by TJ Vargo
He realized he was staring and forced himself to look away. The Percocet was erasing any boundaries of personal space. He grinned as she rolled her eyes.
“You’re high on those painkillers again, aren’t you?” she said.
He answered with a long, lazy blink, looking at the inch-long scar under her left cheekbone. He liked it. It took the boring out of her beauty.
“You shouldn’t take those pills anymore,” she said. “It’s been two weeks. The pain should be gone.”
“Well it’s not,” he said. “I can only lay down for about an hour, then it feels like my skull’s splitting right here.” He drew his index finger down the side of his nose, waited a beat, then added, “If I could, I’d sleep standing up, like a horse.”
Her soft laugh kept him talking.
“And I probably could, but tired as I am, I’d be falling asleep all over the place. At the grocery store. Pumping gas. It would suck. I’d be standing around snoring, spilling gas and holding cashiers up all over town. Guess I’m stuck with this hour at a time thing.”
She rocked back, laughing. He smiled, wanting to ask her why she was helping him—what she thought was in it for her—but didn’t. Instead, he looked past her through the patio’s sliding glass door where the light blue of the water tower stood out against a blanket of clouds. Giant block letters spelled “Tombs, Ohio” across the top of the tower.
He knew that water tower well. He, Fitz, and Sonny had hung off the catwalk back in ninth grade. It was cold that day. And Sonny almost died. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Hey, you okay?”
Curtis opened his eyes. Julia’s hand was on his thigh.
“You spaced out for a second,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
He stood and walked into the kitchen. Silverware rattled as he opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. He closed the drawer and ran the pad of his thumb over one of the blades.
“You took my money, Fitz,” he thought. “Took my dream. And now you probably figure I’m out of the picture.”
Curtis snapped the scissors closed.
“Long as we been friends, you should know better.”
He walked to the couch. Julia pulled back as he pointed the scissors at her.
“Here,” he said, handing her the scissors. “Cut my stitches out. I got people to see and I need to look like I got my shit together.”
Julia turned the scissors over in her hand, then handed them back. “These are too big. Give me a minute, I think I have something better.”
Curtis watched her walk to his front door, the pale bottoms of her feet flashing. He put the scissors down and looked at the water tower.
It was cold they day they hung from the catwalk. Cold enough to burn. The wind whistled as they hung, listening to Fitz count down a full minute. He remembered his hands turning to clay as the cold and strain worked into his fingers. And he remembered feeling like crying when Fitz called the minute. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to pull himself up, that his hands would fail him and he’d fall through the cold wind, staring into the bright sun with his hands curled uselessly against his chest. That was when a shot of adrenaline ran through him, giving him the strength to heave himself up and roll next to Fitz.
He lay shoulder-to-shoulder with Fitz, Hail Mary after Hail Mary rolling off his lips while Fitz said, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—” Then a sound came from beneath the catwalk, muffled by the wind. It was Sonny, gasping for help.
He remembered scrambling to the edge of the catwalk and looking down. There Sonny was, still hanging onto the railing, his eyes wide with fear. Curtis reached for him, gripping Sonny’s jean jacket. For a thirteen-year-old, Sonny was big, weighing one-forty or one-fifty. It made pulling him up a tough go, but Curtis squirmed and pulled, raising Sonny higher and higher, yelling for Fitz and wondering why he wasn’t helping. Then there was that moment, just before he had Sonny on the catwalk, just before Sonny was safe, that Curtis’s frozen hands slipped. When it happened, he knew that Sonny was going to fall and smash into a bloody, splintered heap.
Even though he was safe on his couch, thirteen years away from that day, the sense of losing his grip on Sonny blew through him. He shivered, remembering how he looked away as Sonny slipped. That was when he saw Fitz, white faced and trembling with his back pressed against the face of the water tower. Fitz hadn’t helped because he’d been frozen with fear.
If Sonny had dropped, Curtis was sure he would’ve thrown Fitz after him.
But somehow Sonny held on.
