by Angel Colon
"Smart fucking mouth on you. Making it easier on me."
"Making what easier? Thought you was a cold motherfucker. You having second thoughts?"
"You ain't that lucky." He steps half into the darkness. "God damn it, Jan. Come on with those smokes."
The dark don't answer back.
Riley paces back and forth with quick steps. He watches me and clears his throat. "Gonna check on her." He kicks the bag of tools into the far corner. "Swear to god, Stew, you fuck around here, it'll only be worse for you."
"I believe you."
"Damn right you do. Keep giving me lip, gonna find out what a cold motherfucker is."
"That's you, right? Big fucking man." I look him up and down. "You ain't as young as her, but I can tell you one thing, son. That girl's colder than anything you've seen and she's high as a goddamn kite."
His ears and cheeks flush red, but he walks away without a word. I keep working on that knot and feel it unravel. I loosen it enough to get my hands out easily, but I stay exactly where I am and take a deep, long breath.
I should run—find my cave and grab my things—head back home to what's waiting for me there.
But I don't.
"Jesus Christ." Riley comes back dragging Jan out of the black with panic in his eyes. He prays to every single old man in the sky he can think of and I watch him lay her down and smack her face raw. "Aw shit, baby. Please, please." The Hard Man veneer slid off him.
She's dead weight now—flops like a raw chicken cutlet.
"Told you. Looks like it was more than nerves for your lady friend." Everything in me screams to turn away from the scene. I don't need to see this again—don't need to watch.
"'Shida? 'Shida, baby, please…" I smacked her cheeks—hard—but got no response. Couldn't suss out why my little girl would do this to herself.
I clench my eyes hard as I can. Shake the thoughts from my head like cobwebs.
"You shut your fucking mouth." Riley's not looking at me—too busy wiping the bloody snot from her nose.
I swallow hard and cough.
She was laid out right in the middle of the living room, my gear still in her arm and an empty yellow baggie at her feet.
Riley's kneeling down with his hands on his head. There's tears—real tears—pouring out of his eyes. "What am I gonna do?" he whines.
I'd been clean. Four and half damn weeks in rehab and counseling for my personal troubles. I knew the gear should have gone in the garbage, but there was that dark cloud in my head that made it so I couldn't help but have a standby stash ready to go if shit went south.
"She's still breathing. I can help." I find it in me to open my eyes.
"Bullshit."
"Really, I can."
"And all I gotta do is let you go, right?"
"Nah, you give me a sip of that vodka there. Something to get me off this edge and I can talk you right through it. She'll be right as rain and you can both play your bullshit Natural Born Killers game."
That's when I should have grabbed the phone and called 911. That's when I should have called her momma and let her know something went wrong.
Riley's eyes go wide. He keeps licking his lips and trying to swallow something that ain't in his mouth. Reminds me of the kids I used to see trolling around my neighborhood in the summer trying to prove something to the old school gangbangers. "Fine…fine." He stands up and screws the cap off the jug of vodka and holds it out to me.
"How am I supposed to drink that, son? Lean in and help." I arch my brows. "Unless you wanna untie me?"
"Just fucking drink." He bends low enough to have his face level with mine. "Go on, drink."
The bottle's shoved against my lips and I take a long sip.
"All right, greedy fucker…"
I cut Riley off with my forehead against the bridge of his nose. Maybe not the best move—my head rings. That hit on the head they gave me did a number. A dizzy spell leads to a wave of nausea. I do my best to ignore it, to power through, and the world evens out just a little.
Riley staggers back and curses as he trips over junkie Jan. I should stand and run my ass out of there, but I don't. The adrenaline's setting in and I feel just fine. I jump on him and pay him back for the cheap shot from earlier. We give Jan a little shake during the struggle and she groans. I straddle Riley and land a few more, enough to get his eyes crossed.
I remember screaming, turning the whole tiny studio upside down. No counting—fuck the counseling. This was my fault—all of it.
