Nessus

by Herb Scribner

  “Your son. You’ve been following him for years, trying to get him to turn the leaf, or whatever,” she says, walking around the table, “and you waste valuable time and money on a delinquent who isn’t going to change.”

  “There’s still good in him.”

  “I really don’t think there is. Drug deals at 16, domestic violence calls, a stint in the drunk tank, now he’s on the run from what could be a murder, at the very least a domestic assault? Sounds to me like he’s going down the drain.”

  Hughes doesn’t want to believe it. If this was any other young man, he would agree with his boss. All the facts point towards an adolescent who never had a shot at making it. He’ll be locked up in jail for quite some time and he may never escape.

  But it’s his son. That makes all the difference.

  “You can’t keep chasing him,” she says, stopping before the table with her eyes crossed. “You can’t. I won’t allow you to spend company time and resources on your kid.”

  “We already have a search out. We’ve heard from the wires that he’s made it to Denver.”

  “Well, you better hope so,” she says, “because I’m pulling the plug on this if it takes more than two days to find him. And then I’m turning this case, the entire thing, over to someone else. I wasn’t here when Bones gave you permission to track down your kid, okay? I wouldn’t have made that call. He shouldn’t have made that call. But I’m letting you finish it out. So finish it. Now.”

  She doesn’t even let him even think about responding. Her nails scratch the table as she picks up her folder and heads toward the door.

  “Oh,” she says, turning on her heel, wearing a contemplative face, “and another thing. If you continue to do this past my deadline, if you chase after your son after you’ve already lost him, then I’m going to start an investigation into you, Hughes.”

  “Me?”

  “You,” she says, “because it’s strange to me that your son keeps getting away when you’re the detective on the case.”

  And she’s gone. Door slams and echoes in the room. He hangs his head, staring down at the desk. And now the stakes are higher. It’s not just finding his son and changing his mind about which side of the tracks to make his camp. But it was also about his own livelihood, job and career.

  No time to think. Only time to act. Hughes slides his cell phone out of his pocket. Time to move.

  California

  Dreams

  Sweat lathers his forehead. Cold and clammy droplets snake down his temple to his chest, a sopping wet swamp. His body sticks to the bed, the only way free is a quick rip of the bandaid. His eyes drift towards the window. A blue-gray hue emerges. He drifts over to the window and looks out at a world settling into night. Had he really slept that long?

  A dream consumed his rest. And it had not been a good one. He doesn't remember specifically what it was. The reason behind the massive sweat remains a mystery. But something twists in the back of his mind. Maybe a recollection of what he left behind. Maybe a darkened thought of his obsessive father, who could just never let him go. Maybe a thought of the family. His family. The one he lost months ago.

  Breakfast is still a handful of hours away. He hasn't even had the previous day’s lunch or dinner yet. He could go back to the diner for some grub, but there's a chance he'd run into Cassie. And though that's surely what he wanted to do, it would do more damage than anything else to their potential. The diner girl hid something beneath her own surface of social expression. A memory or a fact lingered beneath her frozen heart and blackened soul. The abyss where her heart used to be begins somewhere in the recess of her mind. And she is well intended on keeping it hidden.

  He hopes a day will come when he hears her darkest secret and understands why she puts him off so quickly.

  One theory crosses his mind. Maybe she wants him to work for her. Classic example of hard to get. Treat your person of desire like they won't matter to you. And then it becomes a situation where the one who stays the longest, who fights for your heart, will be the one to get it. Like a game show. Discover the weakest link, find the right price. Shawn never really understood reality TV shows that commercialized romance. So many existed. “The Groom,” “The Lovers,” “Americas Search for Love,” “Love Race,” “Surviving Love.” So many crappy and cheap reality romance shows that he could barely keep up with them, let alone understand the tactical strategies behind each.

  Why would you want to be on those shows anyway? You're literally setting yourself up with a stereotypical trope that won't impress you long term.