Somehow Sonny hooked one hand on the edge of the catwalk, screaming and twisting in the gale force wind. How he managed it was beyond Curtis. But he did, and it gave Curtis just enough time to jump to his feet, reach down, snatch Sonny by the scruff of his coat and yank him to safety.
Curtis remembered their climb down from the tower being silent. Once they were on the ground, Fitz spoke, but it had been barely audible. A tiny whisper of, “I gotta go home. Catch you guys later.”
Looking back on it, Curtis wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. Fitz’s dad died only a couple months later, and the whole water tower incident only made Fitz’s move into their house that much harder. But seeing Fitz turn to leave without saying he was sorry, or even asking Sonny if he was okay, was too much. The words came out of Curtis’s mouth before he could stop himself.
“If Sonny died it would’ve been your fault, you pussy.”
After that there was nothing but a memory of Fitz running home crying. Running away and leaving him and Sonny with the wind whipping around their heads and tearing at their coats.
Since then, Fitz started calling him “Monroe.” All Curtis could figure was Fitz couldn’t bear to say the name of the kid that saw him lose his nerve. And as a bonus, Fitz wasn’t shy about getting a dig in or leaving him hanging whenever he had a chance, like he did the other night at the football stadium, each time pulling them farther and farther apart. That day on the water tower was the first domino in many that chipped away at he and Fitz’s relationship. The beating two weeks back was the breaking point.
“Here, this will work better.”
Curtis startled, turning to see Julia pad toward him with a small green zippered bag. She kneeled on the couch, tucked her bare feet under her, unzipped the bag and pulled out a tiny pair of silver scissors and a pair of tweezers.
“You ready?” she said, grinning and holding the scissors in one hand and the tweezers in the other.
She started inside his mouth, pulling stitches from his bottom lip. He could feel the thread slip from his flesh, leaving a slight coppery taste of blood. When she finished, he turned his head, closing his right eye. Ten stitches ran the length of that eyebrow, ending in a downward curl next to the corner of his eye. He opened his eye a slit, watching the scissors flash an inch from his pupil.
“This isn’t going to work,” Julia said. She scooted back on the couch and patted her lap. “Lay your head here. It’ll make it easier.”
He did as she asked, closing his eyes as she went back to work. His ear rubbed on her inner thigh. It felt like velvet.
“So who are these people you’re going to see?” she asked.
He drifted down, feeling the softness of her hands and thighs, ignoring the little sparks of pain as she pulled one stitch then another out of his brow.
“Just some guys I know,” he said.
“Friends?”
He didn’t answer. The stitch she was pulling hung up in his skin. His eyebrow stretched as she pulled. A little flash of white burst under his eyelid as the thread finally slipped out of his skin.
“Oh sorry. That must’ve hurt,” she said.
“They’re not my friends,” he said, opening his eyes and grabbing her hand. She brushed her fingers over his remaining stitches.
“Did they do this to you? Were they the ones that beat you up?”
He shook his head.
Her touch lingered for a moment before she went b
ack to work. Feeling the pull of each stitch, Curtis held her smooth, bare knee and clenched his teeth, conjuring an image of Fitz standing in a pile of a money with Big Blue smashed and broken beneath his feet.
Chapter Five
“Goddammit, move.”
Fitz shoved the girl off his lap. She glared at him, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder as she walked to the bar. Her threadbare jeans helped the view, but getting busy with that masterpiece would have to wait. He dug his buzzing cell out of his front pocket. It was Angel, his boss from the garage. He flipped his cell open.
“Yeah, Angel, what’s up?”
He listened for a few seconds and nodded.
“Okay, thanks,” he said, slapping his cell closed. He picked up his cigarette and took a puff.
According to Angel, Monroe had just stopped by the garage to get his last paycheck. If Barry didn’t know Monroe was walking around yet, he would soon.
Fitz tapped his cigarette on an ashtray and eased out a lungful of smoke. He looked over the bar.
