by Angel Colon
I stood up and pulled the keys out of my pocket. "Wake up, gorgeous."
10pm on a Wednesday, the Central Station bus depot was pretty quiet. Derelicts, drunks, and down-and-outs milled about, having conversations with empty bottles. I made sure the radio station was tuned to smooth jazz while I waited.
A bus pulled up about 10:05 and Benny got out. When he saw me parked in the pick-up zone, he smiled that same smirk he shot me in the parking garage six years ago.
He walked up and spread his arms in a gesture of disbelief, nodding his head in affirmation at the sight of Susie. He slid in the passenger seat and stuck out his hand. I didn't shake it.
"It's like that, huh?" he said, pulling back his hand and slicking back his scruffy black hair.
"Afraid so, Benny. Where to?"
"Just drive around, Slick. I got something juicy to pitch to ya."
I pulled out and started driving aimlessly around downtown, alternating left and right turns. Benny leaned back in the seat, cool as the other side of the pillow.
"Geez, you listen to this shit?" he said, referring to the radio. "Where's the rock and roll, man?" He reached over and turned the knob, scrolling through the stations until he found one playing classic rock. "That's the ticket."
He nodded his head to the beat and after a couple minutes of tense silence between us, I broke the ice.
"Go on, Benny. Squawk."
"You still mad at me, huh?"
"I didn't kill you when I saw you, there's that."
"Six years of straight living made you soft, that it?"
"Made me practical, if anything."
"Not practical enough to burn this car though, huh?"
"I should be the one asking the questions, dickhead. Now what could possibly be so juicy you had to come into my home and threaten my girl?"
"Oooh that dish." He sat up and rubbed his crotch. I could've taken his head off right then, but I stuck to the plan. "You got yourself a sweet piece of tail there, my man."
"She's got nothing to do with us."
"It was complete chance we took off that bar you were in, you know that? When I saw you, I almost shit myself."
"Likewise."
"So you did recognize me? I thought you did. Me and my partner, you don't know him, we've been raising funds for this bigger job we gonna pull. We got everything we need now 'cept the wheelman. Fate would have it, I ran into you."
"Pistol-whipped me, you mean. I don't pull jobs anymore, Benny. Ask around. I'm a clean living man."
"Sure, I know, man. I know." He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a hip flask. He held it out to me. I shook my head no. "Oh, that's right. Dr. Pepper over here."
"I got a bottle of water in the glove box, you mind?"
He took a swig from his flask then opened my glove box and got out the water. He held it out and I took it from him with my index and middle fingers around the nozzle. I took a sip and put it in the cup holder under the radio.
"Make your pitch." I said.
"The guy I'm working with, his cousin works at the SunTrust downtown. He's one step down from assistant to the manager or something like that. He's the inside guy."
"A bank thing?"
"A sweet bank thing. The sweetest bank thing you ever heard. Everything's figured out, alls we need is the wheelman. Leave everything else up to me."
"Last time I left everything up to you my partner died and an innocent man blew up on my windshield."
"This time's different, man."
"Adjust that side mirror, will you? To the right."
Benny reached out and adjusted Susie's mirror.
"Perfect. Now when's it going down?"
"This Friday. I know it's short notice. But I figure it's seren…serendip-uh-diss I ran into your ass."
"I don't know, Benny. I got a good thing going."
"Sure you do. That's why you're going to do this thing with us. Once it's over, you'll never hear from me again. Don't do it, and I'm gonna have my boys run a train on little Stephanie. You know what that is?"
I gripped the wheel like I was choking it out and nodded my head yes.
"Good, then you understand why you have to do this thing."
"Give me until morning to decide."
"I don't know…"
"By 8am. I'll have my mind made up by then."
Benny stared at me for a few seconds, then said, "Okay. 8am. One second past eight and my boy is going to waltz into Stephanie's sister's house on Lakehurst Ave. and start turning her out. Understand? 81 Lakehurst Ave. My boy is sitting on it right now. I'm not stupid anymore, Slick. Not like I used to be. We watched you drop her off and we've been watching her house since. And my boy, he loves blondes, man. Got a real hard-on for them."
