Finishing The Job

by Harley Fox

  Will turns into my building’s parking lot.

  Fuck! Jake and I follow. Will slows down enough not to crash into the parked cars, but he reaches the corner of the building just as a car flies out from behind, almost smashing into him. Jeannette Willow’s car. The image is like a blur as Will slams on his brakes, forcing Jake and me to slam on ours. Jeannette reaches the street with squealing tires and turns north again. Will immediately follows it. I reach into my jacket and pull out my gun, aiming it at the back windshield of Will’s car. But he’s already moving, and the two shots I get off hit nothing but air.

  “Fuck!”

  Jake is already speeding off after Will. I put my gun away and continue after them.

  Jeannette is driving fast. She turns east, going down a quieter street. Will follows, with Jake following him, and me following Jake. The bike underneath me goes fast, catching up to Jake. Will is so close. I slowly take a hand off the handlebar, and the bike immediately begins to vibrate and shake. I grab on fast, steadying it. Fuck! I could shoot him right now. Shoot out his tires. Why didn’t I aim for his tires before?

  Jeannette keeps going east. She’s driving well, considering the circumstances. Is Nathan in the car with her? Fuck, I hope not. It’s a wonder Will didn’t consider that. But he didn’t know who Jeannette was with. Maybe he thought Craig holed them up there on their own.

  Down south, then east again. It’s almost like Jeannette has a destination in mind. If she takes this chase to the outskirts of Santa Espera and onto the highway, then it might become a problem. We’d have the Feds on us, and I don’t think they would be sympathetic to our cause. If anything, they would side with Will.

  We leave the residential area and move into the industrial parts. Warehouses pop up around us like mushrooms. Large, vacant mushrooms. Jeannette’s car swerves, turning down this road, and then that. This looks familiar. Will is keeping pace with her, until finally Jeannette turns her car into the parking lot of one particular warehouse.

  Holy shit. This is where I got Flynn!

  Will follows, plumes of dust spraying up from his tires as he fires shrapnel of gravel backwards at Jake and me. I squint my eyes and see Jeannette’s car reach the back of the parking lot, suddenly slamming to a stop. You idiot, it’s a dead end! Will’s car slams to a stop too, to avoid crashing into the back of her, and Jake and I skid up behind him. The front door of Will’s car flies open and he jumps out.

  Right away he spins around, aims his gun at us, and fires off two shots. I duck as the first one flies by us, but at the second shot a burst of pain explodes through my arm.

  “Augh!”

  I stumble, almost falling off the bike, and Will’s sweaty face grins at me. But I’m fast. I reach into my jacket and pull my gun out again, aiming at him and firing.

  Will’s grin quickly turns into surprise as he ducks and runs from my bullets. His car is at an angle and he hides behind it. Jeannette hasn’t moved from her car.

  “Fuck you!” Will shouts, popping out from behind the hood of his car. He fires off some more shots as Jake and I fire back. He ducks again.

  “Come on!” Jake shouts, leaving his bike to fall over as he runs to a stack of wooden pallets near the chain link fence. I fire another shot at Will and leave Trista’s bike to fall as I follow. My arm throbs with pain.

  We get behind the pallets and Will pops up again, but when he sees where we are, instead of shooting, he grins again and dashes away, towards Jeannette’s car.

  “Fuck!”

  Why did we run away from Jeannette? I run out from our hiding place towards the cars. Will is already halfway there. I’m not going to make it. He’s going to kill Jeannette, and maybe Nathan.

  I reach the hood of Will’s car and slide across it just as Will gets to the front door of Jeannette’s car. Lock it! I shout in my mind, but he grabs the handle and yanks it open.

  “No!” I lift my gun, trying to aim and run at the same time, but—

  BANG!

  A shot fires, and it isn’t from me. I see Will shudder, stop, almost freeze where he is. He slowly hunches over. I slow down my running. I’m just ten feet from him now. He doesn’t turn to face me.

  I lift my gun up, but there’s no need. Will falls onto his knees.