A little past five on a Wednesday and The Red Fox was dead. After hanging out here for the past couple of weeks he knew it would be like this, a still life of low lifes, until about ten. Then the party would gear up. Nothing like over at The Ice House, but after Barry heard about the beat-down on Monroe, he said The Ice House was off-limits. Just a precaution, Barry said, to make sure Monroe didn’t put someone out of commission or in jail before the job was finished. Fitz took a drag on his cigarette and flicked his butt on the floor.
“Guess it could be worse,” he thought. “After Barry finds out Monroe’s walking around, he’s probably gonna tell me to hide under my bed until we finish the job Saturday night.”
He glanced at Sonny, who had his eyes closed and elbows propped on the table. A red plastic cup of beer was cradled in Sonny’s hands. Reaching for the pack of Marlboros in front of Sonny, Fitz pulled a cigarette and flicked his lighter. Smoke drifted into his eye. He rubbed it and kicked Sonny’s chair.
“Wake up,” he said. “That was Angel. Monroe’s back from the dead. He stopped by the garage to pick up his check.”
Sonny wiped beer off his chin. “Yeah? Angel say he’s okay?”
“Who cares if he’s okay?” said Fitz. “He’s lucky we didn’t kill him. All I know is he’s probably not in a good mood, so grow some eyes in the back of your head. Barry told us to stay outta his way until we’re done, so don’t blow this.”
Sonny stared into his beer. “So now Barry tells us what to do, huh?” he murmured.
Looking at Sonny’s bloodshot eyes, Fitz wondered how he was gonna walk in three more days let alone peel a safe at Sacred Heart. He listened as Sonny mumbled and played with his cup.
“Can’t we just walk away from this?” said Sonny. “Not like it was perfect before or anything, but no one was breathing down our necks.”
Fitz took another drag on his cigarette and blew smoke at Sonny.
“I’m just worried about Curtis, you know?” said Sonny. “You stomped him pretty good. And what did you take his fish for? I mean, what the hell? Now I got his fish in my garage and can’t even talk to him ‘cause Barry says so?”
Fitz grabbed Sonny’s shoulder.
“Fuck Monroe’s fish,” he said. “He only hung it up to remind us we didn’t catch one. He’s an asshole. He tried to stab me and got what was coming to him. Get it together Sonny. Goddam.”
“You really think he would’ve stuck us with that screwdriver?”
Fitz cocked his head. “Damn right he would’ve.”
Sonny tapped the rim of his cup. “As soon as we finish this job for Barry, I gotta talk to him. I can’t leave it like this.”
Fitz shook his head. Stealing the gold from Sacred Heart was going to take both of them and he needed Sonny’s full attention on the job rather than this beef with Monroe. He turned toward the bar and focused on the blonde he’d chased away. The girl next to her had black bangs and wore tight, cut off jeans and a black tube top. Black rings were pierced through her nose and bottom lip. Between the two, he liked the blonde. Her friend’s piercings grossed him out. Sonny could have her. Maybe she could get his mind of Monroe. He scanned the bar, checking out the rest of the rabble.
Three middle-aged union guys from the metal-stamping plant sat farther down the bar in dark gray coveralls. A couple of old guys played cards on the table by the front window, sipping rum and cokes. The old guys were Duck and Artie, fixtures at The Red Fox since forever. Fitz turned his attention back to the girls. The girl with the nose ring caught him staring. He blew smoke in her direction. She whispered to the blonde and both girls laughed.
The union guys turned toward the girls. Fitz stubbed his cigarette and stepped out of the shadows, eyeballing them. They looked down at their beers. Sonny tapped his arm.
“You fly, I’ll buy,” said Sonny, holding a twenty.
Fitz grabbed the cash.
“A beer and a shot of Crown,” said Sonny.
Fitz walked toward the girls. If things worked out, maybe the girl with piercings could pull Sonny out of his stupor. Hell, if it made Sonny shut up about Monroe, he’d pay her to hang with him for the next three days.
The front door opened, letting in a flood of sunlight. A silhouette stood in the door. A fairly big guy, from what Fitz could see. Then he realized that Angel could’ve told Monroe that he and Sonny were here. The timing was right. Angel’s garage was right down Park Avenue. Fitz exhaled. Steering clear of The Ice House was one thing, but ducking out of every bar in town when Monroe stuck his toe in the door wasn’t part of the deal. If this was Monroe and he was looking for trouble, he was gonna get busted up—end of story.
