by Luis Samways
“I sorry. Very sorry. I very sorry,” the man had said.
He looked at me with pleading eyes. Sure enough, we hadn’t actually hit the man. And maybe writing up a report on why we were at Dunkin Donuts wasn’t going to win me back my homicide spot.
“Just watch where you’re going next time,” I said.
The man bowed a couple of times. It seemed a little odd. I had never seen a Mexican man bow before.
“I be more careful next time, Officer.”
There was something strange about this guy. I watched him closely for a while. He looked a little dumbfounded.
“Can I go?” he said.
I nodded.
“Sure, just be careful. Don’t get hit by any cars now.”
He nodded and smiled. He had perfect white teeth. I made my way back to the car and got in. Mullins smiled at me.
“Proper peacekeeper, aren’t you? You didn’t even shout at him. What’s gotten into you? I’m surprised you didn’t punch him in the face or something. This patrol work is turning you into a new man!”
I just sat there for a while, staring at the man through the windshield. The drive-through behind us was honking at the slowdown in traffic we’d caused. The road was busy in front of us, but for some reason I could only think about the man we had nearly run over. I watched as the man waved at us. Mullins beeped his horn and waved back.
“Seems mighty nice,” Mullins said.
“Yeah. Nice,” I replied.
I watched as the man bent over and grabbed a hat from the floor. He put it on and walked off.
“Nice hat,” Mullins said, pushing down on the accelerator and crawling out of the drive-through.
“Bit loud, though. I mean, who wears a damn red sombrero?” he said as he shifted gears and darted his head toward me. “Frank, you okay, buddy?” he asked.
“Yeah, just thinking.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. That guy was strange, that’s all.”
Mullins began to snigger a little.
“Takes one to know one,” he said as we drove off into traffic.
Nine
Nick had been drinking at the bar now for a good while. It had been a few hours since he’d left his friend Jesse to deal with the ordeal of shipping their company off to Mexico. After all, it wasn’t his business anymore. His advice wasn’t needed. It wasn’t wanted.
He just sat there, drinking. It was an uninteresting place. A dark and dank bar. Neon lights over the counter. Stale beermats. Unfriendly patrons. Harley-Davidsons outside. He could practically smell the motor oil when he walked into the joint earlier that night.
“Another Bud, please,” he said to the long-haired bartender.
The bartender grabbed a cold one from the small fridge propped up next to a mirror behind the bar. Nick kept catching glimpses of himself in the mirror. They were glimpses of a man he didn’t recognize. A man who no longer feared anything. A man who drank his body weight in booze. A man who wasn’t afraid of such a bar.
He didn’t always frequent biker bars, for this was his first visit. He had decided on the visit for personal reasons. He figured that he had spent most of his life in swanky bars, paying extortionate rates for beer and wine. He decided that considering he had just lost his job — his business — that maybe it was time to economize. So there he was, being broke in a bar that was full of the sort of monsters who had scared him all through his life.
“That’s two bucks,” the greasy-haired bartender said as he wiped his hand on his dirty white vest.
“Keep the change,” Nick said as he handed him five bucks.
“Why, thank you,” the man replied, in a slightly sarcastic manner.
Nick swigged on his cold beer. He enjoyed the sensation of the icy residue running down his throat as he gulped down. He set the beer down and watched the foam descend deep into the bottle.
“Long day?” a voice from behind him asked.
Nick turned around and saw someone he recognized.
“What the hell are you doing here? Didn’t you get the message?” he said, reaching for his beer again.
“Yeah. I did. I ran into some trouble, that’s all. Should be fine now.”
The man remained in the shadows. To anyone else, Nick would appear to be drunk, speaking to no one in particular. But if you were Nick, your vision would be able to see the man standing near the pillar behind him.
“So you’re a go?” Nick asked.
The man behind him stepped back a few paces, concealing himself a bit more.
“Yeah. All things are in place. I’ll call you when it is done.”
Nick nodded, taking another sip of his Bud.
“Make sure it doesn’t hurt,” he said.
The man behind the pillar smiled. His white teeth near glistened in the dark bar. He nodded at Nick and politely tipped his red sombrero.
“It won’t hurt too much,” he replied.
He left the bar quickly. Nick hardly had time to catch him leaving. All he could see was the wooden saloon-style doors swinging open and shut for a few seconds. And then nothing but silence and stale beer.
Ten
It was nighttime now, and I was about done for. My bed was calling me like no other time in recent memory. I could actually hear my pillow calling me. It might have been one of those voices, but at least it was a nice one this time!
“See you tomorrow, Frank,” Mullins had said as we pulled up to my apartment.
“Yeah. Can’t wait!” I replied.
I got out of the squad car and thumped the roof two times.
“Later,” I said.
Mullins beeped at me and drove off. The smell of burning rubber settled into my airways as I made my way to the outside door. I reached for my keys and opened the rusty metal door. As I got into the hallway, the smell of urine hit me again. As I had guessed, the pizza slice I’d discarded earlier that day lay there untouched at the foot of the stairs. It was as if it had been murdered and left to rot. Much like most of the cases I had come across in my tenure.
