Jump

by Tim Maleeny

  But Walter’s plumbing was shot. He realized that every time he took a piss, but he would wait until his prostate exploded before going back to that doctor. It was one thing to work with gays on a job, but it was another thing entirely to pay someone to stick his finger up your ass. That was crossing a line Walter was not prepared to cross.

  He gave himself a shake and turned sideways to check himself out in the mirror. His gut had kept him from seeing his cock for some time, so every once in a while he made it a point to look in the mirror and make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. And there they were, two plums and a banana. Or maybe two raisins and a carrot that sat in the sun for too long on the dashboard of a car in the middle of August.

  Fuck, he was getting old fast.

  Walter zipped up and wandered back to his living room. The drapes were open, revealing a remarkable view of the Oakland Bay Bridge and the water. A huge container ship was moving slowly under the bridge, a wide strip of shadow throwing the forward cabin into darkness and revealing the true size of the vessel. Must be longer than a football field, end to end. Walter sat down heavily on his couch and watched until the ship emerged into the light on the other side, wondering briefly what was in the containers, and how something that big could float.

  It made Walter think about his bowel movements.

  That was another bit of medical advice Walter had received recently. Your stool should float. Walter was struck dumb when he heard it, since he’d gone to see a specialist about a ruptured disk in his back, not his shit. He’d pinched a nerve in his back, which sent electric jabs of pain down his left arm and side every time he carried something heavier than a milk carton. He figured a back surgeon would want to do back surgery, so he decided to try some alternative medicine instead. Normally not his style, but friends who had undergone back surgery always seemed to end up in more agony than before they went under the knife. So Walter asked around and got a referral for some Asian dude named Master Ling.

  Ling’s office was really the back of his house, a small clapboard up in the Sunset district. He treated four or five people there at once, laid out on massage tables, all of them looking about as out-of-shape and miserable as Walter.

  Master Ling started off with a back massage, which was OK. It was better than OK—it seemed to be helping, but then he rolled Walter over on his back and started poking him in the stomach, hard. Told him he’s constipated—that’s where all his trouble started. The belly and the back are two sides of the same coin, said Ling, and Walter needed to respect his stomach. Walter almost busted out laughing but caught himself, seeing the serious look in Master Ling’s eyes. But when Ling asked, when was the last time Walter ate steamed vegetables, fasted for a day, or eliminated meat from his diet, Walter told him the truth.

  Never.

  That did it for Master Ling. No more back massages for Walter. Instead the guy sat down and wrote out a shopping list, told Walter to change his diet and then return after four months, once his stool started to float. Show me you want to change, Walter.

  No meat. No booze. Nothing fried. He pretty much put X’s through everything Walter normally consumed in a twenty-four hour period. You will know you are reaching inner balance when your stool softens. Only then could Master Ling work on his back.

  Walter crumpled the list on his way back to the car, threw it in the back seat and drove away, realizing Master Ling was a whacko and the only solution was to avoid any heavy lifting. Put it in perspective. He’d rather have back surgery than eat nothing but steamed vegetables the rest of his life.

  Now he had groceries delivered to his apartment once a week. Problem solved. Get someone else to do the work for you. Exactly like he was doing now, with those two clowns down the hall. The Sandwich Brothers. It made him laugh to think about it, those two schmucks moving pot all over the city. And now Walter could sit back and watch them do it, take his twenty percent without any exposure, any risk, or any effort. Like winning the lottery.

  That was the image that came to mind two weeks ago, when that sap Ed had started spilling his guts at the bar. For some reason Walter still didn’t understand, Ed sat down next to him and started jabbering away. As if something had happened to him, some personal revelation, like the Virgin Mary appeared in his bathroom mirror and called him a cocksucker. Happened all the time in South America.

  Walter didn’t care about Ed one way or the other, and he was already half in the bag himself when the guy sat down next to him, ordered drinks for both of them and started whining.

  Nobody likes me. That’s because you’re an asshole, Ed. It’s a thankless job, being a landlord. Try not being a prick and maybe some of the tenants would say thank you.

  Walter gave it to him straight. He never claimed to be Doctor Phil.

  It went on like that for an hour before Ed just blurted it out. He caught the brothers moving grass, and now he’s on easy street. Walter sobered up real fast, started thinking of angles. If Ed could get a cut, why not Walter? Besides, he needed the money more than Ed. Satellite and digital cable were killing the direct-to-video movie business.

  It used to be easy. Think of a few name actors who haven’t had a hit movie in a couple of years, then add an actress in the same situation, preferably one with big tits. Casting was everything. Then pick a city to destroy, someplace with some local color. The Southwest was good, because nobody really lived there, but everyone knew where it was. For all the general public knew, the U.S. military was finding aliens and setting off nuclear bombs there all the time. The final step was to run through the list of possible mutations from a nuclear accident, like a house spider becoming a ten-story tarantula or a garden snake growing as long as a sewer pipe. Then you rip-off the plot from the last movie you made, bring in the production for less than you told the investors it would cost, pocket the rest, and clean up at the rental counter.

