by Brent Jones
Russell put his hand on Drew’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”
Drew bucked his father’s grip.
Logan raised his hands defensively. “Calm down, Andrew.”
“Calm down?” Before Drew could contain himself, he swung his fist. Logan tumbled backward, clutching his nose. “Do you even remember her, or are you too wrapped up in your own life?”
Logan stared up at Drew from the ground, his expression a mixture of pain and contempt, preoccupied more with his ruined attire than the blood dripping from his nose. He scrambled to get back on his feet, but Drew drove his foot into Logan’s ribs, causing him to topple. Logan moved again, laboriously, making a second attempt to rise. He lunged at Drew and they both went down.
Russell watched from a distance, his head bowed—as if to silently apologize to Angela—dropping his umbrella and retrieving another cigarette, his thick beard collecting raindrops.
Drew had his brother pinned beneath him, both men covered in mud, raising his first for another strike. He stared into Logan’s face and, for the briefest of moments, saw his mother staring back. Drew lowered his knuckles and got up.
“Jesus Christ, Andrew,” Logan said, panting. He stood and looked at Russell for support. “You’re not going to say anything?”
“You two are big boys.” Russell raised his umbrella back over his head. “Work it out yourselves like real men.”
Drew collected his thoughts. “I got fired. That’s what happened.”
Logan squinted. “Let me guess. You were drunk on the job?”
“High.”
“You told me you got laid off,” Russell said. He flicked ash from the end of his smoke with damp hands.
“Laid off. Fired. What’s the difference?”
“There’s a big difference,” Logan said. “Seriously, Andrew. You’re out of control. I mean, who acts like this? You need professional help.”
Drew took a step toward Logan, causing him to cower. “You’d love one more reason to feel bigger than me, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s not what I want. What I want is for you to get your life together. Look at you. You lost your job—and not a bad job, I might add. You moved, from what I hear, into a roach infested hellhole around Palmer Heights.”
“There’s nothing wrong with where I live.”
“You dumped Heather—”
“If Heather’s so precious to you, have at her. She’s all yours.”
“That’s not what—”
“I’ll tell you what, Logan. I’ll live my life. And you can go fuck yourself.”
Russell pitched his cigarette butt into the damp grass a few feet away. He sighed with an audible rumble and again bowed his eyes to Angela. “I swear it wasn’t always this way,” he said.
Logan blinked a few times as he processed the scene before him. “I’m glad Mom’s dead.”
“Excuse me?” Russell replied.
“You heard me, Russell. I’m glad she isn’t alive to see this.”
Russell wanted to object to Logan’s remark but couldn’t; he was having another respiratory episode.
“I’m gonna get going,” Drew announced. “It’s been a blast.”
He trotted back downhill to his car, soaked and filthy, but considered himself the clear victor. His hand throbbed but it was worth it. After closing the car door, Drew swallowed a half dozen mouthfuls of vodka, breathing heavily between each one. He glanced in the rearview mirror, noticing red scratches across his face. He scratched me? What a pussy. Drew started the engine just as thunder clapped in the distance, and the drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. He watched Logan scramble to his car. His father descended the hill behind him with pronounced difficultly, using his umbrella as a makeshift walking stick. I should have held my tongue for Dad’s sake. But Drew knew he regretted nothing. Sure, it was the one day each year his father saw Logan—but that was Logan’s choice. Not his. I should have—
He pushed the voice of reason from his head and chuckled to himself. “Got that fucker good. Hope I broke his nose.”
All three cars exited Hillcrest single file, down the meandering path and back to the open road. The first two vehicles turned toward town, but Drew decided to make a stop before heading home.
* * *
Chapter 7
Drew preferred to gamble online. It was faster, there were fewer distractions, and nobody in his personal space. But his credit cards were maxed and the casino handed out free drinks, so it wasn’t a bad alternative. It also happened to be a short drive from the cemetery.
He sat at a roulette table in the company of strangers. Lights flashed and bells rang in every direction, announcing big wins and overpriced thrills—a jarring contrast to the muted faces of his fellow players.
The newest croupier at the table—Theodore, according to his badge—started the roulette ball spinning for the thousandth time. “Place your bets,” he said.
Drew slid a short stack of chips on the table, betting them on black.
Casino odds came easily to Drew. They made perfect sense even when he was drunk. He knew the house had an edge. In that sense, Heather wasn’t wrong about his gambling—over the years, he had come out behind more often than not. But every now and again, he brought home a good haul. And she had never found reason to complain when that happened.
The ball bounced to a halt. “Red, five,” Theodore said, wiping the table clean of chips.
There were no clocks in the casino and Drew had left his phone in the car. And unlike his metrosexual brother, Drew’s wrist was devoid of a fashionable timepiece.
To his right sat a tall Native American man with long hair. He wore an eye patch and short sleeves that exposed beefy arms and intricate tattoos. “Any idea what, uh . . . what time it is?” Drew asked, hearing himself slur his speech.
Pirate was fixated on some blackjack players a few tables over.
“Uh, excuse me,” Drew said, tapping him on the shoulder.
