by Nolon King
The phone buzzed again.
Frank sighed as he placed the license next to the other papers. He’d been driving on a bad fake for a while now. Never drunk behind the wheel, at least.
He picked up the phone. Remembered to grab his glasses before looking at the screen. He’d have to figure out how to change the font size so he could see messages without digging for his readers every time.
He swiped the notification down.
It’s about time bitch.
A door opened inside him. One he hadn’t even known he’d tried to board over. Behind that door was fear. Regret. A sickening worry.
He’d heard nothing from Stan since getting here. By the time Frank had awakened in the spare bedroom, Stan was long gone. Off to have his leg treated by somebody more qualified than a powerlifting nurse and a retired Army strongman.
Not a word since.
Part of the reason Frank had drifted away from his friendships. Why he had curled in on himself. Drinking so much. Being a generally grumpy bastard.
Frank put the phone back on the bench. Closed his eyes as the tears flowed down his cheeks. As his chest tightened with equal parts pain and relief.
He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Heaved one of the middle seats up in a bear hug and carried it out to the van. Cried into the new fabric as he scooted over on his knees to place the seat on the pedestal.
His body took him back to the bench for the second seat. Sobbing harder as he carried it to its spot in the van. His lower back tightened into a near-spasm as Frank leaned in to rock the seat onto its base.
Pushed back to slam each side door. Stumbled to the rear to slam those doors as well.
Stan was alive. Thank God.
He wondered if Mo and Gen had known the whole time. Felt resentment boil in his gut as he left the phone on the bench to go back upstairs.
Knowing Stan was okay made him lonelier than ever. Instead of being denied his cousin because of death — something he had no control over — Frank knew that he couldn’t see his cousin because doing so wouldn’t be fair.
Stan had suffered so much already. He had done enough for Frank, and thinking back on the package, he was still trying to help.
Frank couldn’t allow it.
He spun back around. Held each button one at a time until he found the one that shut it off. The screen let him know that the phone was now powering down.
Stan was alive. So Frank no longer had to worry. That his cousin could live on after Frank was gone. An inevitable event that would be happening soon.
Yes, he would use the I.D. Stan had sent. The rest of the money Carmen had left when she died. Frank reached the top of the stairs again. Paused one more time.
With a sigh, he went back down for the final time. Put his new phone back on the charger.
No need to close every option. No reason to let the battery die.
His thighs were burning when he reached his liquor cabinet.
Nothing another bottle of tequila couldn’t soothe.
Chapter Ten
In spite of a massive hangover that woke Frank an hour before dawn, he still managed to be behind the wheel and on the highway before anybody in the house could wake up and come out to make small talk.
Or tell him about GG.
He had no schedule. Had plenty of time before he had to put his plan into motion — once he was able to form a plan — but Frank also had a nearly new interior in his van, lots of folding money, a cooler full of sandwiches, and a shiny new I.D. He wanted to avoid any complications at the house. GG’s condition. Mo’s judgement. The offers of sympathy from the pity circle.
He didn’t listen to the radio. No podcast — even though he had gotten a LiveLyfe notification on his old phone that a new one had dropped. Ty Kirby recorded once a week, but released two shows. Frank was sure Kirby complained about so much work. The sound of the wind rushing into the open window was better than that man’s voice anyway.
Three bottles of water before there was even a hint that he would need to stop to pee. GG had often told Frank that his tendons were in danger from being so dehydrated all the time. But he never told him to quit. Never scolded him or tried to make him feel bad.
He just pointed out how suboptimal his behavior was.
Frank stopped at a Hill of Beans for a bathroom break, and a tall black coffee with room for cream. He added brandy to that space instead. Back on the road where he made excellent time to Rosa Alta. Nothing to do until Friday, but it beat sitting around at home and avoiding the people who still seemed to love him for sport.
Maybe they were misguided. Or mistaken. Maybe just hopeless romantics.
