A Dead-End Job

by Justin Alcala

  “I had no idea that happens to werewolves.” I finished my cup of coffee and clapped my hands together. “All we need now is for them to contact me.”

  “I’d expect it to happen shortly,” DuSable predicted. “They’re getting antsy.”

  “Great.” I stood up. “Well then how do I get out of here?”

  “Ardicus will see you out,” Dillinger declared while pointing to the Ken Doll. “Ardicus?”

  “Your name is Ardicus?” I laughed.

  Ardicus’ face went flush. “Yes, Buck.” He looked down at his feet. “Now please, come with me.”

  I waited for Ardicus to scoot out of his chair and approach the exit. I gave Dillinger one last glance.

  “John,” I announced. “If this works, I’ll be a very happy man. As a courtesy to you, though, I’m going to warn you now, don’t expect a pass should Death still want your head.” Adam pounded his fist on the table, Jumbo murmured, DuSable groaned, but Dillinger stood stock still. He looked off into the distance, either pondering or brooding. As if snapping out of his trance, he lifted his head up and traded stares with me.

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Dillinger said calmly.

  Ardicus took me back into the darkness, guiding me with his chilled hand. I followed closely until we were outside the water tower. A party bus full of drunk baseball fans singing ‘Go Cubs, Go’ along Michigan Avenue welcomed me back to the surface. Ardicus and I waited for their chants to fade away.

  “Can I offer you a ride back to your car?” Ardicus offered.

  “What the hell is a blood thrall?”

  “Oh, it means that I’m part of Dillinger’s trusted entourage.”

  “What does it really mean?”

  “It means that he shares a drop of blood with Selena and I every few weeks for a little taste of his power. Nothing crazy, but we can mimic diluted versions of what Dillinger does on a whim. In return, we’re loyal to him.”

  “And you like that?”

  “I like being liked.”

  “You really trust your boss, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he cooed. “I know what people think when they hear his name, but he’s not that man anymore.”

  “You sure?”

  Ardicus’ plastered smile faded. “Oh, yes,” he echoed.

  I removed a new pack of cigarettes from my coat, twisting the plastic wrap off of it and crumbling it into a ball. I used my lips to remove a cigarette from the pack with one hand while handing Ardicus my trash with the other. He took the crumpled plastic and stared hard at it like it was a murder weapon.

  “I’ll walk,” I told Ardicus, cutting through the plaza toward the sidewalk. I didn’t look back to see his reaction.

  I trudged south along Michigan Avenue to retrieve the sedan. It was a little over a mile and I thought the hike could do me good. The city doffed its gray, morning work suit, adoring itself in an evening gown. Chicago was elegant at night. Her buildings twinkled with gold lit windows and ruby radio antennas. Her steel turned shades of brunette, and her glass polished into sapphires. She smiled on her guests, brandishing modern art and gardened parks. It had a way of easing my mind. The streets were calm and still cooling from another summer day. Even night was bright in Chicago due to light pollution from streetlamps, high rise windows, and passing cars. It caused the Chicago River to sparkle red, yellow, and orange as I crossed Dearborn Street Bridge. I didn’t know why I couldn’t contain the venom inside me, but Dillinger’s ghoul-gang had done their best to tolerate it. They must have been desperate. Luckily for them, I was too. I lumbered to the sedan and reminded myself that I needed to try harder to be a team player. I’d been a lone wolf for too long and I wouldn’t survive the wild much longer if I didn’t join a pack. Neither would Luna.

  21

  The apartment waited up for me but refused to clean up any of its mess. My traps bent over crooked furniture. Strewn kitchen magic crunched under my feet. Dry blood pooled along fractured glass. I stumbled from room to room like a drunk ghost taking inventory of what needed to be cleaned up in the morning. Part of me hoped I’d find Rosita, Dub, or The Mad Knight hiding in a closet, but all I discovered was that I had roaches again.

