by Greg Walker
“And stop breathing on me.”
Chas slammed his fist down onto the table, and Jon flinched, but his anger instantly rose as though Chas had hit a switch with his gorilla-like display of aggression. He stood up quickly, his chair overturning behind him, and thrust his face into Chas’.
“Get out of here. Now. I’m done talking to you. You got an issue, see Brad.”
The surprise in Chas’ face satisfied Jon immensely. But then his eyes narrowed and a foul musk exuded from his pores as battle loomed. Jon didn’t give him the opportunity to act. He shoved the big man as hard as he could, the contact with his palms creating a meaty smack. His sore pectoral muscles burned and he winced. Chas took a step backwards and stumbled over a chair left out at another table. He fell down, landing hard on the concrete floor.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Startled, Jon turned to see Brad standing in the doorway, staring at them. No, not at them. At him. And not with outrage, but in wonder. Jon said nothing, took deep breaths to control himself.
“Jon? What happened?”
Chas answered before Jon could speak, grunting with the effort of picking himself up off the floor.
“I just tripped, Brad. We were talking and I backed up and didn’t see the chair. I’m all right.”
Brad's eyes flicked back and forth between them, suspicious and nervous, a man that did not like confrontation.
“Fine, Chas. Then get back to work. Your break isn’t scheduled for another half-hour.”
Chas walked stiffly towards the exit, his cheeks flushed and sweat staining his underarms. He didn’t look at either man as he passed through the door held open by their supervisor. Brad watched him go, shaking his head. He then turned back to Jon and sighed with resignation.
“Okay, Jon. In my office. Let’s talk,” he said.
Jon sat facing Brad in an old office chair on the verge of collapse, probably left for junk but rescued for awkward meetings such as these. The chair squeaked as he shifted, perching precariously between relative comfort and balance. Brad leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled with index fingers buried in the short beard at his chin. He was in his fifties, an uneventful man that did his job without much enthusiasm or complaint, plodding through the days in a manner Jon understood well. He had often thought of Brad as a version of himself in ten years. Before the thought had amused him. Now, as he watched Brad watch him, it horrified.
“What really happened in there? If I didn’t know better, I would say that you either pushed or punched him. But that isn’t like you. Everything okay, Jon?”
“It’s fine. It happened like Chas said. We were talking, and he backed up and fell.” Jon looked him in the eye, nearly called him Mr. Giles.
“If he’s bothering you, you can talk to me. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Brad. Thanks.” Jon believed him to be sincere, but also knew that Brad desperately hoped that he wouldn't talk to him, which suited Jon just fine. He had no plans to involve his supervisor in his life beyond the confines of the warehouse, and even here only if absolutely necessary.
“I'm not sure I buy your story, but we're all grown-ups, and I hope I know you well enough to believe you're not going to stir up trouble. But let me offer you some advice. Watch your back. Chas won’t do anything here, but once you leave the property, it’s a different matter.”
Jon thought of how nothing really changed; authority figures tried to keep the peace, and still differences got settled in the spaces between their presence and control. You did your best to get in your licks and then escape before they sealed the exits. But he did appreciate the tip from Brad, hadn’t thought that far ahead. Chas would get even. His worldview required it. Add alcohol into the pot to simmer along with the humiliation, and revenge was inevitable.
Brad frowned at him, or perhaps at his own reluctance to push harder and dig out the truth, and then spread apart his hands and placed his palms on the desk. “Okay, Jon. That’s it. I hope we don't have to do this again. Go ahead back to work.”
Jon left the office, and climbed on his forklift he had parked outside of the break room. Instead of obeying and returning to his duties, he trolled the aisles, looking for Chas. Found him in the back of the warehouse parked next to Scott, talking like two rednecks in pick-up trucks blocking the road and oblivious to the obstruction. Scott was a small, taciturn man that had worn the same sweat-stained ballcap everyday since Jon had known him. Jon had no problems with him, but Scott lacked a spine or mind of his own, easily influenced by the bluster of Chas. At least he thought it was bluster. He planned to find out right now.
Jon steered his forklift up behind them and dismounted. Chas sneered as he approached and opened his mouth to speak. Jon had only planned to talk to him, but instantly knew it wouldn't be enough. Harsh words would only lead to more later on, allow Chas to recruit dubious allies such as Scott, give Chas time to plot and plan and puff out his chest and make more of it than it was, and then seek more in retribution than it was worth. It had to end now, one way or the other.
Jon stepped up onto Chas’ machine and twisted to get inside the bucket before he could be dislodged, counting on surprise to delay any response. In the small space, only inches separated them and Jon nearly gagged at the rancid odor that escaped from Chas’ mouth.
