Jump

by Tim Maleeny

  Walter typed his PIN into the keypad and waited for his groceries to be bagged. The young Asian woman at the checkout smiled so brightly he wished he’d worn his sunglasses.

  “You got miles!” she exclaimed happily.

  Walter frowned. “Miles?”

  “Frequent flier miles, from your club card.” She beamed proudly.

  “Hoop-de-do,” said Walter acidly, grabbing the bag.

  “You want your receipt?”

  “Why?”

  The enthusiastic checker didn’t have a ready answer, and Walter showed her his back before she could reply. She gave his back her middle finger as he left, then turned and beamed at the next customer.

  As Walter stepped onto the first cobblestone, Carlos licked his lips and pressed his cheek against the stock of the rifle.

  “Open the hatch, amigo.”

  I’m not you’re fucking amigo, thought Hernando as he pushed the button. The hatch opened silently on pneumatic hinges. Carlos worked the action and slid the bolt into place, ramming a 7mm cartridge into the chamber and cocking the gun. He sighted along the barrel, keeping both eyes open and fixed on Walter.

  Walter eyed his groceries as he made his way back from the store. Bagels, orange juice, a box of powdered donuts, and a six-pack of beer—just in case he didn’t make it out again for a few hours. He’d stop at the coffee shop in the ground floor of his building, then take the elevator upstairs and crank up his blood sugar, start the day off on the right foot.

  But Walter’s right foot turned out to be the wrong foot as he took his eye off the cobblestones and twisted his ankle, falling to the pavement at the precise moment Carlos pulled the trigger.

  Before the sonic boom reached anyone’s ears, the bullet had scorched a path through the air, speeding over Walter’s head and ricocheting off the stone pillar supporting the corner of the building. The angle of deflection caused the bullet to bounce against the cobblestones and rocket back the way it had come at an oblique angle.

  By the time the bullet hit the underside of the Dodge wagon, it was moving close to the speed of sound and had achieved a surface temperature as hot as the sun. The crack of the rifle finally caught up with the bullet, but nobody heard it—the sharp sound was muffled by the whump of the gas tank exploding. The Dodge leapt three feet into the air.

  It landed in a heap of twisted metal, shattered glass, and melting Mexican mobsters.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The explosion almost woke Jerome.

  His eyes fluttered and he smacked his lips, unconsciously trying to relieve the cotton mouth building in his sleep. The mojitos had taken their toll.

  He rolled over and hugged his pillow, dreaming that somewhere close, an orchestra of car alarms was serenading a crowd of screaming fans.

  ***

  Sam ran to the window and saw the flames, smoke billowing around the penguin statue in the courtyard, obscuring people running in all directions. Grabbing his keys, he ran down the hallway to the fire exit and took the stairs two at a time.

  ***

  Walter lay sprawled on the cobblestones, his head twisted toward the burning car. His first instinct was that some dipshit drove a Pinto into the lot and backed into a fire hydrant. He’d used plenty of Pintos in his B-movies, always good for a cheap explosion.

  But as he raised up on one knee, Walter glanced at the pillar to his left and saw the gouge at eye level, a deep scar in the stone. He followed an invisible line from the indentation to the melting car, and suddenly Walter connected the dots. Master Ling would have been pleased.

  Walter felt his stool soften.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Something smells funny.”

  Jill wrinkled her nose as Sam held his right arm up to his face and sniffed.

  “I think it’s me,” he said.

  “You smell like smoke.”

  “Could be worse,” he said. Sam didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he had smelled something other than gasoline and oil in the wreckage. A smell any homicide cop would recognize, the unmistakable stench of burning flesh.

  “What do you think happened?”

  Sam shrugged. The fire department had come and the crowds had dispersed, onlookers kept at bay by the intense heat. Most people assumed the car was empty, a freak accident. A ruptured gas tank, a discarded cigarette. In this town where four out of five cars were imports, no one trusted American cars anyway. Surely they exploded in the streets of Detroit every day, an occurrence so common it didn’t even make the national news.