He acknowledged Drew at last. “Asians. Fucking love their casinos, don’t they?” Pirate was somehow more inebriated than Drew.
“They do?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “They all come here together on tour buses. Just look around you.”
Drew scanned the vicinity. There were a lot of Asian people. But there were plenty of broke and desperate white folks, too—particularly the fat and old variety—strapped into machines through reward cards. “I thought your people were the big casino buffs.”
“No, it’s the Asians. I’m telling you. Like that guy,” he said, pointing out a middle-aged man playing blackjack. “Gambling powerhouse and, uh, kung fu master probably. That chink is in here every week.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m here every week.”
The pot just called the kettle . . . chink?
The ball started rolling again. Drew mechanically placed another bet on black.
A haggardly server, the type who had to work hard for tips, brought Drew the beer he had ordered. “Thanks,” he said, handing her a dollar bill.
“At the rate you’re going, you’re gonna put my kids through college,” she replied.
“Barber college, maybe.” Drew snickered then wondered why he had said it. That was mean, even for me.
“Red, thirty,” Theodore announced. Drew lost again.
“You been working this table for hours and don’t got nothing to show for it,” Pirate said. “You must know something I don’t.”
“Always bet on black,” Drew replied.
“But your odds are only fifty-fifty.”
“Forty, uh, wait . . . forty-six percent, actually. Yeah.”
“So you lose more often than you win,” Pirate deduced, flexing his elementary math skills.
“You never lose. It’s called Martingale betting. Just double your bet each time red comes up.”
Theodore glared at Drew. A betting system wasn’t the same thing as cheating, but it was frowned upon regardless.
Theodore announced the ball was again on the move.
Maybe coming here hadn’t been such a great idea. Drew had walked in forever ago with less than two hundred dollars, which was all the cash he had left until payday. Then again, it was so little—what did he have to lose? He had been up on slots, down on blackjack, back up on poker, and then settled into roulette for the remainder of the night.
“Of course,” Drew admitted, “I could run out of chips if it hits red a bunch of times in a row.”
“And you can only double your bet so many times. You’ll hit the table limit sooner or later, and then you’re fucked.”
Drew hated to admit that Pirate was right. “Fuck it,” he said with force, pushing the remainder of his chips on the table. “Been up and down all night. Let’s do this.”
A second later, Theodore gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “No more bets,” he called.
The ball stopped spinning.
“Black, twenty,” Theodore announced.
“Holy shit,” Drew whispered.
“How’d you know to bet on twenty that time?” Pirate asked.
Because I’m psychic, you fucking moron. “Magic,” he replied. “Actually, Mom died twenty years ago today.”
Pirate’s jaw dropped.
“Well, yesterday now, I guess—I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not even sure what time it is.”
“It’s about five thirty in the morning, sir,” Theodore said, sliding Drew his winnings.
Jesus Christ! “Say that again?”
“Five thirty, sir.”
“You don’t say.” Drew turned to Pirate. “Enjoy your night—uh, morning.” He nodded and Pirate returned the gesture.
Drew removed himself from the table and paid a short visit to the cashier’s window. He was uneasy on his feet, acutely aware of his own intoxication, but attempting to hide it, as most alcoholics do. In all, he would be leaving the casino with just over fourteen hundred dollars. It was by no means a jackpot but certainly a much needed windfall. Probably more than he’d get on his first check from Transtel.
Drew staggered to the parking lot, disappointed to find his water bottle dry. He sat still for a moment, composing his thoughts, steadying his hands on the wheel. He considered taking a nap before driving home, but decided that beating rush hour traffic sounded much more appealing. With a turn of the key, he was off.
* * *
Chapter 8
The sun was rising as Drew pulled in to visitor parking. He entered his building through the back door and proceeded to the lobby.
A man called out to him from further down the grimy hallway. “Mr. Thomson?”
Drew recognized the voice. It was the superintendent, Mr. Patel. He was a gaunt Indian man embellished with suspenders, socks and sandals, and a pair of bifocals secured with a shoestring. His accent was hardly noticeable, but enough to amuse Drew.
“Morning, Mr. Patel,” he replied. “You’re looking dapper.”
“Oh. Thank you, sir.” Patel lowered his voice. “I must speak to you about where you park your car.”
“What about it?”
“I see you park outside but you have a spot in the underground parking.”
“Yeah, well, the clicker doesn’t work.”
“Ah, okay. I’ll get you a new clicker.”
“You do that. But right now, I need some sleep.” Drew pressed the button to call the elevator.
“There is one other matter, Mr. Thomson. A couple days ago, I was on your floor and I smelled marijuana as I approached your door.”
A young man wearing a beanie, mammoth ear spacers, and skater shorts entered the lobby. He watched each floor number light up as the elevator descended but pressed the button five or six more times for good measure.
“Impossible,” Drew replied.
Patel bobbled his head. “Oh, but I am one hundred percent sure it was coming from your unit.”
“Maybe you should install better doors,” he said. “You know, to lock smells in. There’s this Paki family on my floor and when they cook, it stinks. Think you could have a word with them for me?”