I find my footing and pull him up and over to the seat I was occupying. "You learn to tie a knot in preschool?" I grab the rope and tie him down right using a reef knot. "All that talk about plans and me being the first…figure you'd cover all the bases." I double check to make sure Riley's secure. He ain't going anywhere.
I walk over to where the tool bag is and find myself face to face with a light switch. A flick and the room lights up—cleaner than I expected it to be.
"Help her." Riley slurs.
I grab the plumber's wrench from the bag and saunter over to Jan.
"No."
I let the heavy wrench slowly rest on her forehead. Her breathing's getting shallow. Can't help but fantasize about driving this thing right into her goddamn face. Imagine what it would sound like.
"Fucking piece of shit black motherfucker…" he curses to himself.
"Gonna talk like that while I got hand?" I let the wrench lazily drag over to the bridge of Jan's nose. "Keep that up and you're gonna see a murder tonight for sure."
I should run.
I don't.
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." Looks like he's got his sense back. "Untie me. You can go on your way and I can get her help."
"My daughter died of an overdose." I watch Jan. I watch the snot bubbles form around her nostrils, the way the blood starts congealing around them. There's a thin, white film over her lips "She didn't take whatever this bitch is on, though. Worst pain in my life was watching…what do they call that? Her death rattle? Is that what it's supposed to be?" I look over to Riley.
Riley nods.
I laugh and rub the back of my neck with my free hand. There's a dull ache in between my eyes and my back's hurting something fierce. "I ran from the Bronx River Projects all the way to a goddamn mountain. I haven't even seen a single fucking bear yet."
Right before the ghost left her, I remember her lips parting a hair and the last breath went out into the world. Wasted, like my life.
"Help her, then." Riley's crying again. "Do right by her."
I shake my head. "No sir. I already tried that." I lift the wrench. "You watch her go. I see your eyes slide up, down or anywhere else and I bring this fucking wrench down hard as I can. We clear?"
He looks down at Jan and whimpers. "Stewart, please…she wanted to do something crazy. I didn't…" Riley's shoulders slump and he goes quiet.
I stay stone silent and watch him watch her. Can't tell how much time passes before he breaks down, but that's when I know she's gone.
I didn't think of nothing then. No memories of good times. Nothing you'd see in a movie or TV—all emptiness.
The wrench gets left on the floor next to Jan's cooling body and I walk over to Riley. He shrinks when I approach. I get an arm behind him and tug at the knot to give it enough slack to get him started.
I lean in and look him in the eye. "Listen…" He starts blubbering and I have to grab his chin between my fingers and make him look at me. "You fucking listen. What you're going to do is make a choice. You can do right and get this girl back home."
Riley coughs and wipes the side of his face against a shoulder. "Or?"
"Or you can walk the trail to mile marker thirteen. Make a right, and about a quarter mile in you should see a fire to your left. I'll be there waiting for you to give me a reason." I stand and look him in his coward's eyes. "Not like you ain't given me enough already."
I grab the vodka—the wrench too—and make my way to the door. A few steps befo
re I'm past the threshold, I spot a half empty pack of Parliaments. I pick them up. Never was a smoker, but ain't no time like the present. I slip a cigarette from the pack and light it in the fireplace. Take a long drag and that pain in my head settles down a bit. Better than aspirin.
That's when I should have grabbed the phone and called 911. That's when I should have called her momma and let her know something went wrong.
I didn't. I ran.
"Hope we don't see each other again, boy." I walk out into the night and make my way back to my cave like the animal I am.
The Wrong Hammer
by Liam Sweeny
In his rough hands, calloused from weekends under his 1975 B-body Plymouth Fury, was the shield. Not the piece of shit he pinned to his beige button-down shirt every day to stroll empty rooms and empty lots with a fat keychain and a Maglite over at Pantheon. No, his shield, the New Rhodes Police department—shiny gold electroplate in relief to the city's brilliant blue seal. The shield that mattered. The one that gave him the power over life and death.