  Hopefully Cassie wasn't treating him like a reality TV stooge.

  It’s early evening and he really doesn't have anything to do. Another day escapes him. Brandon's still out on tour, or maybe on his way back by now. Not much to keep himself occupied.

  Well, there's a lot to do in Los Angeles. You just have to find what you want.

  Food. Food sounds good.

  Shawn searches for a few different restaurants on his phone. Places that offer Americans entrees or extended buffets intrigue him the most. Most are labeled “$$$” — a little too pricy for someone on the run from his past with few prospects for the future. One less dollar sign may do him better. Then again, he could just grab a double cheeseburger from Wendy's and call it a day. Couldn't he? No. Chili. Always get the chili.

  He scrolls past a bar that doesn't appear too out of his range. Noise and commotion could calm his nerves. That sounds excellent right now.

  The bar named No Vacancy catches his eye. A fine alehouse for an upscale crowd, but it's nothing he can't handle. His experience with social life dates back to the cold and tough streets of Lowell. A hipster bar in LA catered to the iPhone-addicted millennial won't be hard to survive. They probably have good microbrew beer anyway.

  An Uber picks him up. Pale brown Ford Tundra from a decade ago. The driver’s name is Danny Daniels. An odd name, like you'd find in a cartoon. They exchange pleasantries about the LA sunsets and the need for better traffic regulations. Danny is an old time LA guy. He's seen it change over the last decades and he hopes one day it'll be as great as he knows it can be. Talk about great expectations.

  The bar is decent enough. A thin herd of hipsters with waxed beards, thick-rimmed glasses for style and not sight, and illuminating iPhones corral at the various booths and tables. Golden ales and sunflower pilsners sit comfortable before the drinkers. A crowd of gals and bros buckle down in conversation, their thick arms, covered in sleeve tattoos, rest before their rust brown imperial stouts. Shawn’s eyes settle on an almond amber ale. Perfect.

  As he crosses the bar, a hyena’s roar catches his breath and shakes his nerves. He jumps, his skin abuzz from the yelps. He massages his chest to make sure his jumping heart has settled back into rhythm.

  The beer will have to wait. He narrows his eyes at the source of the roar. A glowing young woman with bright brown hair and a tank top giggles uncontrollably from a booth in the back of the restaurant. Her tan legs hypnotize him. He's locked on the lovely.

  How did Cassie get here? Of all bars to visit on a Wednesday night, why be here? Why spend the night sipping drinks from the same ale house?

  Some may call it fate. Cassie and Shawn both would call it dumb luck.

  A chance meeting doesn't mean they have to interact. Not when he plans on seeing her in the morning around breakfast time. Muffins and coffee will join them and they will dine separately and yet together at the same time.

  He doesn't need this, not really. A date or an advancement of some sort will arise in the near future. His confidence knocks against his brain, telling him to wait it out and remain patient while she figures out what she needs to. And soon, not long from now, he will ask her to dinner. If he’s around that much longer.

  Approaching her now isn't necessary.

  A plan builds in his mind, slowly like Lego pieces coming together. He’ll sneak out the back door. Easy enough. Just sneak out the exit with a slick move and you'
re golden. No fears about what meal he may miss here. Time to pony up and get the heck out of there. Don’t ruin the credibility you’ve built with her.

  Their eyes meet, but only for a moment. He imagines it from her perspective. A fun nice night out on the town, sipping on a drink or two with a girl friend for the sake of letting loose during a relatively busy workweek. You drag your feet to a sweaty, pretentious bar and you wait thirty minutes for your Cabernet. You're so fed up with life's plan that you don't think the drink will be worth it. But then the one sip takes the edge off and numbs the pain. However briefly, you find a hidden bliss. A relaxation point that slows your heart and eases the burden on your shoulders and soul. Eternal bliss has found you cooped up in a millennial majestic bar. Just as you think you're going to celebrate the night by hollering and whooping amid the golden lights, life drops another course of stress upon you.