He hopped from happy hour to happy hour. Found dollar drafts at a bar overlooking the beach. The place was called Big League, but there wasn’t a single sports reference anywhere inside.
Two tacos for two bucks at Los Compañeros.
A margarita pitcher for twelve at Sand Castle Mike’s.
He pulled the shades and slept in the Walmart parking lot. Walked the beach all day. Swam and ate. Drank until the daylight was waning. Rested up, but he still couldn’t relax.
He would glance at the new phone. Reach to power it up. Snatch his hand back.
He took showers at a Bernard’s Truck Stop. Walked past clueless travelers mingling with drug dealers and prostitutes. A constant supply of customers from the interstate.
A grubby dump, but twelve dollars a month with his senior discount.
He pulled his gun on a pale kid who jumped off his skateboard to peer inside the van windows. All shocked eyes and hanging jaw before he split. Kicking his foot as high as it would go.
By Thursday, Frank was about to explode with nervous boredom. He took the van to a car wash. Remembered how he and Stan got into this mess when they used a white van to pick up Malick Briar.
Transported him to the nature reserve behind Stan’s gym where Frank shot the fat rapist in the face. He smiled at that part of the memory. Shook his head at the reality of never being that happy again.
Though there was hope if he could get to Owens.
He gave the outside of the van a good cleaning. Vacuumed the entire interior, even though it was too new to need it. When he opened the overhead doors, the breeze blew the mist hanging in the air into his face. He closed his eyes and breathed it in.
He drove away, but it wasn’t long before the heat from outside displaced the cool mist on his skin and made him roll the windows up and kick on the AC. Quiet and frosty like he knew it would be. It had cost a thousand dollars to fix the leaks in the lines and get it recharged.
That night, Frank was too wired for sleep. He needed to rest. Didn’t want to rely on alcohol. But the small rechargeable fan he used didn’t seem to be cutting the heat. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, and he couldn’t keep his eyes closed.
He sat up and reached for the phone. Shook his head. Flopped down with a huff of anger. Closed his eyes and told himself it was useless. He would never fall asleep.
Then he woke up with sun stabbing through the space between the side of the curtain and the edge of the window.
He sat up with a stretch. Relieved that he had passed so much time. Then collapsed in fresh frustration. There was still an entire day left.
One more day of avoiding his past. Waiting for the future. The first real step he was taking since Carmen had died.
Every time he saw a twirl of red hair. The bouncy step of a woman expressing glee. The flash of a pale navel. He thought of Carmen, and an ache formed under his ribs. Then he felt guilt rise as Sarah’s memory filled his mind. Then the pain became crushing emotional friction. Sticking to his efforts to get past it.
Until Jenny’s sweet face would form in his mind, and he would force that door closed again. But since getting Stan’s text, the doors were getting harder to keep shut.
He didn’t deserve to have a woman in his life anyway. He’d had his chance … twice now. The second ended in tragedy much like the first,
but he couldn’t deny how full it had been before then. Like a flare that fills the sky for a moment before burning out as it falls back to earth. Not like the steady burn of his marriage.
He rolled his eyes as he wiped the soft trail of tears from his cheeks. He wouldn’t have to deal with this soon enough. Always beating himself up. Feeling sorry for himself, then being angry at his own trough of self-pity.
Frank shook his head with a laugh. Doing it again. Instead of getting ready for the biggest project of his life.
He treated himself to a heavy breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon. Covered the whole mess in warm maple syrup. Smiled in shocked appreciation when the older waitress trailed her fingers across his knuckles when leaving his bill.
“I’m here through lunch if you want to come back by for the special.”
Her name tag was white with a red Sammy written across it. Her hair was a washed-out blonde that showed a creeping of gray from the roots.
She had experience in her face and body that Frank found delightful. Lines and curves that told a story he wouldn’t mind hearing more than once. But he couldn’t be distracted, no matter that he didn’t deserve her attention.