  “Ooohhhh,” he moans, grabbing his stomach. A pair of boots slides out of the front door of the car, followed by jeans and a leather jacket, and then the face and wavy red hair of Trista.

  Crunching gravel behind me announces Jake’s arrival. He, too, slows down to a stop. Will falls onto his side, moaning some more. I see blood seep out from between his fingers onto the dirt beneath him.

  “Holy shit,” I gasp. There’s a dull throb in my arm. Trista’s looking down at Will. She reaches forward with her foot, sliding his gun out from his grasp. He doesn’t seem to put up a fight.

  “I thought you were the kid’s mom,” Jake says from beside me.

  Trista nods. “This was my idea.” She’s still looking down at Will, her eyes gleaming, a hard smile on her face. “We got you, Will. We finally got you.”

  He rolls onto his back, his blood-stained hand still holding his belly. His eyes blink in the sun. He looks up at us, at all three of us looking down at him. He coughs, then licks his lips.

  “Ughh,” he moans. A tired sound. And then he closes his eyes and passes out.

  Epilogue

  Beep … beep … beep …

  I’m swimming in a white fog. I can’t see anything. Nothing surrounds me except for white.

  What’s going on?

  … beep … beep …

  My living room slowly materializes. Fades in, like in one of those shows. I’m sitting on the floor, on the carpet. I’m on my bum. My mom is holding me. I look around the room and see my dad on the couch, my uncles and aunts all crowded in the room. They’re all staring at something in front of where I’m sitting. My dad’s cigarette sits trailing smoke in between his fingers, ignored.

  I look forward again. See the television set. It’s on. The beeping sound is coming from that. Grainy, black-and-white images show a machine, or shelter. Something. Men in big suits are falling, floating down from a hatch. Bouncing.

  A voice. “… It’s one small step for man … one … giant leap for mankind …”

  Murmurs around the room. I hear them, but I can’t replicate them. Not yet. My mom has her hand across my stomach. I grab her fingers. She squeezes me in return.

  “You see that?” My dad’s voice. Gruff, tired. “That’s the future.”

  I turn and see him, looking around at the others in the room. His eyes are shiny. He’s been drinking again.

  “What, space travel?” My aunt, my dad’s sister, says. She’s the bully. “Obviously it’s the future, dumb-dumb.”

  “I don’t mean that,” my dad snarls, his upper lip twitching. “I mean application. Skill, and perseverance. That’s what the Soviets will never understand. That it takes more than just fancy numbers and machines to do what we did. You need this.” He taps his head. “You need to fucking stick to it. Nothing else matters.”

  “Garrison!” My mother’s voice. Her grip tightens. “Language.”

  “Ah, the boy can’t fucking understand me, you know that.” He lifts the cigarette to his mouth, pulls smoke into his lungs. Blows the dirty stuff out, almost at my face. “He’s retarded. Three years and not a word? That’s fucking retarded.”

  “He’s not retarded.” My mom’s voice sounds strained now. “He’s just slow.”

  “Ugh.” My dad doesn’t look at me as he pushes himself up from his chair. “I’m getting another beer.”

  White fog clouds the images, changes them to something new.

  Wind in my hair. I’m flying, free. No. Riding. On my bike. My friends are with me. Dougles, Aflie, Walt. We met in our Freshman year, back in September. It’s summertime now, and none of us have jobs. At least, not the kind of jobs the other kids have.

  “Hey Alfie!” Walt calls out. “When’re you gonn
a stick it to Margie, huh?”

  “Who says I haven’t already?” Alfie shouts back. “I just gotta recover after banging your mom last night!”

  A chorus of laughter, mine included. I don’t shout anything. Words are still hard for me, but I’m learning. No matter how much I try, or how much my mom encourages me, I can never seem to impress my dad, though.

  We turn down an intersection and see Harold and his gang leaning up against a brick wall. Harold’s the leader. He’s got a broken lead pipe and he’s hitting it against the brick, making a clang-clang-clang noise. They clock us and we slow down, coming to a stop. Harold shoves off from the wall and his buddies follow. Walt and the others are behind me. I’m in front.

  “Hey retard!” he shouts at me.