  Life is mostly misery, after all.

  A great detractor from an otherwise blissful night shows up before you. And then it forces you to wonder: what is the point of it all?

  He gauges all of that from the solitary glance they share. She looks away, like she didn't even see him, and continues to engage with the three women across from her in the booth.

  Get out. Get out now.

  He spins around on his heel and heads right for the door. He breezes past the bouncer out into the crisp summer night air. Another bar will serve him food and drink. Don’t sacrifice respectability and possible desire for the convenience of sticking it out here.

  He's about halfway across the street when he hears the No Vacancy door creek open behind him. A pair of heels slap the pavement with each footfall.

  “Shawn!” she calls out.

  It's her. He's replayed her voice over and over again since he first met her. He stops dead in the street and searches the sky for guidance, asking God under his breath why he's doing this, putting him in miserable circumstances such as these. He shakes it off and returns to the other side of the road, jogging the last little bit as a pair of stark pair of car lights flash in the road.

  “Did you follow me here?”

  He shakes his head. No answer filters into his mind.

  “So you just happened to get here on your own?”

  He nods.

  “Just on your own whim?”

  “My friend Brandon recommended it. He said they've got good stuff here and it'd be a good place to lay low.”

  “I'm starting to think this is a little creepy.”

  He backs up and raises a hand like he's testifying before the jury — a move he's practiced a handful of times.

  “I swear,” he says, “I didn't mean it. I'm gonna leave anyway. Find somewhere else.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That's ridiculous.”

  For the briefest of seconds, an invitation floats in the air. It’s from her addressed to him. She invites him to get a drink with her friends. He's finally worked his way in through his own faults. Chance meetings finally work in his favor. Her desire beckons for him.

  “Just because we run into each other doesn't mean one of us has to leave,” she says, “I don't even know you. You don't even know me. Like, we don't need to act like a divorced couple.”

  She's right, of course. There isn't a valid reason why they can't spend time together yet apart. He shouldn't have to change his schedule just for the sake of a mysterious girl he's only run into a handful of times. Chances are he won't see her again after tonight. There's a very reasonable chance that he'll catch her at the diner now and again, but that's easily avoidable if he grabs his grub somewhere else.

  He doesn't really have a real answer for her, so he just accepts it as truth. He nods and follows her back inside. Rock music from days long gone swells around them. The humid air is thick, reeks of raw sweat and fruity fragrances. She scurries to the back of the bar where she rejoins her friends. She leaves him with a wave and a smile.

  She's beautiful, but he's not going to tell her that. Not yet.

  He relaxes onto a barstool. A near empty glass of beer sits before him. He downs the last sip or two — it's a little warm now because, like all things, time ran its course — and slides the glass in front of him. The bartender takes it and tosses it aside. He asks Shawn for another drink. But he declines, asks for a menu instead. Cheesy nachos sound good. Just enough to fill his gut for the night and to test out the food. He leans back and checks on Cassie. She's laughing again. He smiles and orders his food. Together they exist together, but apart. One small step is all you need to succeed.

  Fight Club

  He leaves the bar after one more drink. A thin breeze cuts through the dry summer air. He's not really feeling alcohol anymore. Too much time spent with the bottle growing up to make it worth the trouble. At one point in high school he scavenged liquor cabinets aplenty to feel some sort of numbing, to slice the edge off of him. Adrenaline filled his body too. Drinking underage offered a thrill. But you get old and tired of the same old scheme. Tired of the spinning wheel.

  Shawn remembers a definition he heard in high school, one that his science teacher told him when he was acting out in class over and over. Speaking out of turn, telling a naughty joke here and there, dissing the nerdy kids and flirting with the young chicas. The same old stuff. And when it came to a boiling point, his teacher pulled him aside after class and said those who continue doing the same thing over and over and don't try to change their ways are simply insane. Insanity, he said, is the process of making the same mistakes over and over.