  I looked over my phone. There were no new messages. My stomach turned at the thought of Luna spending a night alone with these monsters. I took a deep breath and shook out the image. My body was tired. If I wanted our plan to work tomorrow, I’d need my rest. I draped Batman’s gadget-filled jacket over my nightstand and flopped onto my bed.

  Sleep took me quickly and before long I was suffering from nightmares of abandonment, forgotten failure, and let downs.

  When my eyes opened back up it was morning. For the first time in years, I hadn’t jolted up to the three o’clock missiles.

  After rechecking my phone, I rallied to the coffee maker and waited for it to brew a decanter of black. The cheap mud tasted like dirt, but shook me awake nonetheless. After my third cup, I climbed over debris and baptized myself under the lukewarm water of my Luna-less shower. Complacency let you forget how bad things can get again. Typically by this time I would have hit the gym, filled myself up with breakfast, and started researching my next job. This morning, I felt hollow.

  I’m not sure how long it was before the water turned icy, but it was my signal to move on. I dressed in my funeral blacks along with the twenty-pound jacket and left to do my part of Team Dillinger’s plan. I headed to the hardware store to pick up a can of silver spray paint, an eight ounce can of Kona wood stain, and a hand-sized carton of industrial duty rock salt. When I reached the counter, my card declined. The pig pink man with a face like a possum and name tag that read “Hank” gave me a stare that told me I was useless. A line of uniformed janitors and commercial painters behind me balanced supplies in wait.

  “Wife must have gotten a hold of my work card,” I explained. You wish you had a wife and job, loser. Hank pursed his lips. “I’ll just put this all back.”

  I pretended to put back the wood finish before checking over my shoulders. When the coast was clear, I pocketed the items and headed for the door. Hank didn’t take note. I cringed as I exited, fearful of a hidden security scanner, but no alarm went off. I hurried back to the sedan like a child who stole candy and turned the key to get in. The low fuel symbol on my dash flashed. I pressed my forehead onto the steering wheel and tried to get a grip.

  Buck, this is stupid and awkward, but it will pass. Focus.

  I straightened up and headed to the closest gas station. I scoured the car from cup holders to floor mats in search of spare change. I came up with a dollar and ninety-six cents. I walked into the pay station with my head low and handed over the coins. The young woman behind the counter forced a smile, removed four pennies from the spare change bowl and rang up two dollars. I felt my face go flush at her mercy. I returned to the sedan and pumped my half gallon of unleaded. The gas needle crawled a centimeter forward as I started the car. It would be enough to get to Gamer’s Pair-a-Dice.

  I circled the hobby store before pulling into the parking lot. The alley looked like it had before a Mortal Kombat scene broke out, and the van sat in front of the store in one piece. I had no desire to go into Gamer’s Pair-a-Dice. I wasn’t certain how everything had played out after my escape, but it wouldn’t help me at the moment to find out. I took what I needed from the sedan, locked the doors, and hurried to the van. Before I could unlock the driver side lock the jingle of the hobby store’s door rang out behind me.

  “Buck,” a soft female voice called out. I cringed with the van key over the lock. “Hello,” the woman sang. I whirled around. Bethany wore dark business casual clothes. Her usually curly blonde hair had been straightened. She’d highlighted her eyes and lips with makeup. She looked extra lovely. “What are you doing here so early?” She ogled my suit, “and so dressed up?”

  “I, uh, have a job interview.” The weapons packed into my coat felt a hundred pounds heavier. Bethany, who was carrying a bag with a freshly pu
rchased gaming book, closed the distance. She extended her open hand and rubbed the top of my head.

  “Wow, haircut too, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I straightened out my satchel, subconsciously tugging it so it hung over my stomach. “I went a little too short.”

  “No, no. It looks good. You look intense.”

  “Intense?”

  “Yeah.” She grinned. “Like a secret agent, sexy but dangerous.”

  “I’ve never been a martini guy.” I tried to sound natural. Bethany snorted. “Question for you. Is Darren inside?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “We had a…” I hesitated. “Weird exchange last time we saw each other.”

  “Oh, he told me.”

  “He did?”