“I just might.” He paid with cash and gave her a wave on his way out. It was easy for Frank to tell himself that he might check Sammy out after this was all over, since he doubted his survival, and not even all that deep down.
But there was a pep in his step as Frank walked back to the van.
The good mood persisted through most of the day. Even when he skipped the lunch special for a meatball panini from a Round The World food truck. A side of hushpuppies to go with the theme. Sitting on the beach under a cool cloudy sky with a coconut slushie he’d bolstered with two shots of rum.
The closer it came to dark, the more Frank felt like he was speeding. From the top of the hill to where the bottom disappeared in roiling mist. How much speed would he gain? What awaited him at the bottom?
He ended up pulling into his usual spot next to the dumpster. Listened to Kirby’s new show. Watched cars arrive, trying to identify any one of them as the men he was waiting for, only sure of the gray Ford Escape that the cop had gotten out of last week as Kirby was finishing his smoke break.
Frank didn’t need to hear their discussion to understand it. Both had flushed faces of anticipation. Three more men joined them, and Frank studied their expressions. None of them were leading girls inside. No mysterious bags held between them like Carmen and Preston. Maybe they were just getting ready for some Texas Hold ‘Em.
They all filed inside after Kirby. Frank imagined the sound of the door slamming behind them. Like a gunshot.
He started the van. Backed it out into the street. Turned left at the corner where the small picnic tables sat at the side of Kirby’s studio, then into an alley so he could pull back onto the one-way street running parallel with the row of buildings under the upper floor. Under a tree that dripped sap on anything that parked there. Next to a dog park where Frank had never seen a single dog.
Now, if he had to leave in a hurry, he had a nearly straight shot to Dalton Avenue, then less than a mile to the highway. He wouldn’t need to rush off, though. He grabbed his multi-tool, the lockpick, and a tiny bottle of 3-in-1 oil. He was just going to look, but he still reached behind his back to make sure the pistol was in its holster when he got out.
Chapter Eleven
Frank walked with his assumed confidence. Just out for the evening to get some air.
The breeze was dying down, and the still air clung to him. Sweat made his entire back feel greasy and slick. He kept his eyes fixed on the corner of the patio. Prepared an excuse as he dropped down to feel for the recorder under Kirby’s table.
He would tell anybody that caught him that he was looking for a discarded cigarette butt. Kirby could vouch for him — or at least testify that he had seen him bumming for a cigarette a week ago. He’d be unlikely to forget their verbal exchange.
It seemed to take forever to get the screwdriver head lined up with the first screw, but it slid right into the second screw with ease. He rubbed over the ground with his off hand before grabbing the edge of the table for support. He was up with the recorder in his pocket, and a decent butt hanging between his fingers. He hoped he wouldn't have to light it up.
He headed into the alley. Hugging the rear wall to stay in the shadows. The music from the shops and restaurants sounded distant and muffled. The traffic sounded like ocean waves. Or he was hearing the actual ocean. He smiled to himself as he turned into the alcove at the bottom of the fire escape.
It was just as unsteady as he remembered, and he gave a silent prayer of thanks upon reaching the top. He leaned into the door. Rested his fingers on the handle and closed his eyes. When he pushed on the handle, it rotated with a grinding squeak. He winced at the noise, then sighed with relief. It was noisy, but it was still unlocked.
He released the handle. Pulled out the little oil bottle. Dribbled a few drops on each hinge. All down the gap between the edge of the door and the frame. A good squirt into where the latch engaged the strike plate. Another one around where the handle went into the circular trim plate. Put the bottle back and waited a slow count of twenty before trying again.
This time the handle turned without a sound. He gritted his teeth and gave a gentle pull. The door opened with a low groan of rusty metal. No alarm. No shouts or flashing lights. Barely enough room for him to stand out of the way of the swinging door. He squeezed past. Pulled the door shut behind him, and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark.