Hank Farley gripped the shield, felt its edges bite into his palm. He reached for the can of Milwaukee's Best without looking. Didn't need to; the sweat from hundreds of cans had formed a permanent coaster on the table by the La-Z-Boy. No matter how many times Susan tried to scrub it away, it raised up in defiance.
He let the warm beer coast down his throat as two men decked out in camouflage and orange vests traded quips and tips for landing a twelve-point buck on the public TV hunting show. Hank knew the guys, went fishing with them when they took their boat out on the Hudson. On the days they didn't plan on eating what they caught.
Susan hated hunting. She hated Roger Clark, the guy who right then was reviewing a can of doe piss. She was out of his life now, and he felt light in the chest. It was a day like this, where he could kick his feet up on the coffee table and watch mindless shit on TV and pull out the old shield and think, just think. Not plan. Not rehearse what he's going to say when Susan comes home and asks him why the yard isn't done, or why his uniform is all over the bedroom and why, oh why can't you do better than a rent-a-cop?
We're underwater on the mortgage, she'd say. We're robbing Peter to pay Paul with our bills, she'd say. Who aren't we gonna pay this month, Hank? But it was her that wanted to live in upper East Hill, her that wanted to live upper-crust on dreg money, not him. Even when he was a cop, making more money, she wanted more. Shopping sprees, dinners with friends and a new car every year.
A cop's salary couldn't afford it. But a cop's shield was always good for a little on the side, and they made it work. All the way up until Internal Affairs called him in, and he left without his gun and his shield…except for the dummy, collector's one he held tight in his left hand.
Not a real shield for not a real cop.
He got up, burped, wiped his mouth with his forearm, and stepped over Susan to get to the fridge. It was clean. That would soon change. He never cleaned it. There were sandwich meats in the slide-out tray, and he grabbed some turkey and mustard from the side. He'd save the roast beef for later. He made himself a sandwich with the bread from the counter—another thing that would soon pick up dirt. He glanced up at the tacky plastic cuckoo clock above the sink. It was half-past seven. In another hour and a half, it would be his first night alone in almost twenty years.
Alone being a relative term.
He took a piss in the bathroom off the kitchen and went to put the seat down. He caught himself and let out a laugh, flipping it back up. He went to the mirror and rubbed his chin. He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the brush and the shaving mug. There was a razor, the kind with one blade and a spin-on guard. He turned on the round overhead bulbs, ran the water steaming hot, and swiped the brush under the spout two times. He spun the brush around in the ceramic mug that held the bar of shaving soap, and slathered the foamy brush to his face, taking more time than he ever did, making sure he got every stubbly inch. There were bloodstains on his blue denim shirt already. If he nicked himself, it would just blend.
The razor was cold and crisp against his pockmarked skin. He shaved every day, had to, but not yet today. He'd woken up to an alarm clock thrown at his head.
"Wake up, you lazy sonofabitch," she'd said. "I'm tired of you sleeping till two in the afternoon."
"Jesus, Sue. I get home at seven. When the fuck am I supposed to sleep?"
"Why don't you sleep on the job like your buddies over there?" she said. "Those other old fucks and wannabe cops. If you're not sleeping over there, why haven't you got supervisor yet?"
"I just wanna go back to sleep, Sue," he said. "I'm tired."
"The lawn needs mowing." Sue drew the blinds, flooding the room with hard-angle morning sun.
"Damn it, shut those blinds. It's hot out," he said. "I'll do it tomorrow."
"Like hell you will, Hank," she said "I've got Doris and Irene coming over tomorrow morning for brunch. I want the lawn mowed by then, and I'm sure you'll have an excuse tomorrow, too."
He did go mow the lawn. He killed a six-pack first, and sweat soaked the grey-white hair of his chest. He even mowed the side and the back, getting out the trimmer to edge all the spots the mower couldn't reach. He just wanted to go back in and relax, drink some beer on his only day off this week. He didn't want to fail Susan's increasingly militant inspections.
He finished his shave, wiped his face off with the hand-towel from the wooden ring attached to the bathroom wall. He checked his reflection. One or two small nicks, a couple of small lines of blood stringing down his neck. He dabbed those off too.
