I Didn't Mean to Kill My Best Friend

by Kamuela Kaneshiro

I’m still a bit rattled, that’s for sure. I’ve gone from one extreme to another, but the tea is helping calm me down. Some type of fancy herbal tea usually found in coffeehouse chains similar to this one. The term “herbal” usually means “marked up.” But everything is marked up in these places. It never ceases to amaze me that people think the crappy coffee they serve here is good. I prefer the non-chain cafes that serve real coffee. Not cheap, marked-up crap sold in franchises, so I drink tea. Tea is also cheaper than coffee. I justify that if I am getting ripped off, I’m not getting too ripped off. Steve comes here to people-watch. And when I say people-watch, I mean make fun of all the trendy people, who think it’s cool to drink things through a green straw.

  “I really can’t believe this!” Steve protested.

  For the third time tonight, Steve was sitting across a table from me. I cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

  “Why is it so difficult to ditch a dead body? Why are so many people crawling all over the place? There cannot be that many people living around here.”

  “I saw on a TV show, they figured out the entire human population could fit comfortably in a small Japanese lake, side by side, no stacking.”

  Steve gleamed from behind his cappuccino. “That’s not very many people, when you think about it. If so few people live on this planet”—he was getting more agitated—“then why do we always seem to run into them?”

  “We’re lucky, I guess.”

  Steve scoffed. “We should go to Vegas with our luck.”

  “Too far.”

  “Fine. Atlantic City.”

  “You can’t smoke in the Atlantic City casinos.”

  Steve’s face scrunched up like he’d just bit into a sour lemon. “Then what’s the point of gambling if we can’t smoke?” He chuckled. “Still. Watching you lose it when you found that guy on the bridge.”

  I ignored him and quickly scanned the shop.

  Damn it. I need to point out a loser, or something he’ll find interesting, to change the subject.

  “Dude, what were you thinking when you felt him grab your hand? You must’ve thought the prick came back as a zombie for revenge.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Fair enough. Can’t say I blame you. If that had been me, I’d need clean underwear.”

  That scare was just what I needed. It makes me think clearer about myself and other things instead of Steve in the duffle bag. Which is still in the back of the car, waiting.

  Steve quickly wiped his mouth. “Reminds me of that story, where the guy goes to drive a wooden stake into the grave.”

  “They made a Twilight Zone episode from that.”

  Steve lit up. “That’s right! I miss the original series. Great stuff.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “Right! What to do with Mr. Duffle.”

  “I don’t know. I’m drained.”

  “Drive to the gators?”

  “Not that desperate yet.”

  Steve rapped the table with his thumb. “You know, if we lived on an island or near a coastline, we could drop him in the middle of the water and the sharks could take care of it. That’s their job in life.”

  I sipped my tea.

  Steve tried to breathe through his congested nose. “Too bad we don’t know anyone who works at the aquarium.” He pointed a finger at me. “Take notes for the next time you kill a friend.”

  I glanced at him, unamused.

  An outside table was overpopulated with teenage girls, who were very animated with exaggerated gestures. Improper outfits even for dance club standards. And portions of their loud conversation seeped through the glass wall. A few boys made up the group, but hormones painfully advertised their intent.

  Steve looked at the gathering with revulsion. “This makes me sick. Look at them. All dressed up, thinking they’re hip and with the ‘in’ crowd, because they hang out here. And don’t get me started on the guys—what a bunch of losers. We were never like that.”

  “No,” I replied sarcastically, “we spent our time playing video games and Shadowrun.”

  He leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Yes, good times!”

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Well, they were. Years of building up valuable hand-eye coordination, challenging each other to be creative and think outside the box in various unfathomable situations.” Steve waved a limp hand to the bunch. “They’re only concerned with superficial crap. We’re unique. We’re on a higher level because we are not the status quo.”

  Steve does have a point. We are different. The truth is we belong to a privileged group of people. We are “geeks” and we rule the world. But I could never give him the satisfaction of being right.

  I crossed my arms. “If we are so special with these years of vast creativeness to draw upon, then why are we having such difficulty getting rid of the bag?”

  He pressed a finger against his lip in thought. “This is your fault for not thinking of a gaming scenario where we have to get rid of a body.”

  I slowly shook my head at him. “I hate you.”

  “All your fault. You should have conditioned us better. For example, say we’re those bank robbers, what would you do?”

  “I guess I wouldn’t be here in the city.”

  “See? That’s the natural assumption—to run. But wouldn’t it be better if you laid low for a while? Then again, leaving town does have its benefits. These guys must be pretty organized, though. They hit multiple banks at once.”

  “Well, you need to nowadays.”

  Steve chewed the rim of his paper cup.

  I placed my tea to the side. “You would need to rob more than one bank. Forget the vault—that slows you down. Tellers don’t keep much money on hand, but hitting multiple tellers at a large bank does add up. Take the money and run.”

  “Okay!” Steve ran his open palms against the tabletop, as if he were spreading a vast invisible map. “So we get a team, rob a bunch of large banks at once. Spread the cops thin, and then meet up or hightail it out of Dodge?”

  “I guess it depends.”

  “Nah, run! We meet up at a place later and divide the money. Or we split and run with our partners.”

  “Banks also won’t stop you. They’re trained not to create a hostage crisis. You don’t need a weapon, as mentioned in that George Clooney movie.”

  Steve’s face scrunched up. “Yeah, that’s a bad film.” His right hand lightly chopped the tabletop. “See? We’d kick ass robbing a bank! But ditching a dead body? Really, this is what you give me to work with? It’s settled then. Next time, we rob a bank.”

  I gave a short nod.

  Steve shook his head at the laughing girls. “This jailbait meat market is making me sick. They should condemn these places.” His eyes widened. “Let’s go!” Steve bolted from his chair.

  I quickly followed.

  Robbing a bank. Yeah that would be easy compared to this.

  Chapter Seven