  “Of course he did. All I wanted to do is pick up the new adventures guide to read on my lunch break, but Darren pounced.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He droned on about you ruining his promotional video. He said you had some sort of army flashback and started going off on everyone for sharing your personal information.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Eh, I wish. He went on and on about the legality of sharing customer information. I tried to defend you, but the guy loves to talk about you. I think he’s just jealous because—”

  “That’s all he told you?” I interrupted.

  “Well,” she stammered. “He said you may have lost him some customers. Apparently, Freddy never came back after your rant. Darren thinks he’s scared that you’ll call the cops on them, but I assured them that you aren’t that kind of guy.” A current of relief released my body from its stiff posture. Apparently, no one had seen what happened.

  “Hey, wait.” Bethany’s voice climbed two octaves. “Where’s Luna?”

  “Yeah,” I quavered. “I need to pick her up soon.”

  “Oh? You found a babysitter?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You know I can watch her if you ever need. I wouldn’t charge you.”

  “Hey, Bethany, I’m running late.”

  “Oh shoot, I’m sorry.”

  “No worries, I just have to go.”

  “Yeah, of course. See you for next game session?”

  “Uh.” I thought about everything I still needed to do to get Luna back. “Maybe.”

  “Okay, well good luck with the interview.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried to unlock the van. “See you soon.”

  I jumped into the driver’s seat and woke the beast up. Bethany gave a wave from the sidewalk before heading to her car. I smiled then checked the dashboard. I nearly cheered when I saw the gas tank was three-fourths full. I kicked the vehicle into drive and headed downtown.

  The weekend brought much needed rest to the roads. It was the tail end of a hot summer and the first signs of respite were in sight. A parade of rain clouds blanketed the sun. After a short trip down the Eisenhower Expressway, I was back at the lonely harbor parking lot that rested under Lakeshore Drive.

  I climbed into the back of the van and removed the stolen paints. I read the can of wood stain, which promised a quick one hour dry, before using a shammy cloth lying near a spare tire to spread varnish on my art project’s wood. Afterwards, I drenched silver spray paint over the metal. The fumes in the van forced me to retreat. I gasped between parking spots and ditched boats. As I did, I saw a sign for DuSable Harbor pointed toward the nearby docks. I was embarrassed to admit it, but I never knew the pier had a title. I relished in my static paint high and thought back to the undead boogeyman at the coffee house. Could Dillinger’s partner be Jean Baptiste Point du Sable, founder of Chicago? Doped on fumes, I wondered if he had quite the same odor in the 1780s.

  Seagulls squawked above. I looked up at the clouds; they warned that there’d be rain soon. I gave it another minute before reopening the van’s rear double doors. The bitter perfume of the paint was intense, but far less potent than before. I kept the back of the van open and leaned on the vehicle’s wall. The phone in my pocket buzzed. I hurried to peel it out of my too-tight dress pants and saw that I had a text from an unknown number.

  Shall we discuss an exchange? The text read. I leaned my head back, took another breath, and navigated the phone’s buttons to take a screenshot. I sent the photo to the number on The Violet Hour’s business card. Not shortly after I received a response.

  Perfect, my friend, the reply read. I assumed it was Selena. Try to coax them into meeting tonight at the location.

  How the hell do I do that, I wrote back. I read my draft, deleted it and then texted Cool. I stared at my phone for a moment. Just staring at the text from Rosita or Dub irked me.

  This was my only chance to get Luna back. One mistake and I could give our entire plan away. I hung my thumb over the digital letter pad for what felt like an eternity before finally putting words down onto the text line.

  I’m not playing games, I texted. Tell me how to get Luna back. The goal: advertise my temper while playing into a feigned ignorance. Or at least I hoped. The three periods of an ellipsis told me someone on the other side was texting back. My phone rang with an answer.

  Listen carefully. If you want the child back unharmed you will give us the rifle Death bequeathed you.