My balls fled into my stomach. I inhaled deep and said, "I understand. I'll be at your place at eight to discuss the details. You still on Harding Street?"
"Yeah, good memory. Pull up over here, in front of the 7-11."
I drove into a spot across from the 7-11 and put Susie in park. Her engine hummed while me and Benny stared at one another. He smiled and nodded while I tried to make myself look nervous.
"See you at eight then, Slick." He held out his hand again. I took it this time and pulled him towards me for a big, manly hug. I pulled hard so he couldn't get away. With my left hand I patted his back, then patted his head like I was his old high school buddy. I made sure to take some of his scruffy black hair with me.
"Yo, what the hell was that man?!" he said when I finally released him. "You gay now?"
"You scared the shit outta me at first, Benny, but I think everything's going to work out."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Ain't no such thing as halfway crooks, right?"
He smiled wide at that. "Hell yeah. Ha ha. My man!" He slapped my cheek affectionately then slid out of the seat as he opened the door. Once outside he leaned back in and said, "You bring the coffee and donuts, all right?"
"Cool man. See ya in the morning." He made a gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot me. I smiled and watched him as he crossed the street and entered the 7-11.
Naw, you ain't stupid anymore, Benny. Not like you used to be. You're a whole lot fucking worse now.
One in the morning, I drove over to Benny's street, about a mile from downtown. I parked Susie two blocks from his house, in the lot of a church. I wiped down the wheel and anything else I may have touched earlier. I had my driving gloves on. The baseball cap kept my hair in place as I worked. When I was done, I got out and looked down at her. She was truly a sight.
"So long, Susie." I said. "Sorry to drag you into this."
I walked the mile and a half to Maggie's bar and I asked her to call me a cab. She asked if I was in trouble. I assured her I wasn't, though the way I was fidgeting told her the truth.
I had the cabbie drop me off four blocks from Steph's sister's house. I kept to the shadows as best I could as I crept down Lakehurst Ave. I could see him from a block away, sitting in the driver's seat of a '90s Toyota. Benny's boy. Parked right down the street from her house.
I started walking towards his car, staggering like I was a drunk stumbling home from the bars. I got to his window and leaned against it.
"Yo, man!" he said, banging on the window. "Fuck off!"
I moved back, like I had just noticed him. He was an ugly fella with an abominable mole on his forehead.
"Get the hell outta here!"
"You know where the bus stop is?" I slurred loudly enough so he could maybe tell what I was saying.
He rolled down his window and said, "Bus stop? I don't know man. I'm not from around…"
I punched him in the face as hard as I could. His nose shifted to the left, spouting a fountain of blood. While he was stunned, I opened his car door and grabbed the back of his head with both hands. I brought his face down to meet my knee a couple times and he was out.
I leaned in and popped the trunk. He fit in there nice and comfortable while he sle
pt it off. I looked down at myself. His blood was smeared over my shirt and pants, but it wasn't too noticeable against my black clothes. Everything goes with black, even blood.
I walked all the way back to my place in Orlando. It was five miles or so. By four in the morning I had showered off and packed my bag.
I drove Steph's car over to her sister's house. The Toyota was still parked on the street like a tombstone.
When the door opened, Steph jumped out and hugged me. We embraced for a while. It felt like home.
"Are you okay?" she said.
"Everything's cool now, angel. Grab your bag. I feel like going to the Keys for a week or so."
We kissed and she went in for her things. On our way out of town I stopped at a payphone. I called the cops.
"Prescott Cash Checking, Lake County. November 10, 2008. A guard was killed, hit by the crook's El Camino. One of the crooks was shot inside, name of Phil Kendall. You never caught the guys. The Camino is parked outside the First Methodist on Harding Street."
Crossing over the Seven Mile Bridge into the Keys, I pulled over and threw a garbage bag filled with my bloody clothes into the ocean.