Fitz stepped over to the girls and put Sonny’s twenty on the bar. He rubbed the blonde’s shoulder.
“Sorry about being rude,” he said. “But I had an important call. Why don’t you let me buy you and your friend a beer? I gotta check something out, but I’ll be right back, okay?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’re gonna have to do something special to make it up to me.”
He slid a finger along the skin between her jeans and pink halter. “I’ll make it up to you. Order something and get me a couple beers and a shot of Crown. I’ll be right back.”
Fitz walked toward the front door. The big guy had his back to him, but he could see he had a short haircut and was wearing white chinos and a bright green golf shirt. And he was talking to those geezers, Duck and Artie, playing their never-ending game of cards. The clothes and haircut didn’t match Monroe, there was no reason to take a chance. One punch behind the guy’s ear would drop him. If it was Monroe, great—he needed to know he didn’t run the show anymore. If it wasn’t Monroe, who cared? One less guy in chinos and a golf shirt was a good thing.
Before Fitz got in range, one of the old guys turned and stared at him, lifting a cigarette to his mouth. Fitz knew it was Duck by the faded anchor tattoo on his forearm. He first saw that tattoo when he was seven years old, sipping beer from his daddy’s mug. Both Artie and Duck looked old as dust then, and looking at Duck now, Fitz thought he must have made a deal with the devil. The white-haired, watery-eyed rummy looked the same as he did twenty years ago.
Duck pointed at Fitz, then pointed at a photo on the table.
“Terry. Hey, Terry. Isn’t this the new girl working at Sacred Heart?”
Fitz tensed as the guy wearing chinos turned. Then he relaxed.
It wasn’t Monroe.
Same height, but definitely not Monroe—this guy had a gut. Fitz looked the guy over and thought about punching him anyway. The preppy hair cut. The golf shirt. The pudgy face. It all added up to a law and order, country club citizen. Just the kind of guy he hated enough to piss on.
“You know, that dark haired girl Father Salvatore hired a couple weeks ago?” said Duck. “The one with the scar on her face? You listening to me Terry?”
Fitz stepped over and grabbed the photo off the table. He pressed the ph
oto against Mr. Country Club’s chest and shot Duck a look.
“Duck, Terry’s my dad. He’s dead, and I’m not him, so shut it.” He turned to Mr. Country Club. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
“I’m just asking some questions about—”
“Asking questions, huh?” said Fitz. He dropped the photo and poked his index and middle fingers in the guy’s throat. He pushed, backing Country Club against the wall. Pushing harder, Fitz listened to the guy make strangling noises and slide down the wall, his legs rubber.
He let him cough and gasp for a bit, then pulled him to his feet.
“We don’t like people that ain’t from around here asking questions,” he said. “Understand?”
The guy doubled over and broke into another coughing fit. Fitz felt someone shoulder in beside him.
“We got a problem here?” said Sonny.
Fitz glanced at Sonny. Muscles rippled in Sonny’s jaw, his chest moving up and down with quick breaths. Fitz smiled. He punched Sonny in the arm.
“Goddam, Sonny. What woke you up?”
“Thought you needed help,” he said.
Fitz chuckled and grabbed Country Club’s photo off the floor. It was a grainy shot of a pretty girl with dark hair and big eyes. A nasty scar marked her cheek. He flicked the photo. Too bad. She woulda been a knockout. He handed the photo to Country Club and pointed at the door.
“Go ask questions somewhere else,” he said.
The guy walked to the door, then turned to Duck and held up the photo.
“You said she works at Sacred Heart. Where’s that?”
Duck stood and pointed.
“Go down Marion, take a right on Park and a left on Mulberry. You can’t miss it.”
The guy bolted out the door as Fitz walked toward him. Fitz scowled at Duck.
“What’s wrong, Terry? The man just needed directions,” said Duck.