All Due Respect Issue #1

by Chris F. Holm

  “How the hell should I know?” Jack said. “What difference does it make?”

  “No difference.”

  Jack swiveled his head without changing position. Their eyes locked. His face had a concrete set to it that Isaac hadn’t seen in a long time. Isaac waited for him to speak. Instead, Jack sighed and looked at the floor again, eased back on the couch.

  “What time is it?” he asked. Jack didn’t wear a watch or carry a wallet.

  Isaac pushed up the sleeve of his coat and checked his wristwatch. It was the last week of March. They were both wearing coats. The house was heated, but the air didn’t move around like it should.

  “Almost two-thirty,” Isaac said.

  “Turn the TV back on, would you?”

  They watched a documentary about chalk, then another about survivors of Hurricane Katrina. As the hands on his watch ticked closer to four, Isaac became increasingly tense. He wished the other guys had stayed. He wished he knew more about the deal they were going to transact.

  Five minutes before the Katrina doc ended, Jack sat up and reached for the case.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Isaac nodded. He rose from the chair. He was going to shut off the television, but decided to leave it on as kind of a superstitious guarantee that things would go smoothly and they’d be back here, plopped in front of it, minutes from now.

  It was bright out, the sky a Styrofoam-white in all directions. Wind stung at Isaac’s face, neck, hands and ankles. He balled his fists in the pockets of his coat as they crossed the lawn.

  The lumberyard was visible from Earl’s driveway apron. They walked the shoulder until they were even with it, paused, cut over. There was no traffic in either direction. A chain-link fence encompassed the property, but the gate was busted. Most of the lumber had been sold-off or stolen. A few pallets had rotting wood and shingles on them. Shrink-wrap littered the yard. The building was wide and low, painted yellow. It had two doors: one directly before them for the office, another midway down the front that must have led into the warehouse.

  Just inside the gate, both men stopped.

  “You’re right,” Isaac said. “Something’s not cool here.”

  “I was wrong. Getting myself worked up over nothing. It’s a simple drop, Isaac. In and out.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  “Because you did.”

  “I’m telling you, man. I don’t like this.”

  Jack said, “Get a fucking grip. You’re freaking yourself out, that’s all.”

  “I guess.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  They went to the office door. Since Jack had the briefcase, Isaac tried the knob. It was locked.

  “That one,” Jack said, tipping his head toward the other door.

  They walked along the building, hugging the wall. Isaac twisted the doorknob. It spun and clicked.

  “Showtime,” Jack said.

  They stepped into a large room cluttered with rusty hand tools, boxes, shelves overflowing with junk. It was dark. The only light came through the doorway they’d entered and a dusty window in a wall to their left. Isaac saw a man in a raincoat by a table heaped with cartons. The man had uncombed hair and a beard. He stood motionless, watching them.

  Thank God, Isaac thought. The guy was already here. They could hand him the briefcase and get back to Earl’s and be done with it.

  Jack held up the case.

  The man beckoned him forward.

  Jack gave him the case and returned to wait beside Isaac.

  Isaac fought the urge to look at Jack. He didn’t want to appear as skittish as he felt. While he watched, the man set the briefcase on the table. He thumbed the catches and peered inside, then focused his attention back on them.

  “This is for the both of you?” he asked.

  “Huh?” Isaac said.

  “Oh, shit,” Jack whispered.

  The man took a shotgun from the table and swung it at them. They wheeled to the door, Isaac almost tripping on a set of tiles. The shotgun rose to eye-level. Isaac moved behind Jack at the doorway. There was an explosion of light and sound and Isaac screamed as the top of Jack’s head disintegrated. He tumbled out the door, one of his wrists bending underneath him on the ground. Jack’s dead body landed on him. Isaac’s ears rang. He shoved at Jack, flipping the corpse so they were side-by-side.

  “I told you it was a setup!” he yelled.