"What was that, baby?" Steph asked.
"Nothing, angel. Whaddya say we find something to eat?"
A week later, Steph and I were sipping sangrias on the beach behind Casa Marina. The degree of sun for a week had my Scottish ass cooked, so I laid back under an umbrella while she added another coat to her already dark tan. Christ, she looked like another race, she was so tan. It kinda turned me on.
I read in the paper that the cops found Benny's DNA all over the Camino. Prints on a water bottle, radio dial, side mirror, and the glove box handle. They even found some of his hairs on the driver seat. He'd be away for a very long time.
"You getting hungry?" I said. "Something about this heat always starves me."
"I could eat, yeah," she said, rising from her towel. "Let's hit that restaurant at the hotel. It's supposed to be good."
"Sounds perfect."
We strolled into the Casa Marina lobby and as we headed for the elevator, the concierge behind the desk called out, "Mr. Chris!"
"What is it, buddy?" I replied.
"Mr. Chris, oh and hello, Mrs. Chris. You look beautiful."
"Thanks, Raul." She smiled and cocked her head like "aww shucks."
"Sorry to bother you, but a man came by looking for you."
"Say what?" I felt warm all over.
"A man asked for you at the desk. He was a brutish looking man with a badly broken nose and two black eyes, like a raccoon. He asked what room you were in, but of course I did not tell him, hotel policy and all."
"Mole on his forehead?"
"Hmmm, as a matter of fact, yes he did."
"Oh for fuck's sake."
Hole
by Steven Murphy
After the death, investigators spent a great deal of time trying to find out who'd drilled the hole in the first place. Tanner didn't think the guys would give him up. In a pro locker room, there's a prevalent 'us against them' mentality that extended to opposing teams, media, and—he hoped—law enforcement. Thing was, despite the legend, Tanner didn't even drill the damn hole in the first place. But he certainly didn't want to admit that to anyone, seeing as he'd taken credit for so long. Playing in the NFL, you needed something to set you apart if you want to stick around. Barring talent, you needed a nickname, a blow hookup, or dirt on a star. Tanner had the hole.
Tanner played quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys in the late eighties and early nineties. Backup quarterback. He rarely saw game action, and when he did, it all went by in such a blur—the speed so hard to adjust to for someone unaccustomed to it, that he had a hard time recalling more than just images, snapshots of his time on the field. An overthrown screen pass. A blown check down. A pass rusher, inches away. None of the memories were particularly good.
The Cowboys didn't need Tanner, and frankly, he was just happy to be pulling down a paycheck. By the time the locker room incident took place, Tanner was nearing in on thirty. Ancient in the league.
Tanner had a tough week, his reps getting severely limited after he'd failed to recognize Eagle blitz schemes employed by the practice squad. The first time, his position coach Qualley nearly gave himself a stroke, yelling so much his face turned bright red. The gist of his complaint was that Tanner damn well knew the blitz package would be implemented, damn well should have recognized it, and damn well better get his head out of one of his orifices (or something to that effect).
Tanner missed the read because a strong safety stunted in through the outside linebacker and the defensive end. Then the sneaky practice squad fucker waited to edge towards the line until Tanner had already gone through his signals. He was supposed to check down and audible, but, come on—it was practice.
He didn't notice the second time.
"Dammit, Tanner it's your ass on the line here!"
Or the third.
"Burke, get in for Tanner." Burke was a rookie QB out of BYU who'd thrown for something like ten thousand yards in college and had the hottest wife on the team, even though he was only making the minimum. A blonde who'd never had a cup of coffee in her life.
Tanner wasn't on minimum, but did have a pretty bad contract. He blamed his agent whenever it came up in conversation, but knew it was his own fault. He was so chickenshit during negotiations that any time his agent and lawyers tried to push for something, he'd tell them to back down, knowing full well that he was a borderline talent with a tenuous grasp on his job.