  Only a few people got very close to the wreckage, and Sam couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen in that inferno.

  “I think a car blew up,” he said noncommittally.

  “You must be a detective.”

  “I’m retired, remember?”

  Jill smiled. “Is that why you asked me out for coffee? Too much time on your hands?”

  They’d walked two blocks in a comfortable silence. He’d suggested coffee and she chose Peet’s, a short stroll from their apartments but with an advantage over the coffee shop located in the ground floor of their building. “I like that you can order a small, medium, or large coffee at Peet’s by saying small, medium, or large,” she had said. “You don’t have to speak Italian or learn any bullshit phrases to order a cup of coffee.”

  Sam almost fell in love right then and there.

  Now, having regained his composure, he sat across from her at a small table outside, the foot traffic slow around them.

  “When I invited you for coffee,” he said, “I was just being neighborly.”

  Jill looked at him over the rim of her cup. “And how do you like our neighbors so far?”

  “An interesting bunch.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “Everybody likes you.”

  “You’ve been checking up on me? I’m flattered.”

  “You keep coming up in conversation.”

  “You always tell murder suspects how your investigation is going?”

  Sam made a face. “You always this paranoid?”

  “Doesn’t Columbo take the murderer out for coffee?” asked Jill. “Visit their apartment, slowly wear them down until they confess?”

  “Do I look like Columbo?”

  “Well, your clothes are a little wrinkled.”

  Sam sighed. “I thought you wanted me to join the human race.”

  Jill reached out and squeezed his right hand briefly, then wrapped hers around her coffee. “I’m being a bitch, aren’t I?”

  “If I answer that honestly, you might not say yes to dinner.”

  Jill arched her eyebrows. “Was that an invitation?”

  Sam shrugged again. “Maybe I’m just being neighborly.”

  “Depends on which neighbors you’re talking about,” said Jill. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “I’ve met everybody so far,” said Sam. “Except Walter.”

  Jill shook her head. “Walter.”

  “Yeah, I was going to try him later. But I met the brothers, Jerome and Larry.”

  “I almost never see them,” said Jill. “I think we’re on different schedules. I’d find it hard to believe they mentioned me.”

  “I brought you up,” admitted Sam. “I wanted to see who they knew on the floor.”

  “And?”

  “Jerome thinks you’re hot.”

  Jill laughed. “I think he’s a little young for me.”

  “You don’t know them all that well?”

  “No,” said Jill. “Why?”

  Sam watched an older couple pass by pushing a stroller, wondered if they were grandparents. He waited until they had cleared their table. “They’re jumpy, but they seem harmless.”

  “Jerome’s a major stoner,” said Jill.

  “You think?”

  Jill finished off her coffee. “You’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to miss the signs. I have plenty of friends who still smoke grass, but he reeks of pot. You ever stand in the elevator next t
o him?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure,” said Sam, “but he is pretty obvious.”

  “And you’re a cop,” said Jill. “Maybe he was worried you’d bust him.”

  Sam shook his head. “That’s not what I meant—Jerome’s not the jumpy one—Larry is. Without thinking, tell me the first word that comes to mind when you visualize Larry.”

  “Serious,” replied Jill. “Earnest. Tightly wound.”

  “That’s four words.”

  “But you get the idea.”

  “I do.”

  “Maybe he’s stressed out at work?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Sam. “You know what they do for a living?”

  “Nope.”

  “They make sandwiches,” replied Sam.

  “They make sandwiches?” repeated Jill. “That’s their job?”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “To sell at office buildings.”

  Jill frowned.

  “How stressful can that be?”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Larry was chewing Rolaids two at a time by the time he hung up the phone.

  “That was Buster,” he said miserably.

  Jerome yawned. “I didn’t know he had our number.”