  The quote makes him think now about the drinking. Stop the drink. Best not go insane.

  He's just about out of the bar when commotion rings out behind him. Something like heightened voices. He chooses first to ignore it, but he decides to rubberneck anyway. A hulking, towering man stands before a table in the back corner of the bar, his head nearly knocking against the ceiling. That's Cassie's table. Her and her friends spent the entire night there. He had checked that they were still there when he went to leave.

  He moves away from the door and over to his right. That's better. He sees the hulking man, arms as thick as thighs, leaning down and speaking with Cassie. She's giving him those sassy eyebrows, those Leave Me Alone eyebrows. The damning look to leave her alone because she's got other matters on her mind and she doesn't want to be disturbed.

  Go away dude. Go away and leave her alone.

  Jealously tugs at his gut. He hates her and he loves her for talking to the bilked up, steroid-endured goon. Hulk must be his name. It’s the only fitting name.

  She’s not enjoying the conversation, so go away, Hulk.

  Shawn watches her mouth the word, “Go.”

  Hulk stands, unmoved.

  “Go. Leave us alone,” she mouths again.

  Hulk stands still, budging and bulky. He shakes his head. He wipes some dust off his bulky arm.

  Shawn looks back at the door. An empty street awaits him. His Uber rolls up. It's time to leave. It's time to go home and sleep the night off. Cassie's a big girl and can take care of herself. She doesn't want a man to help her fend off the swamp monsters anyway. She can handle herself.

  But the thought of the worst tugs at him. What if the man doesn't leave her alone? What if he follows her home and becomes a relentlessly aggressive male and attacks her in some way? Mental or physical abuse could follow.

  Shawn can't allow it. As a son of a cop, it's not a future worth letting come to fruition.

  He storms toward the back of the restaurant. A waiter with a British accent calls out to him, but Shawn ignores him with his eyes focusing on the challenge ahead. Laughter and chatter wash against his ears, but he ignores it all. He swerves into the back and arrives beside Hulk. He bends around and arrives at Cassie's side. He grabs the man’s arm — it is more of a pinch, really. His stare is stone cold.

  “Leave her alone.”

  Hulk, with shaved head that is supposed to come off tough and glowing blue eyes, turns to face Shawn. Rage pops from inside him
.

  “Excuse me?” he asks, his voice gritty.

  Cassie leans forward. “Shawn, it's okay.”

  “No, no it's not,” he says, standing back straight to measure up with Hulk. He’s about a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier. He's thick and built. A developed cage fighter or wrestler. A trained fighter against a scrappy street fighter from Lowell. This should be one-sided.

  “Listen dude, you do not want to mess right now. It's none of your business what me and her are talking about.”

  “Seems to me like she wanted you to leave her alone.”

  “None of your business.”

  “I'm making it my business.”

  “I really don't want have to kick your ass.”

  “Do it then. Let's go.”

  Shawn doesn't wait. He knows a punch is coming so he hits first, wailing his right arm forward for a haymaker. It barely grazes the man’s cheek, but it's enough to infuriate him. He hulks up and swings one at Shawn. Knuckles as hard as a shovel bang against his face. He flops onto a table. Glasses go sailing and purple wine spills upon the table and floor. Something mushy grazes his arm. Before he can collect his thoughts, a rocky elbow tumbles against his cheeks. A red river streams down his pale teeth. That'll hurt in the morning.

  The world blurs. He’s lost sight of what's real. The gargantuan shape of Hulk wobbles in front of him. He leans forward and aims his fist. He strikes and Hulk’s nose snaps. He's found an opening. Shawn reaches again with two more strikes to the face. Hulk teeters back, slamming his hand down on a table for balance.

  Shawn plans to strike again but something tugs on his back collar. His feet leave the ground and within second he finds himself laying on the pavement outside the restaurant. Car horns sing with the police sirens of late night escapades. The British waiter yells something at him and a thick bouncer tells him to get moving.