  I don’t say anything. My heart is beating fast but my body stays still. That’s one skill I have. Harold and the others circle around us, making it so we can’t bike away.

  “We want those bikes!” Harold shouts, even though he’s closer to me. I look at him. He’s got an ugly look. His dad beats him a lot. One of his ears is cauliflowered.

  “Get the fuck out of here, Harold,” Douglas says.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Dick-less,” Harold snaps. He focuses on me again. “I was talking to the retard here.”

  He’s close now. That lead pipe is still in his hand.

  “So how about it, retard?” he asks. He’s not shouting now, he’s so close. “You gonna give me your bike? Or am I gonna have to take it from you?”

  I move fast, punching him square in the face.

  “Augh!”

  Harold drops the lead pipe with a clatter as his hands fly up to his broken nose. Blood spurts out from between his fingers.

  Without thinking I’m already off my bike, leaving it to fall to the ground as I shove Harold down onto his bum and straddle him. I sit down in his lap and begin punching him, over and over and over again.

  “Whoa!”

  “Hey, stop that!”

  Feet scuffle all around me, but I’m not paying attention. All I can see is Harold’s broken face, covered in blood and snot and tears. He’s wailing and his voice sounds deeper now, like his mouth is stuffed with cotton.

  “Will, stop it!”

  One voice, penetrating my brain. I stop punching Harold and let him drop to the ground. The back of his head hits the concrete with a dull thud.

  I look around and see all the boys—all of them—staring at me. My friends are holding back Harold’s friends. His all look aghast. But my friends—Walt and Alfie and Douglas—they look excited. Scared, yeah, but excited too.

  Finally I stand up. In the back of my mind I can feel the knuckles throb on the back of my hand. Things are silent. The only sound is that of Harold, on the ground between my feet, coughing and blubbering nonsense.

  “Go!” Walt suddenly shoves the boy he’s got. Shoves him away from Harold, down the street. “Go, before this happens to you!”

  The boys stumble away, unsure whether to stay, unsure whether to go. Eventually they leave. Walt and Douglas and Alfie join me in a circle, the four of us standing around Harold. This miserable trash looks up at us out from blackened and bruised eyes. He cries, tears oozing out from crinkled slits.

  “P-p-please,” he blubbers. “Please.”

  “What do we do with him, Will?” Douglas asks me. I stare down at Harold, the pathetic mess that he is.

  “Make an example of him,” I say.

  And just like that, all four of us start kicking the shit out of Harold.

  The movement, the motion of my legs and arms and feet and fists, all pull away as everything disappears in a swirl of white mist. When I come back I’m standing. The smell of burning meat is in the air. I’m taller now. It’s warm out. Summer evening. The fourth of July.

  Children run around the tables set up for the barbecue, chasing each other, squealing with delight. The adults stand holding their beers, talking in demure tones among themselves. I’m not old enough to have a beer yet, even though I’ve tried it with my friends. It’ll still be three years before I can legally buy the stuff.

  I’m holding a red hot with mustard on it, waiting for it to cool down so I can eat. It’s black on one side, almost charcoal. My dad’s at the grill. He’s wearing an apron and is on his sixth beer. Or is it his seventh? I can hear my mom apologizing to the other families for the state of the food. She’s blaming the butcher again.

  “Too much filler,” she says, trying to keep the smile on her lips. My dad takes a long drink of his beer, belching when he swallows.

  I hardly know the people around me. Douglas and Walt are here. Alfie’s family is doing their own thing. People are hardly talking to me. Even though I talk better than I did when I was younger, it’s like they still think I can’t string two words together. I don’t mind, though. Most of the adults have nothing good to talk about. Boring stuff like jobs and how great of a mortgage they got.

  The fence at the back swings open and a chorus of greetings announce a new family. I turn to see who it is, certain I won’t recognize them. And that’s when I see her. I’ve never seen her before. Brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail. She’s wearing a blue dress. She looks like she could be a senior at the school, or maybe even a junior. But then I hear her mom explaining how they just moved into the neighborhood. Patricia will be starting up her senior year in September.