  Isaac scrambled to his feet and bolted for the gate. He ran faster than he ever had in his life, so hard the joints in his hips and legs seemed to come apart. As he angled through the gate, a second shot rang out and Isaac heard buckshot ping the fence. He went right, away from Earl’s, toward an expanse of trees. The woods carried on for miles in that direction. If he could reach them, he’d live. He was breathing heavy and the sound was awful—he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying. Steps from the tree-line, he glanced over his shoulder.

  The man stood outside the gate, in the approaching lane of the highway, the shotgun leveled again.

  Isaac ducked as the next shot missed him. He continued to duck, launched into the brush and slipped through the glistening black trees to safety.

  Jack hadn’t merely been a partner-in-crime, although he and Isaac had functioned as their own small unit in Tommy’s gang. He’d been the closest thing Isaac had to a friend. Huddled on the back stoop of a coffee shop, where he’d emerged from the woods, Isaac was flooded with memories.

  He and Jack had been recruited by Tommy the same night, the summer after graduating high school. They’d barely known each other as classmates. They were caught in a skirmish at Bridey’s All-Night. One of Tommy’s soldiers got jumped. Isaac and Jack were drawn into it simply because they’d each been sitting close. They beat the hell out of the punks who’d jumped Tommy’s punk, then helped him escape before the cops arrived. He gave them directions to Tommy’s house. When Tommy heard what had gone down, he offered them work.

  Over the past few years they’d made a great team, always taking care of business without a hitch. Tommy, in turn, had looked out for them.

  Now they were apparently disposable, threads needing to be plucked. Didn’t loyalty count for anything? Time spent? Just like that, a decision was made and Jack was gone forever.

  Isaac broke inside.

  He sobbed, head in hands, rocking on the stoop. Those motherfuckers were going to pay. Tommy would have to answer for this.

  From inside the shop came the drumming of footsteps, angry conversation.

  Isaac wiped his face with a sleeve, pushed up and started to run again.

  He’d even the score. First, though, he had to get out of sight. Then he needed a weapon, a car. He thought he might be able to accomplish all three at once.

  His mother’s house wasn’t an option. They’d be watching it, no question, but wouldn’t go in unless they spotted him. He was enough of a burden on Mom without bringing killers to her door.

  Dad was another story.

  Mom had tossed him when Isaac was young, fifteen or twenty years ago. He’d come back from Desert Storm or Shield or whatever the fuck it was a changed man, rambling and quick-tempered, unable to sleep. The only thing that seemed to help—or the only thing he was willing to try—was alcohol. But it didn’t help for long. When he finally put his hands on Mom, she called the police. They got divorced. Isaac, his mother and sister, Edie, were left to fend for themselves.

  Isaac’s father vanished from their lives. He rented an apartment two miles south of them, on the border with Groton, collected disability, worked full-time destroying himself. Isaac called or stopped by maybe once a year, to see if he was all right. He was never all right, but he was still there, still breathing. And probably still drunk. That’s what Isaac counted on now.

  He cut through the woods to the apartment complex. Dad lived on the ground floor of a unit that bulged and peeled. Isaac stood at the door, trying to remember the last thirty seconds. The TV blared inside. He knocked hard and br
aced himself.

  “What?” Dad shouted.

  “It’s me.”

  “What?” Something crashed to the floor. “Who the fuck…”

  The door opened. Isaac’s father put a hand on the wall to keep his balance. His hair was greasy, face mapped with red splotches, eyes redder than his face. He wore a bathrobe over a dingy undershirt and two mismatched slippers—on the wrong feet.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

  “Dad, it’s Isaac.”

  His father glared at him.

  “Your son,” Isaac said. Dad frowned, as if it were news that he had a son. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

  Dad let go of the wall and shuffled to the living room, held the arm of the couch as he lowered himself onto it. The place was a mess. It stank. Beer cans and vodka bottles everywhere, crusting TV dinner trays, newspapers, dirty clothes. On the coffee table was a stamped-tin ashtray overflowing with butts and a six-pack with five in the rings. The sixth can was on the floor. Dad picked it up and drank, slurping at the rim.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Isaac said.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sit down if you want,” Dad said, pointing at a chair that was buried under trash. “Knock that shit on the floor.”