  I blew air from my nostrils to let off steam and phase out the mental noise. I tried to think happy thoughts, like my wizard, Sarsicus, casting a fireball spell at mind flayers or Tom Hanks dancing on a giant foot piano. Finally, when I felt the time was right, I answered the text.

  Fine. We exchange tonight.

  Excellent. We will text the meeting spot shortly.

  NO WAY, I wrote in all caps. I choose the location if you want the rifle.

  There was a delay before the next message came through. Tell us the place and time.

  The hole where the Chicago Spiral Tower was supposed to be built. Midnight.

  This time, the reply was quick. We’ll see you then.

  In a last act of defiance, I answered. Bring Luna and leave the bullshit at home. I checked my sentence while it sent. My eyes went wide as my phone turned the word bullshit into emojis of a cow’s cartoon head and a swirl of brown smiley poop.

  “Damn it. Who ever invented emojis needs to die in a sharknado.”

  I took the path that led north to the bridge, crossed the river, and hurried to the abandoned construction site. Once past the fence, I descended the ladder to the subterranean play land and went to work. I placed the Mayan knife, .22 pistol, and extra ammunition for Thing One and Two in the designated areas. I took the carton of industrial duty rock salt used for melting ice and poured it in a closed circle around the silo’s foundation. Finally, I climbed the bar ladder along the silo wall and placed my last item on top, balancing it on a canopy bar used as welder’s perch. When I was done I returned to the surface, soot covered, but finished.

  I wondered how well my planted tricks and traps would hold up against the rebellion’s supernatural abilities. Jumbo told me that Death’s mysterious anchor not only kept me from dying but gave me powers of my own. Death’s past protégés were able to manipulate the ectoplasm stirring inside of them. I wondered how they figured out how to wield it in the first place. Was it a serendipitous sneeze that caused an intern to shoot an afterlife lightning bolt from their nose or did it take eons of deep concentrated coaxing to release, like the morning after Taco Bell?

  The viscous substance patched me up well enough, but otherwise, it didn’t seem too handy at the moment. If sliming people with pearly puke was the next lesson in ectoplasm class, then I’d bring a doctor’s note. First things first, I needed Death to promote me. That meant cleaning up this mess I was in. I ignored the self-deprecating futilitarian in me and decided to get back to saving Luna.

  It was nearing lunch time, and a chill cooled the air. The sky looked like secondhand smoke. My stomach rumbled, but my wallet remained anorexic. If I wanted to stay sharp for tonight’s meeting, I’d need food. Being poor sucked. I remembe
red that there was one last pack of Vienna hotdogs in the fridge at home with my name on them. So I loaded everything back into the van for what might be my last trek home.

  I climbed to the stairs of the apartment door, only to be met by an envelope taped to my door that read “Eviction Notice.” I snatched the envelope and read it. The letter inside informed me that I had one week to vacate the premise unless I paid back rent, late charges, and taxes. The total bill read like something out of a Final Jeopardy score. I crushed the paper in my hands and entered the apartment.

  I put a pot of water on the stove before opening up the fridge. There was a lot of real estate inside. The condiments along the door stared at me in disapproval. I collected the frankfurters and threw them into the pot to simmer. I logged onto my laptop, searching for Jean Baptiste Point DuSable. A list of historical threads pulled up on my browser. I leapt between links, reading up on the boogeyman’s life before his wiener shriveled up and fossilized into retirement. I must be hungry. I collected the warm hotdogs from the boiling water, placed them in the cradle of partially stale sesame seed buns, and began my feast. Somewhere out there a dietitian was crying.

  Little was known of Jean Baptiste Point DuSable’s past prior to the 1770s. Born of African descent, the handsome and well educated du Sable had started his career as a supply trader, traveling from French Louisiana north to French Canada. He’d boldly taken his trading business down the uncharted Mississippi River where he’d sold to travelers. While in Illinois, he’d married a Potawatomi woman named Kitihawa, and later settled along the mouth of the Chicago River in the 1780s. There he’d sold bread, flour, and pork out of his log cabin at inflated prices to make a mint. Decades later, he sold his property and moved south until his documented death in 1818.