The elevator door opened. A handful of tenants got off. Drew entered and pressed ten. The young man waiting with Drew entered and pressed nineteen four times.
“This is your only warning, Mr. Thomson. If I catch you with drugs, I’ll call the police.”
I hope they bring donuts. “Sure thing.”
The elevator door closed and it began to move.
“You do drugs?” the young man asked.
“Leave me alone.”
“No, for real. I deal a bit on the side.”
“The side of what?”
“School.”
Drew looked him up and down. “You’re in school?”
“College,” he replied. “Fine arts.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
He leapt for Drew’s hand, giving it an overeager pump. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Marcus, and I live in this building, too.”
“I gathered that.”
Marcus leaned in to Drew as if to tell him a secret. “So what do you need?”
“Right now, I need you to get out of my face.”
The door opened at the tenth floor. Marcus followed Drew. “Come on, man. I just heard the Indian guy say you like getting baked. You got a connection or what?”
Drew stopped at his apartment door. He had a contact near his old address—now Heather’s apartment—but nothing convenient. Neil was his only connection to the heavier stuff, and it seemed he didn’t enjoy sharing. “What exactly can you get me?”
“What are you into?”
“Weed, blow, Russian whores—”
“Girls I can’t do—”
“I was kidding.”
“But anything else, just tell me what you need and I’ll bring it to you.”
Drew groaned. “Fine. Bring me a half ounce.”
“Half an ounce of weed?”
“No, cocaine.” Drew paused for effect but Marcus didn’t seem to catch on. “What kind of drug dealer are you? Yes, weed. If I could afford half an ounce of coke, I wouldn’t live here.”
“Right. Half an ounce of weed. Got it.”
“But bring it by sometime this afternoon. I need to shut my eyes for a bit.” He entered his apartment and locked the door behind him.
Drew grabbed his grinder and some rolling papers off the windowsill. He rolled a small joint from the bud he had left. He was tired but somehow found his mind alive, still exhilarated from his win earlier that morning.
“Mr. Thomson,” Drew said out loud, doing his best Indian accent. “You mustn’t smoke marijuana. It is disturbing your neighbors.” He laughed at his own absurdity, motivated both by fatigue and drunkenness. “Sounds like Marcus is okay with it.” He went to spark the joint but paused.
Fucking Patel. Drew took his only two towels from the bathroom and placed one at the base of each doorway, barricading the exits to the hallway and his balcony.
A quick flick of his lighter and—finally—Drew sank into a moment of perfect isolation. He parked himself on his mattress, inhaling deeply, treasuring the sensation, and replaying the past twenty-four hours in his head. Plenty had happened that he would need to record in his video diary, but it would have to wait.
*
Forceful rapping reverberated throughout the apartment. The afternoon sun beat down on Drew’s face. He awoke slowly and made his way to the door, kicking away the towel, and then leering through the peephole. Marcus. He opened the door and greeted his guest with a blank stare.
“Can I come in to complete our transaction?”
“You’re, uh, pretty stealthy for a drug dealer.”
Marcus walked in and surveyed the empty space. “Did you get robbed or something?”
“I’m a minimalist. You got some
thing for me or not?”
Marcus extended his hand, presenting a baggie.
“What do I owe you?”
“A buck fifty.”
“I don’t even know if this shit’s any good.”
“All right, fine. Buck twenty.”
“Are you new at this?”
Marcus tittered, oblivious to the insult. “I’ve actually been doing this for a little while.”
“Looks like it.” Drew fished his casino winnings from his pocket and counted out payment.
“Right on,” Marcus said, placing the bills neatly in his wallet. He retrieved a business card and handed it to Drew.
“What’s this?”
“My card.”
“You have a card? With your actual phone number on it?”
“Yeah, it says I’m a tutor.”
Drew’s phone rang. “I gotta get this,” he said, motioning for Marcus to take his leave.
“All right, well, just call me if you need anything.”
The door shut behind him and Drew grabbed his phone on the third ring. It was his father calling. From his cell phone? When Russell left the house—infrequent as that was—he carried a prepaid cell phone with him for emergencies. He rarely turned it on, preferring to use his landline when he got home.
“Dad?”
“Hi, Drew.” His father sounded feeble, unclear.
“Is everything okay?”
“Not exactly. I’m at the hospital, Mercy Vale. I’ve been admitted and—s’pose you could swing by this afternoon?” He muffled the mouthpiece as he hacked in the background.
“Yes, of course.” Drew was dumbfounded. “Are you okay? Do you need me to bring you anything?”
“No, just—if you can get ahold of Logan, let him know I’m here. You’ll find me on the fifth floor.”
“Got it.” He darted into the kitchen and sniffed what little coke he had left. He grabbed his keys and flew out the door.
* * *
Chapter 9
A wide elevator door opened with a chime, a robotic voice announcing Drew’s arrival on the fifth floor of Mercy Vale Hospital. He stepped off and approached a congested nurses’ station. A petite woman with matted hair and glossy lips greeted him.