Just as Brody had told them to go in hard in the convenience store, so Jon applied that lesson now. He leaned forward, forcing Chas backwards, the steering handle pushing into the small of his back. Jon kept adding pressure until the pain became evident in Chas’ face and the angle of his body prevented any leverage to push back. His sneer had fled, replaced by shock and uncertainty. Jon felt the empowerment of robbing the store wash all over him again.
“You telling Scott what you’re going to do to me?” Jon kept his voice low and even and kept his eyes locked on the larger man's.
“What the hell do you think you’re…”
“I asked you a question, Chas.”
“He was, Jon. Said he was going to come over to your house and kick your ass, then show your fat wife what a real man can do.” Scott had sensed the shift in power and had already adjusted to fall on the right side of things. He added a nervous laugh as punctuation. Jon didn't look at him, only at Chas.
“That so, Chas? Why don’t you show me what a real man can do right here? I’m willing to do what it takes. Are you?” Jon heard himself speaking, but had a hard time reconciling the words with his voice, had never heard these sorts of things coming from his own mouth. He did feel some fear, suspected that one on one with Chas might end up badly for him. But whichever way it went, he had told Chas the truth. He was willing to go all the way. Never again would he belong to anyone else. Or anyone else than Brody. With Stape in his thoughts again, along with the anger and helplessness invoked, Jon distilled it into energy to bring to bear on Chas.
“Ow! Jon, my back! You’re going to break something.”
“Maybe. I need to know where this is going. You want to go any further with this, or not?”
“No, all right? No. Just leave me alone.”
“Long as you do the same.” He added a light slap to Chas’ pale cheeks before relenting some of the pressure on his back but remained in place. Chas had enough space now to respond physically, and Jon wanted to test him. It would end now with a fistfight or a truce, but it would end here.
“I need to get back to work, Jon.”
“Is this over?”
“Yes.”
Jon had a sudden urge to pummel him with his fists, to draw blood, to extract sobs and pleas of mercy. But he maintained enough self-control to know he needed his job and that Chas wasn’t Brody, not even a poor imitation.
Satisfied he had done what he could for now, he dropped back down to the floor and returned to his machine. Scott’s head swiveled back and forth, confusion evident on a face that lacked the most rudimentary skills to hide his thoughts.
“You going to let him get away with that
, Chas?”
“Shut up, Scott.”
“But you were just saying…”
“I said, shut up, Scott.”
Chas rode off, the mechanical whine fading as he fled. Scott turned to Jon with a grin that acknowledged his triumph and wanted in, perhaps to partake in future spoils, the perks of siding with the newest, if most unlikely, tough guy. Jon stared back, impassive, until the smile faltered and he looked like a boy caught looking at his naked sister.
“Get going, Scott. Nothing else is happening here,” he said quietly, the anger gone, replaced with a sick feeling, the sense of almost losing control and dangerously close to liking it. His weekend with Brody had loosed something vital, something potent. In the event it didn’t pass in a day or two despite his belief in the opposite, he would have to work that much harder at containing it.
Scott slunk away and Jon felt sorry for him, a weak man dependent on who projected the most convincing display of strength, and due to Jon’s refusal to take the mantle, now a serf without a lord. Maybe Scott would learn to stand on his own through this, he hoped. But doubted it.
Jon looked around at the drab warehouse, at steel racks built nearly to the ceiling, painted gray and forced to support cardboard boxes coated with shrink-wrap and bins of merchandise as far as the eye could see. He sighed. How many lives played out in places like these? How many attempts at conquests and coups in these spaces of no consequence? He would happily abandon this kingdom for Chas to rule forever. He just needed to figure out how.
“Jon, need to come to my office again.”
He heard Brad speak from behind, and his stomach lurched, feared that Chas had run to Brad and squealed. But he determined to face whatever discipline came; he wasn’t sorry for any of it. Hopefully no more confrontation would be necessary, and punishment a fair trade for peace.
“You have a phone call. A State Police Detective.”
A current of fear surged through him. Had they found Chris? Had they arrested Will or Brody and now wanted to question him, too? He tried to keep his face neutral to hide his thoughts and the panic. Then he remembered the ranger's words, that he likely would be contacted about the disappearance. He needed to stay calm until he had reason to panic.
He took a deep breath and fell in step behind Brad, who ushered him into his office, stepped outside, and closed the door. Jon looked at the handset lying on the desk and considered replacing it in the cradle and telling Brad they had a wrong number. He feared saying something incriminating. But he knew they would call back, or come looking for him, and stalling would only create the suspicion he wanted to avoid. He picked up the phone, steadied his voice and said, “Hello, this is Jon Albridge.”
“Mr. Albridge. This is Detective Manning of the State Police. May I ask you a few questions?”
“Certainly, Detective. What can I help you with?” He hoped his nervousness didn’t carry over the line, suspected this man had a good ear for long-distance liars. He closed his eyes, and the dead face of Chris swam up at him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he turned his back to the door in case Brad looked in on him.