  “He’s got our number,” said Larry feverishly. “And he’s got our address, remember? Zorro’s thugs drove us home.”

  “My bad.”

  Jerome leaned his elbows on the bar that fronted the kitchen. Larry was directly across from him, back against the kitchen counter, his left hand next to the toaster, his right popping antacids into his mouth.

  “Don’t you want to know why he called?” asked Larry. “Aren’t you wondering why I’m chewing these?” He held up the Rolaids as if they were exhibit one in a murder trial.

  Jerome shrugged. “I know they’re an excellent source of calcium.”

  “Buster was calling about Zorro’s hit man.”

  “That Carlos dude with the spooky eyes?”

  Larry took a deep breath. “Exactly.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s gone missing,” said Larry. “So Buster wanted to know if anything happened. Anything out of the ordinary.”

  Jerome frowned. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Larry in an exaggerated voice. “Like maybe a car exploding?”

  “That’s what that was?” said Jerome. “Can’t believe I slept through it.”

  “I can,” scoffed Larry. “It was horrible. I can still smell the smoke.”

  “That’s my toast, Larry.” Jerome pointed to the counter behind his brother where a small fire had erupted. “Hit the button—quick!”

  Larry spun and jabbed at the button but missed. By the time he made contact, the toast that emerged looked like it had been in a car fire. Smoke wafted toward the fluorescent light overhead.

  “Shit,” said Jerome.

  Larry grabbed a fork and snagged the edge of the toast, dropped it into the sink, scowling at the toaster as if it had just pissed on the rug. The front was dented, the power cord frayed, copper wire showing through tears in the insulation.

  “I told you to throw that piece of shit away,” he said. “That thing is a fire hazard.”

  “It’s my lucky toaster,” protested Jerome.

  “I could’ve been electrocuted!”

  “I’ve had it since college.”

  “People don’t get emotionally attached to appliances, Jerome.”

  “But I really like toast.”

  “Aren’t you fucking listening?” demanded Larry. “Carlos is missing…a car blew up.”

  Jerome blinked, focused. “Carlos was in the car?”

  “What if he was?” asked Larry.

  “You think he was?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” said Larry. “What matters is what Zorro thinks.”

  “What did Buster say?”

  “He said Zorro might want to see us.”

  “Might?”

  Larry nodded. “I didn’t like the sound of that, either. Like he’s waiting to hear from Carlos…”

  “…and if he doesn’t,” finished Jerome.

  “We take another ride.”

  “Or we get visitors,” suggested Jerome.

  The idea panicked Larry. “You think they’d come here?” he asked. “To the apartment?”

  Jerome shrugged. “Why not?”

  Larry was about to answer when someone knocked loudly on the door. The brothers looked at each other, eyes wide.

  The knocking continued.

  “Let’s pretend we’re not here,” said Jerome, realizing too late he’d raised his voice instead of whispering. Damn, he needed coffee. Larry looked apoplectic.

  “Open up, guys,” came a muffled voice. “I can hear you in there. C’mon, we need to talk.”

  “Walter?” said Larry.

  “The fat guy?” asked Jerome.

  “Open up.” The pounding continued. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Jerome raised his hands, palms up. Larry took a deep breath and stalked across the living room, turned the latch on the deadbolt and returned to the kitchen. He wanted to be near the telephone. He sat on the stool next to Jerome and watched the door.

  Walter bellied his way through the door and shut it behind him. He looked rumpled, unshaven, and paler than Larry remembered. Shaken up, even. Larry felt his hands start to sweat, wondering if Walter had any clue about what was going on.

  “You look like shit,” said Jerome. Larry tried to elbow him but caught his arm on the counter.

  Walter took Larry’s old spot against the kitchen counter and faced the two brothers. He braced his hands behind him, breathing heavily.

  “You’re right,” he said to Jerome. “That’s because someone just tried to kill me.”