I stepped over the dead pizza slice and jogged up the stairwell. A crack whore was lying at the top of the stairs tweaking-out on whatever substance was dribbling from her mouth. It wasn’t new to me. Seeing people sprawled out in my building. It was business as usual. You may ask yourself why I live in such a place. My reply: cheap rent.
I walked up to my apartment door. A note was stuck on my door number. It was one of those sticky notes. You know, the yellow shit that clutters most people’s offices.
I read the note. It made me chuckle. It was a note from the chief of police, Shaw.
I hope you enjoyed your first day on patrol. I took the liberty of leaving some casserole in your kitchen for you. Don’t worry. The key was underneath the mat, as usual. Better sort that out. Or you may find more than casserole waiting for you when you get home, it read.
Chief Shaw was a ballbuster. He had made a habit of leaving notes on my door for a while. It was probably because my damn cell phone was always off.
I walked into the apartment and shut the door behind me. I went into the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a damn casserole dish on the counter.
“This is insane. Sick fucking asshole,” I muttered.
Shaw knew how much shit like that freaked me out. I didn’t know why the hell he would think it was decent of him to break into my apartment and leave food for me. It was like some sick joke or something.
I got my cell phone out. I immediately hit speed-dial for the prick. I got an answer within seconds.
“Frank,” he laughed on the other end.
“Chief. What the hell is up with the casserole?”
“I thought you’d be missing lunch from the cafeteria, so I had Santiago leave you some at your place.”
“But why? I can go without the damn department’s lunch menu, you know?”
“I know. It was just a joke. Thought it would break the ice a little. You know, from the other day. It’s b
een one day, and I already miss you.”
I laughed.
“Fuck off,” I replied.
“Good to hear from you. See you tomorrow, Frank. Heat the food up before you eat it. Could be a little fresh, if you get my meaning,” he said.
I hung up the phone.
“This guy is nuts. Yesterday he was shouting his mouth off at me. Now I’m getting lunches delivered,” I said as I put the dish into the microwave and hit the nuke button.
Eleven
Jesse Foster had been staring at the computer screen for a few hours. He was contemplating what he had just done. It was fair to say the Jesse Foster was upset with himself. He had officially let everybody down. There was no turning back from what he had just done. It was time to call it a night.
“I can’t change the present. I can’t change the past. Life is life,” he said as he got up from his seat and stretched. “Life is life,” he repeated.
He looked around the desolate office. The hum of computers droned on in the background. He was feeling a little the worse for wear. Maybe he should have stuck with Nick. Maybe Nick was right. Maybe there was a way. But now the possibility of a happy ending was gone. There was no way to rectify what he had done. The lawyers had called him and told him it was official. The merger was complete. Foster Industries was now merged with Juarez Intel Inc.
“Life is life,” he repeated as he grabbed his coat, which was draped around the office chair.
He bent down and hit the “off” switch on his Mac. He watched as the monitor died. The screensaver “Foster Industries” died along with the screen as the Mac powered down.
“Pain is pain,” he said as he started to cry. He fell to his knees and sobbed for a long while. All the emotions that he had suppressed were now flooding out of him. The fear. The regret. The self-loathing. It all culminated in his tears. In his suffering.
“Forgive me, Father. Forgive me for failing you,” he said as he started to blubber some more.
A noise in the office frightened him. He wiped the tears away from his face. He quickly got up, just in case someone had come back. He didn’t want anybody to see him in that state. He wanted people to respect him as a fearless boss. Not a crybaby who had failed at nearly everything he had touched.
He brushed himself down and put on his coat. It shone in the dim light. Cashmere with leather straps. Very dapper. He still looked good, even if his company was half broke.
“Hello?” he said, looking around the empty office. Rows and rows of terminals remained still and silent. His vision fluttered all over the room.
“Anybody there?” he uttered under his breath.
Suddenly he saw something. A dash of red. Maybe he was seeing something. But he was sure he saw some red.
“Hello? Mandy, is that you?”
Mandy always wore red. Maybe she had come to say goodbye. They had had something a while ago. An office fling, if you will. Either way, he knew she still loved him. He liked her, but his wife was his world. Even if sleeping with many women didn’t prove that, deep down in his heart, he knew his wife was all he cared about.
“Come on, Mandy. Speak up!” he said, his voice breaking under the pressure of his vocal chords.
Still, there was nothing. Just him, alone in the middle of the desolate office. He shook his head in annoyance.
“Get a grip, Jesse. No one cares about you. Your best friend left you alone. You shall remain alone.”
He decided enough was enough. He kicked a chair out of the way and turned around one last time to look at his crumbling kingdom.
“Farewell, old friend,” he said, this time in a stern manner. He would not shed any more tears for Foster Industries. He was done feeling sorry for himself.
“Farewell,” a voice said from behind him. It scared him.
He turned around and saw red again. This time the red was coming toward him. A slash to the face. A blade to the head. A cut across his cheek. And then lights out.