In the back of his mind, Tanner always felt like he'd have a breakout game, maybe a breakout season that would change his fortunes forever. The couple hundred grand he pulled in barely lasted through the off-season. He dreamed about that real NFL money—the payoff-your-parents'-mortgage money. But the longer he played (or didn't, rather), the more and more clear it became that he would never hit that level. There'd never be a Tanner jersey. There'd never be a Super Bowl trophy or a trip to Disneyland. But the fantasy plagued him, it stuck around in his brain like a tumor. He could never see it, but it was always there.
When Tanner exercised with his wife in the off-season, they'd take long walks that didn't really burn the calories his weight coach required. Any time she asked him what he was thinking about, he was always dreaming about starting. Not about the playing, but about what playing would mean. How it would finally change everything.
That preseason he'd gotten a shot. He was told he'd be starting the last warmup game against the Giants in New Jersey because the coaches wanted to rest Number One for the opener.
The night before the game, Tanner couldn't sleep at all. He got to the parking lot early and sat in his car reading the playbook over and over like he was heading into a test he'd forgotten to study for, which only made it worse. He threw up in the locker room, making sure no one heard him, and nearly threw up again on the field. Every time he felt the bile rising, he'd chew on his mouthpiece and swallow it down.
During the game, Tanner's mindset was blind panic—like an unarmed man in a war. His final stat line was 6-for-15 with one INT. He'd played with a piecemeal version of the first team and only managed to lead them to 135 total yards of offense in eight series.
He didn't see the field again for the first five games of the regular season and didn't think he'd see it for the rest of the year, figuring they'd give the Mormon a shot. But, things seemed weird in the Philly game from the start. Number One played terribly, the 'Boys were staring at 1-5, and the Coach started twitching. You could tell the old-timer was frustrated by looking at the movement of his hat. In the third quarter, down 24-3, his hat was flitting back and forth like a moth jumping between porch lamps.
The Cowboys had already established a stranglehold on last place in the NFC East. These were the pre-Aikman days, remember, so their sights weren't set very high. But still, no coach likes losing, especially one who—like the old-timer—was staring at retirement and thinking a
bout his chances at making it to the Hall. He pulled the trigger on Tanner, ignoring complaints from both the Offensive Coordinator and Qualley, the QB Coach.
Tanner grabbed his helmet just in time for the Cowboy offense to take over on their own 12. The first two plays were go-nowhere runs up the gut. On third and long, Tanner bobbled the snap and threw a pass directly into the arms of the stunt-blitzing strong safety who cradled it like it was a gift from heaven and ran directly into the end szone. It was the exact same blitz he'd been repeatedly warned about. Tanner actually looked over at Qualley to see if the coach had an aneurism because of the play.
On the way to the locker room, Tanner made the mistake of looking into the stands at his wife. She was, as usual, sitting with the other wives and families. His wife, who never took his last name and still called herself Beth Carter, was sitting next to her childhood friend Bax, a Boston-based underwear model she often brought to games. Bax was a huge football fan, apparently.
It was a running joke in the locker room that Bax was fucking Tanner's wife. Tanner had told Beth the guys made fun of him when she showed up with Bax—he'd asked her not to bring him to the games. He'd even started pretending that he couldn't get her a plus-one ticket any more, but she always managed to finagle one from another wife. They all loved Bax.
After the game, as Tanner headed up the ramp weathering taunts from the lovely, drunken Philly fans (one of whom actually hit him with a wadded up cheesesteak wrapper), he looked towards his wife and saw Bax lick something off her neck.
Back in the locker room, Tanner pretty much ignored a half-hearted dressing down provided by the Head Coach—one-third of which was inspired by Tanner's subpar performance. His lack of attention was partially because of depression over his failure on the field, partially due to rage over whatever the hell Bax was doing, and partially because he was distracted by voices. Lovely female voices.
The voices were coming from the wall directly behind his locker. He couldn't make out actual words, but he could hear some giggles, the occasional loud laugh, and one voice that sounded like it was singing.