by Peter Parkin
Before following Cindy through the door, Mike turned to face the highly educated slapper. "I won't be seeing you again."
Chapter 27
Mike browsed around inside a popular sportswear store on Front Street near the Rogers Centre, formerly known as the Skydome. The stadium was the home field for the Toronto Blue Jays of the AL East division, and where Mike had seen two World Series championships won by his beloved home team back in the early nineties. But, that was then, this was now. They weren't winning too often anymore but he still enjoyed the sport, the ballpark atmosphere, and of course the great hot dogs. Ah...the "boys of summer."
Rogers Centre was famous for its retractable roof and had been one of only a handful of domed stadiums in the world when it was first built. There were several more now, but in Mike's biased opinion none that stood up to the engineering marvel of Toronto's entry.
The stadium was located next to the CN Tower—considered by the Guinness Book of World Records to be the world's largest tower. It was the equivalent of 147 stories, built in 1976 for what would be considered today to be a paltry cost of sixty-three million dollars. It took three and a half years to build, and in Mike's view was one of the most hypnotic structures he'd ever seen— particularly so if viewed when standing on the sidewalk looking up. This magnificent tower received worldwide recognition when it was designated as one of the "The Seven Wonders of the Modern World."
When Mike was at work, he could see both the Rogers Centre and the CN Tower from one of his corner office windows. If he was in a pensive mood, he gazed dreamily out over Lake Ontario; but when he was in the mood for being inspired to achieve the near impossible, he looked out at these two impressive buildings.
Today, as Mike had been driving down Front Street and gazing at the buildings, he felt inspired. Inspired enough to stop at a sports shop and buy something for his new little friend.
He chose a Blue Jays game sweater and cap, along with a fielder's glove and an authentic MLB baseball. Mike didn't know whether Jonas liked baseball or not but he figured, hey, what little boy wouldn't? He paid for the merchandise, jumped back in his car and headed north on Spadina.
Once intersecting with Queen Street West he continued along Spadina until he reached the infamous alley where he had made his naked debut. This time there were no barricades so he turned left into the alley and drove on down as far as the garbage bin that had housed Jonas. Mike got out and walked over to the bin, opened the lid and looked inside. The toys were in their usual spots, but no Jonas.
Mike got back into his car and sat for a few minutes, thinking. He knew which house was Jonas,' but did he dare knock on the front door? What would the boy's mother think? Mike prided himself on being a personable guy, but would she think he was some kind of pervert, a pedophile? And had Jonas told his mom yet that some strange man had given him 1,000 dollars in cash? Or did he say he just found the money?
Mike didn't even know what had possessed him to be here. Why was this important to him? He barely knew the child—but he did know that something powerful was tugging at his heartstrings, and that certain something was telling him that he needed to help the young boy. He felt sorry for him, and for some strange reason he felt responsible for him.
Mike had been thinking hard lately about his own early years, and about the trials and tribulations of growing up—the things a guy had to do to fit in, to be admired, to have friends. He was glad he'd survived that cruel world. He sure wouldn't want to be young in this day and age, and have to go through all that again. He had been popular in school but it had been stressful maneuvering to reach a pinnacle where he had finally become one of the "untouchables." He knew that life had been hell for some of the kids who hadn't reached that pinnacle.
Mike's eyes teared up and he rubbed them with his knuckles. Then he cracked those same knuckles while he continued going back, way back. It was a hard thing to accept, but now that he was a man with the insecurities and brashness of youth left in the dust, he could honestly admit that he no longer liked who he'd been back then. In fact he was ashamed of who he'd been. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he knew he'd always felt this shame, but had never really faced it head on. He had, in a nutshell, become popular on the backs of some of the weaker kids. As a boy, he had viewed it as just 'survival of the fittest,' and all in good fun. They would get over it. They would suck it up—or so he had convinced himself.
Now he wondered if they ever really got over it. How had they turned out? Were there any lasting effects? Being so self-centered back then, he had never seen those kids through the same sympathetic eyes that he viewed Jonas. And he knew in his heart that Jonas would not survive intact from what he was going through if it was allowed to continue. Jonas couldn't live his childhood hiding in a dumpster, stealing toys, not being able to show his face at school. And this made Mike recall the many nameless faces from his own school—the sad eyes, the weak bodies, the clumsy geeks—the ones they called 'losers.'