  The couch was cleaner, so Isaac sat there, causing his father to slide away.

  “Mind if I skiv a beer?” Isaac asked.

  “Be my guest…”

  “Isaac.”

  “I know your goddamn name.”

  “What is it?”

  “Fuck you, kid.” The old man laughed. “So, what do you want? You need something? Money? ’Cause if that’s what you’re after, you came to the wrong place.”

  “Nah,” Isaac said. “I just came by to see how you were. Toss one down.”

  “Well, that’s okay, then.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Isaac said.

  Isaac lit his smoke and took a drink. The beer was nasty. Even if it had been chilled, it would have been tough to swallow.

  “You got anything stronger?” he asked. “I’m having kind of a bad day.”

  “I’m having kind of a bad life, kid. How’s vodka? I got vodka.”

  “That’ll work.”

  Dad trudged to the kitchen, knocked something over, swore, then came in with a bottle and two plastic cups. He sat and poured, filling the cups like it was spring water.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Neither of them said much. Dad raised his cup, smirking in Isaac’s direction when the TV show amused him. Isaac egged him on, guzzling the vodka so Dad would have to keep up. The alcohol didn’t faze Isaac now—he could’ve aced a field sobriety test on a highwire. But it KO’d his drunk father. Twenty minutes in, Dad closed his eyes, fell back on the couch with his face toward the ceiling, dumped his cup on his lap. His mouth dropped open. He began to snore.

  Isaac said, “I watched a great show about chalk today.”

  No response.

  “Cheers,” Isaac said, standing and splashing his own drink on his father’s chest.

  He found Dad’s car keys in a bowl on top of the refrigerator. Under the key ring was a wad of moist cash, twenty-seven bucks, which he also stole.

  The gun was in the apartment’s only bedroom, at the back of Dad’s sock and underwear drawer. It was a big, heavy revolver, a .38. And it was loaded. Isaac recalled Mom fighting with Dad when he brought it home, giving no explanation for why he needed it.

  Next to the pistol was a thin stack of photographs cinched with a rubber band, the photos curved inward. Isaac paged through without removing the band. They were shots of Isaac, Mom, and Edith, old Kodak prints marked with dates. He put them back, slammed the drawer shut and walked to the door, aiming the gun at his father’s head as he passed him, then tucked the .38 at his waist and stepped out into the night.

  The car was a piece of shit, a Dodge Colt from early 90s, with blown shocks and a mushy transmission. The heater spewed cool air. It did, however, have tinted windows. Dad wouldn’t have tinted them. The previous owner must have done it. At any rate, Isaac was grateful.

  He topped the tank at the first gas station he saw. Leaving the gun in the car, under the driver’s seat, he went inside to pay, buying a large black coffee, a bag of Fritos, and a knit cap. Isaac put on the cap and removed his jacket when he got back in. He turned on the factory stereo. The FM band didn’t work. Listening to an AM talk-show about high school football to mask the noise of the car, he left the station and headed downtown.

  He drove by Tommy’s usual haunts: Bridey’s All-Night, Thames Street Billiards, Washington Park, the Shamrock Café. Tommy was nowhere to be found. His car, a two-tone Lexus, wasn’t at his house on Church Street. Isaac went to Earl’s. He parked at an empty lot where a storage facility used to stand, a short drive from Earl’s in the opposite direction from the lumberyard. He shut off the headlights but left the car idling.

  Jack would be history now, disposed of like garbage, all traces of him removed.

  Isaac finished his coffee.

  He shivered as the mercury fell, jammed his hands between his thighs.

  A pick-up truck approached, passed the lumberyard, veered into Earl’s driveway. Isaac sat up. He watched Earl and Spig—another of Tommy’s thugs—go into the house. Light flared in the living room. Shadows played behind the curtains. The light went off. The two men exited the house, looking from side to side. They went to the truck and drove past Isaac, oblivious to him.