  Larry started laughing, a forced laugh at first, long ha-ha-has to show how ridiculous Walter sounded, but it degenerated into uncontrollable giggling, then hyperventilating. Soon Larry had his head on the counter, gasping as Jerome patted his back.

  Jerome pulled it together. He began, “What my brother meant to say—”

  “Yeah?” asked Walter.

  “Was…HA!”

  “Ha?” repeated Walter.

  “Ridiculous,” said Jerome, nodding. “Utterly ridiculous.”

  Walter fidgeted against the counter, sweat on his brow, staining the underarms of his shirt. At first he didn’t say anything.

  The sight of Walter so distraught calmed Larry, making him realize Walter was just as out of his depth as they were. He felt himself breathing more easily. Relax, he’s the one with the price on his head.

  “Look,” said Walter. “I know how this works. I watched Scarface.”

  The brothers frowned simultaneously, brows furrowed. Larry regained his breath enough to say, “With Pacino?”

  “Yeah,” said Walter. “And I watched a bunch of other movies, too, so I know what happens to the middleman.”

  “The middleman…” repeated Jerome thickly.

  “Me,” replied Walter. “I’m overhead, right?” He unconsciously slid his hands back and forth across the counter, trying to erase the mistakes of his past. Jerome watched him with a sense of foreboding. This guy was wound even tighter than Larry.

  “Guys like you don’t need overhead,” continued Walter. Now he was bouncing against the counter. “So I want to change our arrangement.”

  Larry leaned forward, his breathing almost back to normal. “Change it how?”

  “I want to carry my weight,” said Walter.

  “That’s a lot of weight,” said Jerome. It was such a lay-up, he almost regretted saying it.

  Almost.

  Walter slid his hands behind him again, the change in motion causing his gut to undulate with seismic intensity. “I deserved that,” he said. “But I’m serious—we can work this out.”

  “OK…” began Larry, but Jerome’s eyes went wide and he said, “That’s a bad idea.”

  Larry turned toward his brother,
annoyed at being interrupted. “What are you—”

  “Bad idea!” shouted Jerome as he started to climb off his stool, but he was too late.

  The toaster’s power cord caught between the middle and index fingers of Walter’s right hand as it slid across the counter, the exposed copper wires pressing hard into the soft flesh at the top of his palm. He jerked forward as if shot from behind, then began vibrating so rapidly his skin became a blur. He was a cartoon character getting erased and redrawn at the speed of thought.

  A buzzing in the overhead lights was the only sound as Walter’s mouth stretched open in silent agony, his eyes bulging. By the time Jerome’s feet touched the ground and Larry blinked, Walter had collapsed, face down on the floor of the kitchen. A caustic smell assailed the room, and this time it wasn’t the smell of burnt toast.

  Larry turned to Jerome, who smiled sheepishly.

  “I told you it was my lucky toaster.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Well, that went well.”

  Sam said the words aloud despite being alone in his apartment. The row of photographs along the fireplace mantle returned his gaze, but no advice was forthcoming.

  “Coffee, I mean—with Jill,” he added. “I kind of like her.”

  Sam looked to the closest picture for a reaction. Marie stood on the beach at Crissie Field, squinting into the sun, the Golden Gate Bridge behind her. Her expression was relaxed, happy; not forced or posed in any way. A woman comfortable with herself, in love with the man taking her photograph.

  “You OK with this?” he asked.

  Sam looked at the adjacent picture, Marie caught sitting in a chair, reading. Looking up at the camera at the last minute. The look on her face was almost identical—content. She was a woman with no regrets.

  She looked the way Sam wanted to feel.

  “I know, take it slow,” he said. “You don’t want to see me get hurt.”

  Sam let his eyes roam across the uneven row of frames, skipping past family and friends, always searching for Marie. Still thinking she might sneak into the apartment while he stood there, put her hands over his eyes. You’ve already been hurt, he told himself. But at least you felt alive.

  A bitter thought he wouldn’t dare speak aloud.