you can and the airplane will come when it does. It’s all about weeds and flowers, and stuff.”

  There was a pause. Susan fixed her eyes on Death. “Sir.” Susan coiled her head like a cobra ready to strike. “I have a lot to do, and you are holding up the line. I will repeat one last time.” She wagged her finger. “The plane is refueling. We will announce when it’s ready. Please don’t inquire anymore until then. Now, is there anything else?”

  “Uh, I like your nice ass?”

  Susan’s eyes went big, but just before she could verbally unload on Death, the phone beside her rang. Susan’s gaping mouth twisted into curled lips.

  “Welcome to National Scarelines,” she greeted. “Where our prices are so low, they’re scary. This is Susan, how can I help you?” There was a moment of quiet. Death wondered if he should crawl away, but before he did, Susan spoke up. “Thank
God.” Susan lifted her other hand then dialed an extension; her glare set on Death. “Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of National Scarelines, I want to announce that bordering for connecting Flight A13 from O’Hare to Kansas City International Airport to its final destination of San Diego International will begin. All VIP and A category passengers may line up near the door with tickets ready.”

  Susan slammed down the phone.

  “Well.” Death looked down at his ticket, which he had checked in bright and early to ensure he was first to board. “That’s me.”

  Death didn’t wait for Susan’s response. He filed in with the other early passengers and readied his ticket. Seemed things did work out eventually. Maybe perspective was key. Death thought about everything else he was worrying about. Jumbo could handle whatever was brewing. Death believed in him. He powered off his phone and put it away. As for Buck, maybe Death was being too hard on him. After all, the guy was hand selected because of his professionalism. Death was sure that Buck had everything under control and it was going like clockwork.

  12

  Never underestimate a man running late. Traffic stretched miles longer than expected. By the time we returned to the flat, it was nearly time to leave again. I heated up an oven pizza for Luna while prepping for the evening. I readied a black tailored black suit, checked over Thing One and Thing Two then examined Old Lilith. Miraculously, the rifle’s clip had a new set of bullets in it. Strange happenings like reappearing ammunition were becoming the norm. One worry to check off the list. After burning my hand on the stove to feed Luna, I hurried down to check the oil levels on the van and fill it with diesel. Then it was a quick shower and shave before I was ready to take on Count Dillinger and his ghoul gang.

  I was all about bringing Luna with me for the scouting mission, but a deadly soiree with a vampire was different. The plan was to keep her locked in the apartment for the night while I hunted the hunter. She’d be safer here, especially because several websites confirmed that it definitely wasn’t a full moon. I slipped the satchel where Old Lilith slept over my shoulder before cracking my neck. It was time to give Luna my Lock the door speech.

  “Okay, kid.” I kneeled down next to Luna. “Time for me to go. I’ll double lock the door behind me.” Luna was nested on the couch, finishing off the last slice of pepperoni. “Don’t leave the house. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back by midnight.” Luna shook her head no. “Uh,” I crooned. “Okay, eleven-thirty?” Luna’s forehead creased as she stood and walked toward me. “Kid, it will be very quick. Just watch some television and enjoy not being crammed in a box.” Luna’s face was frozen in a scowl. I tried to ignore the death stare by smiling before heading toward the door. Luna let out a strange squeal and grabbed at my leg.

  “Whoa.” I waddled to the front door with Luna on my leg. “Kid, come on. Stop.” Luna tightened her grip. I tried to pry her off. “Kid, I have to go to work. If I don’t, we won’t have this flat.” I pointed to the dirty walls with a frown. “And all of its majesty.” Luna clutched my leg harder with one arm, pointing outside with the other. I didn’t speak mime. “Kid, are you trying to say that you want to go outside?” Luna waved her hand before directing her index finger at me. “No, you can’t go with me. You could get hurt.” Luna gave a little kid growl, but I wasn’t about to budge. I was diving into the danger zone, a place of no return. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any violence, but there was a chance that outright bloodshed could occur. I wasn’t about to bend. Luna could not go.

  We drove down North Avenue in the rumbling van, Luna reading her children’s books in the cab. If I parked the van far enough away, Luna should be safe, and I’d still have an escape vehicle to run to if things got hairy. We pulled up near the club around 10:30PM. I’d had a long stern talk with Luna during the trip, and I was about fifty percent sure that she understood that she could not leave the van no matter what. I found a suitably well-lit, but not too well-lit spot two blocks away and parked. I left the keys in the ignition so the air could stay on and locked up. Luna gave me a half smile from behind her book as I tested each door. Once I’d determined she was safely locked in, I walked toward The Violet Hour.

  A single light bulb hung on a chain glowed near the boarded-up entrance. I tested the seam of the door and found a notch along the side where I could squeeze my fingers in. I pried at the door and was surprised to find that it opened with ease. Before me was a shed-sized room draped in cerulean curtains. An attractive woman with dark features and bright red lipstick smiled behind an oak podium. Next to her was the blond, pretty Ken Doll from earlier. Both wore black.

