Potter's Field

by Rob Hart

  Ah fuck.

  The window rolls down.

  “The fuck aren’t you answering you phone for?” Samson asks.

  I stare at him for a second. “Go away.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “I say again, go away. I’m tired.”

  He takes off his sunglasses, his eyes ablaze. I think this is the first time I’ve seen him with his sunglasses off. I never knew what to expect from his eyes. They’re a light, light brown. Like cappuccino. “I’m not asking, motherfucker.”

  “What are you going to do, get out of the car and fight me?”

  “You gonna make me do that?” There’s maybe some excitement in his voice, so I figure the answer is yes.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  He sighs. Evens out his voice. “Get the fuck in and I will explain. You think I’d be here if it wasn’t important?”

  I shouldn’t do it. I should go back inside.

  Call my mom.

  Find an apartment.

  Get a real job.

  Track down Crystal.

  Do anything but get in the car, so of course, what I do is get in the car. Before I’ve even got the door all the way closed Samson jerks away from the curb, cutting someone off, inviting a barrage of horn blows and, presumably, profanities.

  “The fuck is the rush?” I ask.

  “It’s Ginny,” Samson says. “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  Samson ignores me, weaving through traffic, clearly with a destination in mind.

  “Hey, answer me,” I tell him. “What the hell does this have to do with me?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he says. “You’ll know when you need to know.”

  We roll up on a red light. I pop the door and climb out. He yells at me but I cut him off when I slam the door closed. I turn around and walk up the hill, against traffic. There are cars behind him so he can’t back up. He’s got nowhere to go but forward.

  I walk for two blocks before the SUV comes roaring at me and leaps onto the curb, slamming to a stop about a foot from my knee. I step around it, ready to keep walking to Bombay’s. The window rolls down.

  And Samson says a word I’ve never heard from him.

  A word I never expected to hear from him.

  “Please.”

  That word stops me dead where I’m standing. It’s not that he says it. It’s how he says it. There’s something else there, under the usual about-to-hit-a-boil pot of anger. Can’t put my finger on it. But it chills me.

  I stare him down for another few second and climb into the car. Tell him, “No more bullshit. I want to know what’s going on or else I get out, and then I’m going to make you work to get me back in.”

  Samson sighs. “Ginny went to a meet. Didn’t come back. I know where she is and I need someone good with their hands. Helps that you’re white. I’m a little conspicuous where we’re headed.”

  “Why couldn’t you have just said that?” I ask. “Why did you have to be such a dick?”

  He doesn’t say anything. Pulls away from the curb. Drives. Back to the status quo.

  “Some more details would help,” I tell him.

  “Open the glove box. All the details you need.”

  “Do we really have to do this dance again? You really want me to get out?”

  No answer.

  “Who was she meeting?”

  Samson swings the car around a light, cutting someone off, horns blaring. He says, “She insisted on going alone. I knew it was a mistake but she didn’t want to hear it. Told me she could handle herself. Hour ago I got a ransom demand. A million flat to get her back alive.”

  “I’m assuming we aren’t rolling with a briefcase full of money in the back, are we?”

  Samson shakes his head. “We don’t have that much liquid. Best I can do on short notice is maybe a few hundred grand, and even then, fuck ‘em. We go in, we get her out. Her phone broadcasts her location, even if it’s turned off. Safety feature. They should have destroyed it. That’s how I know we aren’t dealing with pros.”

  “Have you thought maybe they aren’t amateurs? And they left the phone on to draw you in?”

  He nods toward the glove box. “Hence.”

  “Which you already know I am not carrying.”

  “Fuck you aren’t.”

  “I’ll get out.”

  “Goddamnit,” he says, smashing his palm against the steering wheel. “One motherfucking time I need you, you’re going to get all fucking high and mighty on me? It’s not enough I’m paying you a goddamn compliment? You think I didn’t have my pick of people on this?”

  “You know, this is funny.”

  “What?”