Twelve
Casserole and Jack Daniels was my night in. After eating the whole bowl of casserole, I felt a lot better. A day on donuts and coffee wasn’t really going to sustain anyone. I’d felt worse, don’t get me wrong, but maybe Shaw was onto something. Maybe he knew better than I did. He looked as if he knew about food. He was about a hundred pounds overweight, after all. A gut that hung off the belt. Me, on the other hand, not so much. I don’t tend to eat at all. I’ll eat just enough to keep my heart ticking. That’s all. Nothing more than that. The drugs keep me energized. The prescription my doctor gave me ensures my even stance. My Zen is intact when I pop a few pills.
The drugs my doctor didn’t prescribe, well, that’s another story. I’m not an addict, just a user. I like the feeling drugs give me. I don’t do any downers, just uppers. I need them, you see. Without them, I wouldn’t function at all. Well, that’s how I see it anyway.
For too many years it seemed as if all I did was make excuses for who I was. Blame certain life events for outcomes I couldn’t control. Naïveté is something that is better enjoyed with bliss. But I knew what I am and what I did and do was wrong. It took a while for me to come to that conclusion, but when I did, I realized that I shouldn’t be ashamed of who I am. Why should I feel bad for the things I do? What is it in humanity that makes them think right and wrong is a lifestyle and not a product of its environment?
I puffed on my cigarette as I lounged on my couch, watching the news. The same old drivel was being played on it in what seemed like a fifteen-minute loop. That had always amazed me. The lack of news on the hour every hour was always astonishing. It was as if news stations only played what was hot and not what was really going on. I could fill a whole twenty-four hours with the shit I had seen today, but low and behold, Iraq was center stage.
And then I fell asleep. It wasn’t for long. About fifteen minutes. Long enough for me to wake up to the same story I had fallen asleep to. I laughed as I looked at the time. It was getting late. I could tell that without even looking at a clock. The car alarms outside gave the time of day away. So did the next-door neighbors and their based-up music. I sat up and brushed the cigarette ash off my chest. It was a habit of mine to lie on my back and smoke till the cows come home. I coughed a few times to clear that lifetime habit.
I got up and stretched. My apartment needed some work done on it. I could hear the tap dripping, even though the water had been shut off. Must be a leaky pipe. I’d have a look at it when I could. My job came first, hence the fact that my apartment was a bomb site. I was just about to turn off the TV when some breaking news appeared on my little off-color TV.
I instantly sat down.
“This should be good,” I muttered to myself.
I was always interested in the news. I liked to see what was going on in the world. I decided that I would sit through the breaking news. I wagered a bet with myself. I was trying to guess what type of news would warrant the “breaking news” insignia on the screen. I immediately guessed it would be some sort of news that wasn’t related to Boston. Maybe a suicide bomber in Pakistan. Maybe a scandal in the White House. Maybe it could be another high-speed train derailment. My guess was as good as any.
I leaned back into my coffee-stained couch and reached for the clicker. I turned the volume up a tad.
“A murder slash kidnapping has taken place at the Lucky Eleven Café in downtown Boston,” the reporter said as he stood outside the building.
I smiled a little.
“That will be ten dollars, Frank, why, thank you, Frank,” I chuckled to myself, having lost the bet.
I turned up the volume some more. The reporter went on to explain the murder and kidnapping. Apparently it was caught on tape. My heart started to race a little.
“Caught on tape, would you be dammed,” I said in disbelief.
“The murder victim in question was an innocent bystander. Police say she was shot two times. She worked at the café. The family have been informed. The kidnapping seems to be unrelated to the m
urder. Police say that the killer seemed to have planned the kidnapping meticulously. The killer was in and out of the café within five minutes. Within that time, he ordered a coffee and shot the woman behind the counter. He then kidnapped an unidentified man who was sitting in the café. There were no witnesses. The café was nearly empty when it happened. Boston PD assures us they will keep us in the loop. They plan on addressing the public when more is known about the killer and the kidnapper. This is Roger Richards, reporting for CNN”
I watched as the CNN news insignia flashed a couple of times and cut the camera back to the newsroom. Sitting at the anchor desk was a beautiful woman I recognized. Didn’t know where from, but I recognized her. Maybe I had caught her on this channel before.
“That’s truly shocking news, Roger. CNN will keep our viewers informed throughout the hour. Up next, sports with Hugh Garish.”
I sat there for a few minutes. I watched as a few clips from this year’s NHL playoffs draped the screen.
“Bruins doing well,” I muttered.
My phone went off. I clicked it open and held the receiver to my ear.
“Hey,” I said, not knowing who was on the other end. I’d usually check the caller ID, but I was still engrossed in the NHL highlights.
“It’s Shaw. We have a murder down at Lucky Eleven’s.” I heard his voice echo down the line.
“I know. I just saw the news report. Is it bad?”
There was a pause on the other end.
“The news left out the worst parts, as usual,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like the woman didn’t even see it coming. The killer was flirting with her for a good two minutes before he sat down and drank his coffee. He then got up and shot her with a silenced pistol,” Shaw said. “She didn’t even see it coming,” he repeated.
I coughed a few times. I had already lit up another cigarette.
“So, what’s the big deal? Doesn’t sound that bad.”
There was another long pause.
“He tipped her fifteen dollars.”
I laughed.
“So, what’s the big deal?”
Shaw was sounding a little annoyed with me by now.