  “Good evening,” the woman greeted with a wide smile. “Welcome.”

  “Yes, good evening,” the Ken Doll jumped in. “I second that. How are you today?” I took a moment to examine the odd couple, looking them over for radios or headpieces. There were none.

  “As good as I look,” I answered. “You?” I looked for a way into the lounge.

  “As good as it gets.” The woman gave me a pair of finger guns.

  “And I’m even better,” the Ken Doll added in the same happy tone. I narrowed my eyes at them.

  “Is this a bit?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry?” The woman with an enormous smile bit her lip.

  “Do you two have some sort of act that you do?” I challenged. The woman and Ken Doll looked at each other with raised brows. “Never mind. I just need a seat at the bar.”

  “Oh, great,” the woman rejoiced. “Let me see if we have an available seat.” She separated a split in the curtains that I hadn’t noticed and then pushed open a door, poking her head through the threshold. I could hear the fog of dozens of people talking. The Ken Doll stared at me with his perfect blue eyes and horrifically white smile. The dark-haired woman returned to her podium. “Yes, sir, you’re all set.” She grabbed a small paper menu pressed on a clipboard and waved me over. “I have just the seat for you. Follow me, please.” I shadowed the woman. Ken Doll followed me with his stare.

  “Have a good day.” Ken Doll grinned. “Or better.” I gave him a quick frown of disgust before following the hostess through the curtain. As I did, I was hit with a visual and audio torrent.

  The heather ceilings were adorned with crystal chandeliers that lit up the teal walls and hardwood floors. Sectioned off by more curtains was a sea of cocktail tables littered with guests in business suits, slit dresses, and trendy outfits. At each table was a flickering candle that created a canopy of marigold stars. The aroma of expensive perfumes and fresh leather flavored the air. Clanking glasses, muffled conversations, and soft laughs sang in my ears. I followed the hostess through the main hall toward a filled bar. There was a single stool at the end where the hostess stopped.

  “Here you are, sir.” She placed my menu down on the bar top. “Enjoy your night.”

  I sat down while the hostess returned to her station. Judging by expensive watches, lavish jewelry, and tailored suits, I was shoulder-to-shoulder with Chicago’s finest. Affluent men and women meant two things, lots of money and lots of secrets. I wondered if I’d worked for any of these people in the past. The man behind the bar saw me sit and made his way over. He appeared to be in his late twenties with a handlebar mustache, forearm tattoos, and a pair of plug earrings. He wore a classic barman’s outfit from the early nineteenth century that included a white button up shirt with its sleeves drawn up, a pinstriped red vest, bicep garters, and a waste apron. I assumed it was part of the uniform.

  “Good evening.” He placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. “What can I get you?” I studied the tiny menu I’d been given and noticed that it was all unrecognizable. Gourmet drinks like the Gold Dust Illusion and Delinquent Daydream required you to read the description to understand what went in it. I studied the little list as if it were written in math equations. The barkeep tried to suffocate a grin as he watched me struggle.

  “What’s the most popular drink?” I asked while studying the ingredients for an O’Leary Scra
mbler, which included whole milk and hot whiskey. “Because whatever it is, that’s what I’ll take.” The bartender, who seemed to be as equally uninterested in me as I was in this whole scene, gave a nod.

  “Coming right up.” He collected my menu.

  I wasted no time scoping out the crowd. There was a blend of middle-aged desperate souls and young beauties bunched together, all dressed like peacocks. The guests were all so striking in one way or another that they weren’t distinctive at all. The bartender delivered my drink. It was slime green with seltzer bubbles, a carrot stick for a stirrer, and steam coming from the top.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “You asked for the most popular cocktail on the menu,” the bartender replied plainly.

  “I asked for a drink. This looks like you shoved the Easter bunny in an acid vat.” The bartender blinked several times. I handed him my last ten-dollar bill so he could leave and continued to inspect the congregation from behind my cocktail.

  I watched for nearly an hour before doubt polluted my thoughts. Either my timing was off, or John Dillinger didn’t come here for Bloody Mary’s. I decided to visit the washroom to better probe the lounge. I still didn’t see anything out of the ordinary as I checked staff doors and tested corners, doing a fake pee-pee dance. That is, until I reached the back of the lounge where the dining hall met the kitchen. There, near the restrooms, was a concealed section tucked in the corner and covered in wall-to-wall curtains. Its only opening was the seam gripped open by a waitress taking orders. Inside was a circular table with several posh women and men chatting over cocktails. A man whose back was to me kept his crooked ears partially hidden with immaculately slicked hair. He wore a tailored, silver pinstripe suit and had one sharp nailed hand that dangled from a chair with a large, gold, signet ring. Maybe John “Jackrabbit” Dillinger was here after all, socializing with his dinner.