  “This is the most we’ve ever talked, I think.”

  He huffs. We drive in silence for a bit. He merges onto the Staten Island Expressway. Still no idea where we’re going. Traffic is light, and that much is a kindness. I consider turning on the radio but Samson is like an old stick of dynamite. Best to sit still and be careful rather than risk something that might set him off.

  We turn onto the West Shore Expressway. Headed south then. Immediately slam into a wall of traffic. To the right, wetlands dotted with snow. Beyond them, the Arthur Kill and the industrial shores of New Jersey. I consider the situation. I’ve never seen Samson charged up like this. Angry, yes. That’s his primary level of functionality.

  But I know what that thing is, the thing underneath in his voice that gave me chills.

  He’s desperate.

  I always considered Samson to be strictly a driver and bodyguard. Maybe there’s something more to the relationship. I give him a look. He’s focused on the road, eyes behind his sunglasses, hands gripped around the wheel so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t yanked it off. I consider pushing the issue but figure that’s a good way to get shoved out of the car once we get back up to speed.

  Still, we should attempt to do a little planning.

  “If I’m going to help you, I need to know what’s going on,” I tell him.

  He breathes in deep through his mouth, hard out his nose.

  “Quit with the bullshit,” I tell him. “We’re not going to accomplish a god damn thing if you go in there looking to rip out someone’s throat. Believe me, I know. You have to control your anger. Right now your anger is controlling you.”

  “I don’t need a lecture from you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He breathes again, in through his mouth, out through his nose. A little burst of air. He does it again, and by the third time I recognize it as a coping mechanism. I give him a minute, and ask, “What’s the deal?”

  “Ginny tell you about Kid Vicious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s about to go to war with Brick. Or they’re at war already, I don’t really know. Point is, Ginny’s been putting out feelers to see if there’s anything in there for her. Someone sent up a balloon, made it sound like Kid Fuckface was open to talk. Ginny wanted me to stay behind because she said I don’t create an ‘amenable environment.’”

  “Well, you are scary as fuck,” I tell him. “And where exactly are we rolling to?”

  “Someplace down in the burbs. We get in quiet and get out the same way.”

  “Guns aren’t quiet. How do we get in quiet?”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  “This is the time in which we figure it out. What’s the address?”

  He rattles it off. I plug it into my phone and pull up the street view. Spin the camera around. It’s a quiet street. Cookie-cutter homes. An entire block of them, in various states of new construction. It’s not replacing anything, like with Sandy. It’s just that the rest of the city is running out of room and the growth is pushing for the borders. There’s a lot of empty land on the south shore, and a lot of people looking for something comfortably between city living and the suburban experience.

  The construction gives me an idea. As we approach the Victory Boulevard
exit, I tell Samson, “Get off here.”

  “We’re not even close to where we’re going.”

  “I know. We’re making a stop.”

  Samson unloads me around the corner from the house. He goes off to look for a spot the next block over, and then he’ll circle around to the back of the property, while I walk down the street in my brand-new olive-green coveralls.

  They don’t fit great—too tight around the ass and too loose around the chest, somehow—and the fabric is so stiff it’s chafing, but it’ll do.

  To the coveralls I added tan work boots, a baseball cap pulled down low over my eyes, and some heavy-duty zip ties crammed into my pocket. Plus a clipboard with some credit card forms on it, which I swiped from an unmanned booth in the mall. I felt bad stealing it, but Samson was pretty pissed about paying for the coveralls and the new boots, and I didn’t want to spend my own money on props.

  Figure anyone else walks up to the house, the people inside go red alert. But someone in coveralls carrying a clipboard would be wallpaper in a neighborhood with new construction. I could be from any number of agencies or crews with business around here.

  The street looks about the same as the street view, except the construction is a little more finished. There are three houses at the end that are still being built, but the rest of the homes are done, and some of them even look lived-in, shiny SUVs and luxury cars parked in the driveways.