  But now anyone could download a recent movie—a hit movie—right from their cable company and watch it whenever they wanted. And the glut of movies from Hollywood made it next to impossible to get any deals with the second tier cable channels. There were too many movies, plain and simple. So the B-movie business was dying, and Walter was feeling the pinch. He was desperate.

  But that was two weeks ago, before Walter took control of his destiny. Who knew he could turn things around so soon?

  All Walter needed now was to do some homework. Figure how much weed Jerome and Larry were really moving around town. Call around the major office buildings, ask if they use The Sandwich Brothers. Get a head count. Make some assumptions. Walter had no doubt the brothers would try to cheat him out of his share. He could tell by the look in Larry’s eyes. Jerome’s were so bloodshot, Walter couldn’t tell what was going on upstairs. Jerome he wasn’t so worried about. But Larry was going to be a problem.

  What was he saying? Walter wasn’t worried about either one of them. He had them scared shitless because he could drop a dime on them at any sign of trouble. It was just like in the movies. Casting was everything. They were punks, and he was a player.

  What were they going to do about it?

  Chapter Eight

  “We’re going to kill him?”

  Jerome asked the question as if inquiring about the weather, idle conversation to pass the time while they drove up Mission Street.

  Larry sighed. “No, we’re not going to kill him. Zorro’s going to kill him for us.”

  Jerome nodded as he pulled a lighter from his pocket. “Cool. When?”

  “We haven’t asked him yet.” Larry heard the scrape of the lighter and whipped his head around. “I told you, don’t smoke in the fucking c—” A car horn blared and Larry swerved, narrowly missing a double-parked Honda. Jerome took advantage of the interruption and lit the joint he’d pulled from his other pocket.

  “Eyes front, bro,” he said calmly, taking his first hit. “You’re operating heavy machinery.”

  Larry’s jaw clenched like a fist. “You want to get arrested?”


  “Is this a trick question?”

  Counting ten-nine-eight. “Fuck it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Five minutes later they crossed the imaginary border of the Mission District, storefronts appearing with signs written in Spanish, the streets more crowded, the occasional trendy restaurants interspersed among taquerias, groceries, and narrow apartment buildings squeezed together in rows.

  Two blocks further down they came to a 76 gas station opposite an auto repair. Next to the pay phone a lone figure paced aimlessly, his head bobbing to rhythms flowing from an iPod hidden in the folds of his baggy clothes, the white earbuds barely visible.

  “There’s Buster,” Larry said, gesturing through the windshield. “Now remember, we don’t tell him our plan. We just tell him we need to see Zorro.”

  “Roger.”

  “Who the fuck is Roger?”

  Jerome gave him a loopy smile, not feeling stoned yet but knowing the look would piss off Larry. “Y’know, like ‘Roger, Captain.’ I was just being, you know, gung ho and shit.”

  Larry pulled up next to a pump and killed the ignition. “Just stick to the plan, dickhead.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  Larry gave the gas station a quick once-over before looking toward Buster, then hopped to catch up with his brother, who was already grabbing Buster’s hand and giving him the patented Rasta shake-and-hug move. Larry could never get the hang of the cool handshakes, and as soon as he figured one out, some new twist was added. But Jerome moved into Buster’s space like a dancer, the two men jabbering away, Buster somehow understanding Jerome through the audible whine of his headphones.

  Larry gave Buster an awkward wave from four feet away. “How’s it going, Buster?”

  Buster nodded to his internal rhythm. “I go with Jah, mon.”

  Larry looked to Jerome for translation, but Jerome was busy re-lighting his joint, oblivious to any risks associated with standing in the middle of a gas station, cars cruising by on both sides. For his part, Buster seemed just as carefree, his pale blue eyes shining brightly.

  Part Mexican and part African-American, with some Nordic blood coursing through his veins from a forbearer with a fondness for fjords, Buster’s skin was more orange than brown, black, or white. Random starbursts of freckles along his face and arms enhanced the illusion, making his skin seem textured, as if Buster had grown on a tree and was ready to be squeezed for juice. He stood just an inch or two over five feet, but his apparent height was closer to five-six because of the mass of dreadlocks sprouting forth in all directions. This week Buster had dyed them shades of blue and green mixed in with his natural black rows. The combination of greenish hair and orange skin reminded Larry of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Jerome beat him to the buzzer.

  “An oompah-loompah!” he cried, eyes moving up and down Buster admiringly. “You look like a fuckin’ oompah-loompah, man.”

  Buster’s eyes narrowed. “What you goin’ on about?”

  Larry gave Jerome a look and tried to wave him off, but it was no use.

  “Willy Wonka,” said Jerome. “You know, the guy who ran the chocolate factory?”

  Buster took a hit and passed the joint back to Jerome, smoke curling around his lips like whiskers. “Never saw it.”

  “Really?” Larry couldn’t help himself. “It’s a classic.”

  Buster shook his head. “Growing up, no movies in my house. Just video games. There a Wonka-watchucallit video game?”

  Jerome pondered the possibility. “Like Grand Theft Auto, but with chocolate?”

  Buster shrugged. “I guess.”

  “No,” replied Jerome. “But the movie, there’s these little guys—they’re all orange and shit, with green hair? They work for Wonka, and they sing these songs. It’s a fuckin’ riot.”