He walked down the hall, past pictures of the family during a time when Beth was alive, her big hair and tall collars screaming eighties high fashion. She was Susan's pride, her totem in society back then—and, in her eyes, the only good thing to come from Hank. But a drunk driver drove Interstate 787 the wrong way, and Hank's lieutenant greeted them at the door, eyes to the welcome mat.
Beth was the surprise, conceived on the back seat of his 1970 Dodge Dart when Hank and Susan were just kids themselves, holding ice cream cones in between their interlaced fingers, full of hope and their songs and their friends and their future. He was going to be a new cop, she a new mother.
He looked at the outer hook of his right thumb and forefinger, splatter-stained crimson and black.
He rummaged through the closet for his flannel robe, the one Susan bought him for Christmas one year. It was a time they weren't fighting. Because that's how time went in his mind—fight time and quiet time. He looked it over. It'd work.
He showered, taking extra time, just like the shave, and threw his wet body into the bathrobe. Going back in the kitchen, the clock read eight-twenty. He needed to make some calls. He made his way back over to his La-Z-Boy, swatting a fly that was buzzing around Susan. Damn things sure did move quick.
He sat back down and turned on Channel Seven, the 24-hour news channel. He found Susan's address book in the macramé magazine holder strapped to the side of the recliner. He thumbed through and found a number. He picked up the landline and made the call.
"Susan?" Doris' cracking voice stood out over a very loud Wheel of Fortune.
"No, Doris, this is Hank," he said. "I'm just calling because Sue's been under the weather today."
"Oh my, is she okay? Would you like me to pick her up something?"
"Oh, no, Doris. I don't have to go to work till tomorrow night, so I'm taking care of her. In fact, she's dead asleep right now. Migraines, damn things."
"Oh," Doris said. "She never told me she had migraines."
"Well, they're rare, and she doesn't really like people to know when she's got them. Really, I'm calling 'cause I want her to rest up as much as she can, and she mentioned your brunch tomorrow."
"Should I call Irene to cancel it?"
"No, she's next on my list," Hank said. "When Sue's down, it's boring over here. I'll take care of it."
"If there's anything you need, Hank, just call me, okay
?"
"Will do, Doris." Hank scratched his nose. "Thanks. We'll talk to you soon."
He called Irene and gave her the same line. He had to sell it better, because Irene bought more of Susan's bullshit than Doris, but he closed the deal. By quarter to nine, he had made sure to have the next day to himself.
He reached for his pack of Pall Malls and headed out through the kitchen and into the back porch, the only room in the house that was truly his. He had a rocking chair back there, an ashtray made out of an old World War II artillery shell, and a side table for beer and magazines. Nothing else. The outer walls were all windows showing a spectacular view of a backyard patch, an aluminum shed in need of painting, and wooden fencing—also paint-bare. It occurred to him that their property was falling apart at the same rate as their marriage.
He looked out at the fine job he did—in protest—with the lawn. And it was hot that day. Hot enough to make trivial, everyday nonsense into tinder for a firestorm.
When he got back in from mowing, saturated in sweat, he was met with the blast from the A/C and Susan standing with her back to him, looking at a picture that was teetering on its nail. All she had to do was take it down, push the nail in and put the wire back on it.
"About time," she said, still turned away from him. "You gotta put up another nail. That nail's no good."
"The nail's fine," Hank said.
"Would it kill you to go get a hammer and a good nail for that picture?" she said. "It means something to me."
He was looking at the same picture—their family portrait with Beth. It meant something to her. He saw through a red-tinted mirage as he walked down to the basement, grabbed a hammer and nail, then went back up.
And he came up with the wrong hammer. That, and only that, he thought as he dragged on his Pall Mall, is why Susan is on the living room floor feeding bugs. The wrong hammer.
It was a ball-peen hammer. It's not for pulling and pounding nails; that's a claw hammer. A ball-peen hammer is used to pound round edges, to beat in rivets…to beat stuff. It was a tool to beat stuff.