He was in the alcove at the end of the hallway he had seen in the blueprints. He squinted around, and just like he had thought, there was nothing there but debris piled in one corner, a fire extinguisher sitting on the floor, and a push broom with a broken handle. Nobody had been down here in who knew how long. Maybe years.
The sound of laughter made him freeze. From the other end of the hall. Male voices. The clink of glass bottles in a toast.
Frank worked himself to the corner. Listening to how the floor responded to his weight. He didn’t hear any cracks or pops, but the sound of the music in the shop below them filtered up. More of a vibration. He doubted that anybody down there could hear the laughter. They probably wouldn’t even hear any screams.
He pressed his nose to the wall. Turned enough to just look at the corner. The big room at the top of the stairs — the open area that was supposed to be shared reception — was blazing with light. Flickering patterns on the floor confused him until he realized it was the reflection of a TV. Men doing men things. Probably watching whatever sport was currently in season. Frank had never really cared about sports, but he understood its appeal.
The tribalism. The fan ownership. It was the same as rooting for the good guy in a movie. Only your guy was always the good guy.
The five doorways were on the left. Each one dark. The windows on the front wall to his right were covered in heavy fabric. Like padded quilts.
More laughter made him draw back into the dark. He wished he had planted the recorder up here. But then he would miss what was on the one from the picnic table. He couldn’t have done both. He only had the one recorder, and getting another one would require interacting with Mo again. He wasn’t ready just yet.
He couldn’t hear the words the men were saying, but he could catch a lot of the tone. The mood. It was childlike excitement. An almost giddy energy. He had been to his fair share of poker games. Hung around with plenty of men doing traditionally male activities. He remembered the feeling of release from some of them. From being let out of the house alone.
Like boys without their parents around.
What he was feeling from the end of the hall was different. It was men on the cusp of behaving with abandon. The kind of feeling he imagined was in the room where the bank robbers planned their heist … if they were all twelve years old.
He couldn’t risk going into the hallway. Not for a drunken card game. On paper,
this was the most innocent activity to find inside a dusty old building. A bunch of guys hiding from their wives and bosses. Just getting up to some shenanigans. And that’s not what worried Frank. It wasn’t what they were doing. It was what they were planning.
He backed toward the door. Pulled his hand back around when he realized he had been holding the pistol’s grip. Opened the door to a night much louder than he remembered, but after the relative quiet of the upper floor, he wasn’t surprised. After swinging around the edge of the door and closing it behind him, he leaned back with a sigh. If they hadn't heard him open it and come in, they definitely hadn’t heard him leave.
He made it to the alley without the fire escape collapsing into a mangled heap. Crossed to the fence and walked back to the van without looking at the buildings behind him.
When he climbed into the driver’s seat, the anxiety hit like a seizure. His teeth chattered as he curled forward with a shivering convulsion. Like he had been overtaken by a freezing wind. His abs tightened into cramps, and his toes curled, making the flip-flops creak.
Stupid to still be wearing them. To be going up there with no plan. Just one man by himself with no backup and no way to defend himself against so many at once. And no legal defense either.
What a foolish old man he was.
He reached a shaking hand out to close the door. Hugged himself and pushed back into his seat. Deep breaths as pain in his neck swelled. Burning and radiating. He wanted to pound his chest. Tell his heart to stop being so dramatic.
He leaned forward to rest his head on the wheel. Got the key in the ignition without looking. Started the engine. The comfort of the rumble made his shoulders relax. The deep vibration that hit through the floor to roll up through his bones. For the first time, he began to doubt his ability to see it through. Not just the nagging question of whether or not he had it in him to get it done. But a real concern that he just wouldn’t make it.
His eyes snapped open, and he sat up in alarm. Like he had fallen asleep, only for some strange sound to wake him from a bad dream, but there was nothing there. His heart was steady. No pain in his neck or chest. He reached up and wiped oily sweat from his forehead. He looked around, and everything was as it had been when he had climbed behind the wheel.