  Samson was right about one thing: this is the kind of neighborhood where if someone peeked out the window and saw him moseying around, they’d put a call into the cops just in case. Report a suspicious character. Suspicious being the polite word for black.

  So, yes, bringing me was pretty clever, except for the fact that now I’m here, and I’m probably about to get in a fight, and I don’t want to be in a fight. I shouldn’t have gotten back in the car. I should have told him to fuck off, let things land where they may.

  But if this is who I am, if this is what I do, maybe I should embrace it. Maybe I’m no better than a thug. I’m good at it. I’m sure I could work for Ginny full time. That would make a lot of my problems go away. All I would need to do is compromise my newfound morals.

  What are morals, anyway? They’re self-developed systems. They can be whatever you want them to be.

  I climb the brick staircase to the front of the house. Knock on the door. Feel my heart squeeze out a little extra blood. The house is painted gray to remind you of a sad, cloudy day. Like concrete but with less personality. I hear footsteps beyond the door, then some scuffling, like someone is looking at me from the peephole.

  I look around like I’m bored, then check my watch. Act inconspicuous. The door opens a crack. In the darkness of the foyer I make out a white kid wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot. He’s young and high. Given the size of his pupils, the slack in his jaw muscles, I could probably tell him I’m from Mars and he’d be cool with it.

  “Gas company,” I tell him. “Getting some funky readings in the neighborhood. Okay if I pop down your basement, check your connection? Make sure there’s not any kind of leak?”

  “Uh… what?”

  Like I said: High. As. Fuck.

  “Two minutes,” I tell him. “Basement. Just making sure your house doesn’t explode.”

  “Explode?”

  “Yes. It is a thing we like to avoid when we can.”

  His eyes dart back and forth. He’s thinking about it. Trying to process it. He looks toward the second floor. Either that’s where they have Ginny, or that’s where the person is who can grant permission.

  “Two minutes, in and out,” I tell him. “Easy peasy.”

  “Real quick?” he asks.

  Jesus Christ. “Yes.”

  He nods, opens the door. I step into the foyer. The living room is to the right, dining room to the left, kitchen in the back. Everything tidy and barely lived-in. Almost no furniture. No open concept. There’s a vague chemical smell but otherwise the house is silent. It looks more like a home staged to sell rather than a home that people live in.

  The kid points toward the kitchen. “Basement door is over there.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  I head that way, figuring Samson has worked around. I can pop open the back door and let him in and the two of us can get to work. All without having to shoot anyone. Seems like this will be an easy one, until I start walking, and I regret my new construction boots because they echo on the hardwood floor, the sound reverberating through the house.

  That incites more footsteps from upstairs.

  Someone comes down the stairs fast. Hits the floor and turns into the hallway.

  Another white kid. Tall, dark hair, solid muscle. He doesn’t skip leg day. Lots of tattoos, but tough-guy lame and generic—Chinese characters and barbed-wire. He’s got a heavy tan despite the season and his dark hair is slicked back with a tanker-disaster amount of grease.

  He sees me and his hand flicks toward the back of his pants. He freezes when his eyes settle on the clipboard.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, accent so thick it sounds like he’s doing a bit.

  “Gas company,” I tell him. “Like I told your buddy here, there are some wonky readings in the neighborhood. Gotta check the connection. Make sure your house isn’t going to get blown to kingdom come. Takes two minutes.”

  He nods. His hand relaxes, no longer reaching for the back of his pants. I try not to make the tension disappearing from my shoulders so obvious.

  “Go ahead then,” he says.

  I move toward the door, make sure to keep him in my peripheral vision. Try to pull the door. Can’t, because it’s a pocket door. I push it aside, feel for the light switch. Flick it on. There’s a staircase and, at the bottom, a concrete floor. I step into the basement, now wondering how the hell I’m going to play this. Maybe there’s a weapon down there. Maybe I can subdue him.

  “Why don’t you come on down,” I tell him. “Case I can’t find it.”