  Isaac followed at a distance. They led him to Groton and north to Ledyard, a small farming town. At the end of the town’s main drag, they took a side road. The pick-up stopped in the front yard of a ranch house. It was surrounded by woods much denser than those in Wellesport. There was a yellow bulb on by the door. Tommy’s Lexus, a Subaru Brat, and a rust-eaten Chevelle sat in the driveway. Henry Sloan’s Galaxie 5 was missing.

  He didn’t know who lived there. Another of Tommy’s new recruits? Part of his punkass vision for the future?

  The gang had probably all met somewhere, established an alibi while Isaac and Jack were supposed to be killed, then split up for the night.

  Isaac drove past the house to a weedy trail that looked like it was used for hunting or cutting wood. He went until it banked and crested a hill and he could park hidden from the road. He extinguished the headlights again with the motor still on. The darkness was solid here. Isaac fetched the gun from under the seat. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, forgetting he’d drank it already, lobbed it onto the floorboard.

  Was he moving too fast? Shouldn’t he wait, lurk in the shadows and nail Tommy alone?

  Fuck that. He’d rather do it now, while his anger was hot, his body primed for anything—before he could talk himself out of it. Tommy wouldn’t expect him to hit this soon. It would give him an edge.

  Isaac tugged off the itchy cap. He walked to the road, leaving the driver’s door open. He might need to hop in with no time to spare. Even if the trail dead-ended ahead, he’d get a decent jump on them.

  He skirted the ditch with the gun in his hand. Its weight caused his arm to swing in rhythm, loosening his shoulder.

  A voice inside his head, Jack’s voice, said: Kill him.

  “I will,” Isaac said.

  He gritted his teeth as he entered the yard. Would they have someone posted outside? Isaac hoped not. He didn’t want to shoot anyone else, but would if it came to that.

  He walked around the house, slowing his pace at the back. He’d go in this way, he thought, catch them off-guard.

  Earl looked at him from the steps, where he sat with a stick in his leather-gloved hands. He froze for an instant—probably to convince himself that Isaac wasn’t a figment of his imagination—then tossed the stick, grabbed the railing and pulled himself to his feet. His other hand snaked into the pocket of his coat.

  “Godd
ammit,” Isaac said.

  He hadn’t stopped and was ten feet from Earl when he pointed the gun and fired. Earl doubled over, squealing. Isaac stomped his forehead and Earl tumbled, clutching his stomach, drawing up his knees.

  Isaac went up the steps, into the kitchen, sweeping the gun like a flashlight, hearing people yell from other rooms, scramble for cover. A door opened at the front of the house and the voices faded.

  He locked the kitchen door, forcing whoever had gone outside to either break it down or run back to the front after they discovered Earl.

  He made a quick circuit of the hallways, passing vacant bedrooms. In the living room, by the front door, a young man he’d never seen held a rifle in trembling arms. Isaac didn’t have the heart. He aimed at the kid’s knee but plugged his thigh on accident. The kid dropped the rifle and staggered, hands up defensively.

  Isaac went took another hall that circled back to the kitchen. Past the entrance to the kitchen, on the other side, was a narrow door an inch from being closed, a dim glow beyond. He nudged it with the .38. A wooden staircase led to a rough concrete floor.

  “Tommy,” he said, “I’m coming down.”

  He slid a hand along the two-by-four railing as he descended. The basement contained a haphazard arrangement of lawn chairs, camping equipment, a fridge, a dartboard on the wall, a ping pong table with a case of beer and stack of porno mags on it. Over the ping pong table was a fluorescent light fixture held by chains. Tommy stood behind the table. His arms were folded over his chest. He looked more pissed than scared.

  “Look who’s here,” Tommy said.

  “Didn’t think you’d see me again, did you?”

  “Didn’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “What the fuck difference does it make?”

  What difference does it make, Jack had said, when Isaac asked what was in the case.

  “It makes a difference to me, asshole.”

  Tommy shrugged, tightening the “X” of his forearms. He didn’t pack a gun in case he was searched by cops he didn’t own. Tonight that practice would cost him his life.

  Isaac closed the gap between them, moved around the table. “What did we do to deserve that? Setting us up that way?”