  Patricia.

  “She’s cute, huh?”

  An elbow makes contact with my ribs and I grunt, turning to see Walt settle in beside me, chewing on a red hot, his loaded with hot peppers and onions. I notice that his isn’t as burnt as mine is.

  “Her name’s Patricia,” I tell him.

  “Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, watching her shyly stick by her mom, being introduced by her. “How’d you know that?”

  “I overheard them.”

  Walt nods, takes another bite. I lift my own red hot to my mouth, take a crunchy bite. The taste of soot fills my mouth, despite the mustard.

  “You should talk to her,” Walt says through a mouthful of meat.

  “Nah,” I say too quickly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, what’re you, chicken? Bwaaak! Bwak bwak bwak!” His obnoxious chicken impersonation draws stares, but I don’t smile. I never smile unless I mean to.

  “No,” I say once he’s finished. “I just don’t want to, that’s all.”

  But despite my words, I do want to talk to her. I’ve just never had much luck talking with girls. They always think I’m retarded, or slow, because I don’t talk much.

  “That’s bullshit,” my friend calls me out.

  I see Patricia’s mother get pulled in by the other gaggle of mothers, and her dad seems to be intensely focused on the barbecue. So she starts wandering, passing close by where Walt and I are standing.

  “Whoops!” Walt shoves me, hard, in Patricia’s direction and I almost trip over my own feet trying not to collide with her. She lets out a yelp of surprise and manages to catch me, grabbing my forearm and shoulder, stopping me from falling. I straighten up, feeling the flush move up my face.

  “Sorry,” I say. “My idiot friend—”

  But when I look back Walt is nowhere to be seen. I turn back to Patricia. She’s smiling.

  “It’s okay,” she says in a soft tone. “I saw him shove you.”

  Her eyes stay with mine a moment longer, and then she drops them. I cough and switch my red hot to my other hand, wiping it on my jeans.

  “I’m Will Silver,” I say, sticking out my hand. Patricia looks up, reaches out, shakes it.

  “Patricia Hertzfeldt.” She’s looking down again.

  “I know,” I tell her when we let go. “I overheard your mom saying it.”

  “That’s not my mom,” she says, looking up at me. Her smile is gone. “She’s my stepmom. She doesn’t understand me.”

  I nod, tilt my head back to the blundering figure at the barbecue.

  “That’s my dad,” I sa
y when she looks. “I don’t understand him.”

  That makes Patricia giggle. She gives me another smile. It lights up her face. I smile back. I think I hear the fireworks start to go off. But honestly, I can’t remember.

  Patricia’s face disappears in a swirl of white mist. It’s replaced by my dad, stomping up and down the living room. I’m standing too. Patricia is sitting with my mom on the couch. My dad is yelling. Patricia is crying.

  “How could you?” he bellows. “Six months … you fucking kids … haven’t you ever heard of waiting till marriage?”

  I hear Patricia sniveling, sniffing, trying not to make any noise. I want to beat up my dad. I want to smash his face in until it’s just skull. He has no idea what I can do.

  “And you!” He wheels on Patricia, eyes wide on the couch. “What, do you just spread your legs for any fucking retard who gives you the time of day?”

  Patricia gasps, sobs, buries her face in her hands. Inside my blood I’m wound up tight like a watch.

  “Garrison!” my mom scolds. That’s the farthest she’ll ever go. Just saying his name.

  But it works. My dad turns away, marching back and forth again. His footsteps are making the china rattle.

  “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. You,” he points at Patricia. “You’re dropping out of school. I’m not having any fucking bastard kid of mine popping out of you at prom.”

  “It’s not your kid, it’s ours,” I snarl. My voice is low, but it has an effect. Patricia stops crying. My dad turns to face me. He looks dangerous, but I could handle him. If it came to it.

  “It’s not gonna be anyone’s kid if you don’t do as I tell you,” he says in a low voice, a threatening voice. He’s walking towards me and my muscles tense. “Do you hear me? You two are gonna get married. You’re gonna get a job. A real job. None of this hanging out with your friends, hustling for money or whatever it is you do.”