“You were at Ravensburg State Park on May 10th, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the ranger took your information in relation to a possible missing persons case?”
“That’s right.”
“The man in question, name’s Chris Rothfield, never showed up. The ranger opted to wait until morning to organize a search. He was not found, and his motorcycle remained where it had been parked the night before. I was told that you participated in an earlier informal search with a Will Roup, and the missing man’s unidentified companion.”
“Correct.”
“What was that man’s name, Mr. Albridge? The one that you assisted.”
“I don’t know. He never told me.”
“Didn’t tell you? Are you sure about that?”
“Yes sir.”
“The ranger felt that you and your friend were hiding something. Now would be the time to tell the truth, Jon, if there’s anything else to this.”
“I am telling the truth. We helped to search, the guy bought us dinner after, and we left and went home. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Was that man acting suspicious? Do you think he had something to do with the disappearance?”
“Not to me, no. He seemed concerned, but also kind of ticked off. Said he had taken off on him before like that.”
“Do you think it’s strange he never gave his name? Most people would do that, especially to someone that did them a favor.”
“I guess it might be. But he never offered and I never asked. Not the usual sort of person I hang out with, Detective.”
There was a pause on the line that stretched out uncomfortably, and Jon suddenly wondered if the detective had talked to Will first, if he had broken down and confessed and all of his lies were now being tallied against the truth. Or if Brody had talked to the police first, either by choice to screw them over or after being arrested. What if the detective, right at this moment, had the photographs of him and Will spread out in front of him, scowling at the fool posing with the body now fashioning his own noose with the telephone line?
“Jon…okay if I call you Jon?”
“That’s fine.”
“This man that’s missing. He’s not a very savory character. Been arrested for assault several times, and is suspected of selling illegal narcotics. Not the kind of person someone like you wants to get mixed up with. So I’m asking you one more time, for your own sake, is there something more to this? Who was the man you helped, Jon? He’s likely just as bad or worse. If you’re in some trouble, let us help you.”
Instead of being put at ease by the detective, now a concerned father figure as his tone warranted, Jon got angry. He didn’t like the implication that he was the weak sister and unable to handle himself.
You don’t know anything about me, Detective. I shot that man dead then dug his grave with a little help from my friend. After that, we robbed a convenience store; furthermore we plan to participate in some major-but-yet-to-be-announced criminal adventure in the near future. How you like them apples?
“Detective, if I knew his name, I would tell you. I don’t. I wish I could help more but that’s all I know. If you haven’t talked to Will yet, call him and he’ll say the same thing. We were just trying to do a good deed, and it’s starting to seem like it won’t go unpunished. I need to get back to work, so is there anything else?”
Manning sighed. “No, that’s it. We did talk to Will and you've confirmed what he told us. He wasn’t as polite, but I can’t arrest him for that. I’m not entirely convinced yet I’m getting the whole truth here, so you may hear from me again. I hope it won’t need to be in the form of a personal visit.”
“Okay, then. Goodbye, Detective.”
Jon hung up the phone and the air whooshed out of his lungs. He felt weak and gripped the desk for support, then forced himself upright and took several deep breaths. So far, they had gotten away with it. With everything. He wasn’t sure now that if he could escape Brody’s reach, he’d be willing to go to the police. Chris, in his opinion, got nothing more than what he invited and deserved. The clerk still had all of his body parts and in good working order, and the store had lost a little bit of money. Why get tangled up anymore with the law, spend hours being questioned by gruff police detectives like Manning with the hope it all got sorted out properly? The police didn’t invent justice, and if it had already been served and no other real harm done, perhaps their deeds could stay quietly buried with Chris in the forest. The single thing that bothered Jon was the undisclosed nature of what lay ahead. Brody did well planning the convenience store robbery, but everyone’s luck ran out. And Brody had acknowledged as much, with the lesson of the single bullet in the gun. The wild card. Forcing away anxiety and struck with a sense of the surreal that this was actually his life, Jon opened the door and stepped outside.
“Everything a
ll right, Jon?” Brad asked for the second time today. He wanted an explanation, Jon could tell, but he had no plans to involve Brad in this conspiracy, even at the remote fringes.
“Yes, fine, Brad. Just a question about a minor accident I witnessed over the weekend. But honestly I’m not feeling all that good. I’m going to take some sick time and go home.”
Brad appraised him for a moment, bit his lip and said with some reluctance, “I saw how hard you worked this morning, and I think the other guys can handle the load today, so go ahead.”
“It’s my time, Brad. I’ve earned it, whether you approve or not,” he said without first filtering the statement, but no so much as a challenge but a statement of fact. He began to form an apology, but then thought, Why? It is my time.
“You’re right, sorry. See you tomorrow.”