  Buster’s eyes disappeared within folds of skin, which Larry took as a bad sign. “What’s that you’re saying about little guys?”

  “Nothing,” said Larry, a little too loudly.

  Jerome started humming to himself. “Do-bah-dee-doo.”

  Buster’s eyes narrowed again but Larry intervened. “He’s just stoned, Buster. You know Jerome…” He let his voice trail off.

  Buster nodded and smiled, a quick flash of white teeth, one inset with a diamond. “Sure, Larry. I know Jerome,” he said, his voice low and his eyes flat. “I know you, too…how long now?”

  Larry tried to sound nonchalant. “Two years, I guess.”

  “Right!” replied Buster, his eyes suddenly bright again. “And all that time, you boys ever ask to see Zorro when he didn’t ask to see you first?”

  Larry and Jerome looked at each other, neither one slapping the buzzer this time.

  “You don’t know?” Buster kept smiling but his voice had changed. “Want me to tell you?”

  Larry winced as he forced his gaze toward the mop-headed menace. “Sure, Buster.”

  “Jámas,” said Buster emphatically. “Never.”

  “We’ve been, uh, busy,” said Jerome lamely.

  “Yes, very busy,” agreed Larry.

  Buster shook his head sadly. “No, amigos. Never you come visit us.”

  Larry realized Buster had stopped sounding like a Rastafarian and instead reminded him of a homeboy from The Mission. The carefree Reggae chords of his earlier speech had been replaced by a guttural menace somewhere deep in his throat.

  Buster leaned in close and spoke softly. Larry could barely hear him over the white noise of his earphones. “Time to go for a ride, Larry.”

  Buster waved his right hand, and before either Jerome or Larry could react, an ’85 Chevy Impala careened into the parking lot, bouncing drunkenly on worn shock absorbers. The back door on the passenger side swung open as Buster shoved the two brothers toward the car. They had seen Zorro before, so they knew the drill, but it was always at his command, not their request. Somehow initiating contact had triggered an alarm within Zorro’s organization, and now there was no way to silence the bell. The two brothers looked at each other before bending to climb into the car, blood rushing through their temples and ringing in their ears. To Larry and Jerome, it sounded a lot like fear.

  Buster leaned into the open door and smiled before giving them a quick wave. Then he slammed the door and walked away, his head bobbing to some happy rhythm too faint and too distant for the brothers to hear.

  Chapter Nine

  “She’s got an ass like a ripe apple.”

  Gail’s parting words bounced around Sam’s frontal lobe as he waited for someone to answer the door to 21-D. Those were her words of advice on how to recognize one of the “cute young things” down the hall. Unfortunately, she’d neglected to provide Sam any insight on how to recognize his neighbor from the front, but he assumed an equally compelling image would apply.

  Sam realized how right he was when the elevator pinged down the hall. He turned in time to see two breasts moving languidly toward him, loosely connected to a woman in her midtwenties. They looked like two honeydew melons juggled by invisible hands. Though he had yet to confirm the apple analogy, Sam had to give Gail credit—there was something about this young woman that could only be described using fruit metaphors. She was a cornucopia of eroticism half his age.

  Sam wrenched his eyes to her face before she’d closed half the distance, a personal moral victory and the result of being happily married for so many years. Plus all that extensive cop training. She had almond-shaped eyes set wide in a face that was a Eurasian blend of features that made her look terribly exotic and unnaturally friendly at the same time.

  “You looking for me?” she asked, coming to a halt right next to him, keys extended in her right hand. “Or Shayla?”

  Sam caught his breath and shrugged. “Either,” he said. “Or both. I’m—”

  “The cop down the hall,” she answered, revealing a smile of impossibly white teeth. “I’m Tamara. Gail told us you’d stop by.”

  “I only talked to
her this morning.”

  Tamara smiled again, making Sam wish he’d worn sunglasses. “She called last night. Once Gail decides something’s going to happen, it usually does. Shayla and I think she’s a witch.” She turned the key in the door. “A good witch, mind you. Wanna come inside?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, just pushed the door open and stepped in front of him. Sam saw immediately that Gail was right about the apple.

  “Have a seat,” Tamara called over her shoulder, gesturing into the living room toward an overstuffed white couch across from a matching loveseat. Moving left into the small kitchen, she tossed her keys on the counter and opened the refrigerator. “Something to drink?”

  Sam checked his watch. “Anything with caffeine would be great, thanks.”

  Tamara brought over a diet soda whose current ad campaign featured an adolescent pop star dry-humping a jukebox to a dance remix of a Beatles’ song. Sam took the can without comment and sat down, facing a view through the sliding glass doors very similar to his own.

  Tamara sat in the loveseat and cracked open a bottled water, crossing her legs. She was halfway through her first swig when the door swung open.

  A tall black woman about Tamara’s age glided across the threshold, kicking the door closed with her left leg without breaking stride or dropping the twin bags of groceries. Even with most of her upper body hidden by paper bags, Sam could tell she was as attractive as Tamara, if such a thing were possible. He stood and extended his hand as she dropped the bags.