  “Sure.”

  I get halfway down the stairs and turn. Look up.

  He’s got his foot on the first stair and he’s holding a gun, pointed down, vaguely in my direction.

  “No gas line on this street,” he says. “Developers cheaped out and wouldn’t put one in. We have to get oil delivered. Which is crazy, right? It’s like, we live in New York City, not fucking Appalachia. So why don’t you tell me who the fuck you are and why the fuck you’re here?” He punctuates his profanities by stabbing the air in front of him with the gun.

  “Um…” is all I manage to get out before Samson comes flying into view, throwing his weight into the guy as he cracks him across the jaw. I throw myself down the stairs as the gun fires. Bullets smash into the wall above me, raining dust. Look up and the stairway is empty. I climb up to find Samson holding the gun on him. The guy is on the floor, blood streaming from his mangled nose, doing a crab walk toward the front door.

  I grab the barrel of the gun and yank it up. It fires into the ceiling, kicking out dust and plaster. Another stab in the ears. I yank the gun away from Samson. He grabs me by the throat and slams me into the wall, the cheap sheetrock giving under my weight.

  “The fuck is it with you and this bullshit?” he screams, his eyes raging.

  I drop my weight and twist out of his grasp. I take a few steps back, not pointing the gun at him, but making sure he knows I have it. “Calm the fuck down.”

  There’s a scratching sound from the front. The guy is reaching up from the floor, trying to get the knob. Samson loses interest in me, stalks across the room, and kicks the guy in the stomach. He leans over and groans.

  “Where is she?” he yells.

  More footsteps from upstairs.

  The other kid. The one who opened the door. I lost track of him. I pull some zip ties out of my coveralls and toss them at Samson and run up the stairs, into the hallway. There are four doors, one of which is open.

  I hold the gun in front of me, not terribly thrilled to have i
t, but I may as well use what I’ve got, and nudge the door open with my foot. Find the kid in the corner of a sparse bedroom, floorboards pulled up, stuffing something into a gym bag.

  “Hey,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t stop.

  “Hey,” I say again, louder.

  He keeps packing. I come up behind him, find some loose money and a few plastic packages the size and shape of a brick, filled with white powder. Not too hard to guess what that is.

  “Hey dummy,” I tell him.

  He stops, turns, looks at me.

  Reaches into the bag and comes out with a shotgun.

  I kick it, hard, before he can even get his finger into the trigger. It flies across the room and hits the wall. I pick up the kid, throw him out the door. Push him toward the stairs. Find Samson, still yelling at the guy, who is now tied up, his face a little more mangled. I go back into the bedroom, toss the gun onto the bed, then untuck the blanket and rub it hard on both sides to take off my prints.

  I push the scrawny kid down the stairs. Samson goes to work tying him up as I peek out the front window. No cop cars. No one outside. That’s good. Don’t know how long that’s going to last. Two gunshots should serve to attract some attention. But it’s early enough that most people are probably still at work.

  Samson leans down to the guy with the slicked hair and asks, “Where’s Ginny?”

  The guy smiles. “Fuck you, you fucking Canadian.”

  Samson squints, looks up at me, shrugs. Balls up his fist and jabs the guy in the mouth.

  Jesus this is not good. Samson reaches back to swing again but I lock my arm in his, tell him: “Check upstairs.”

  Samson pulls away, I think considers hitting me. Then he clomps up the stairs. There’s a crash. Good. Let him work out the anger some other way.

  I look down at the guy. “Canadians?”

  “It’s what we call the nigs. Less racist.” He says this like he is very proud.

  “I think that’s actually more racist.”

  “Well, fuck you, and fuck him, and fuck that crossdresser, whatever the fuck his name is.” The guy tries to work himself into a sitting position. “You are so fucked. You have no idea who you’re fucking with. Kid Vicious is going to run this island. That tranny thought he was hot shit. Acting like Kid should bow down to him. He had no idea. Just like you have no idea.”