But why now? Why all of a sudden was he feeling guilty about events thirty or so years ago? And why did this little boy matter to him so much?
He rubbed his forehead—a headache was coming on. He couldn't make the images go away. The images of kids whom he and his friends had tormented in high school, seeing the pain in their eyes as they were displayed as losers in front of the other "cool" kids. Mike had never hurt anybody—not physically anyway. That wasn't his style. But making fun of the weaker ones was considered innocent fun. It was innocent, wasn't it? People recover from such things, don't they?
Then he remembered his own helplessness and humiliation in this very alley. He didn't want to think that it was the same thing thirty years ago, that those kids were really hurt by what he and his buddies had done. They were just having fun, surely those kids knew that. Was David Samson just having fun?
Then he thought of Jonas again. Cute little Jonas being called "Cuntface." Did Jonas know that those kids were just having fun?
The throbbing in his head was getting worse. Mike rolled his neck around a bit, then put the car in gear and drove to the end of the alley. He hung a right towards the next street where Jonas' house would be, the red clapboard that he could see from the alley. Reaching the street, he turned right again and parked in front of the little red house. He noticed that none of the houses had driveways, and they were all in desperate need of some TLC.
There was an old pickup truck parked in front of him. Mike got out of the car, grabbed his bag of gifts for Jonas, and slowly walked up to the front door. He paused for a second before knocking, once again challenging his actions. Then, satisfied that he was doing the right thing, he quickly pulled his hand out of his pocket and raised his fist up to the old wooden door.
His fist froze in mid-air as he heard a crash from inside the house, followed by the sound of whimpering. A man's voice was yelling; words that were difficult to make out. A child screamed. And the sound of smacking, loud and repetitive.
Mike felt the muscles in his arms tightening, becoming rigid, and his face getting warm, then hot. He tried the door handle. It was locked. From the way the door wiggled he could tell that the lock was flimsy. Mike put his shoulder to the door and sure enough the lock easily gave way. He stepped cautiously into the front hallway and his eyes took in the scene. A large burly man wearing an undershirt and jeans was bending over a woman lying on the floor of the living room. One hairy hand held her by the hair, and the other one was swinging a belt down at her bare back, over and over again. She was covering her face with her hands and her blouse had been torn exposing her bare back Mike looked to the end of the room and could see Jonas kneeling under the dining room table, eyes closed, hands covering his ears, rocking back and forth on his knees and elbows.
The stomach-churning sight of the woman being beaten caused Mike to gasp in shock, unfortunately loud enough for the thug to hear. He let go of the woman's hair, turned around and swung the belt around in Mike's direction. They were about twelve feet apart.
Then out of the corner of his eye he saw movement from under the dining room table. Jonas was now on his feet. "Mike! Mister Mike!" Mike held out his hand toward him, signaling to stay where he was.
The man shouted again. "I'll shove this belt up your ass, you faggot!" Now that he was no longer bending over the helpless woman, Mike could see that the guy was bigger than he thought. At least six and a half feet tall, and probably weighing around three hundred pounds. The man was a slob: long greasy black hair hanging over a severely pockmarked face, heavy unkempt brows framing bloodshot eyes, and an overpowering body odor that Mike could smell from where he was standing. But despite the man's bulk, Mike didn't feel any fear—only a boiling rage.
He knew which mode was taking over, but this time he was fully conscious of the change. He was still who he was, not in one of those trances that he'd had in the past. He was Mike, not Gerry. But he knew that Gerry's skill was going to show itself, in a matter of seconds. And for the first time he relished the thought.
The brute was advancing towards him now, swinging the belt, buckle end first. Mike dropped his bag of gifts and quickly slipped out of his suit jacket. He twisted it and held it up in front of him, firmly grasping both ends of the jacket in hopes it would function as a guard. The man swung the belt and Mike deflected it with his rolled-up jacket. Then it came again, this time glancing off his neck. The buckle had done its work; Mike could feel the warm blood dripping down under the collar of his shirt.
The man sensed an opening and was on him in a flash—pawing, grunting, grabbing his hair and then swinging him around by the scalp. He slammed Mike's head into the doorframe and the room started to spin. Mike managed to wrench free from his grasp and move several feet away. He shook his head to clear the fog, and went into a boxer's stance. The man laughed. "Who are you, Muhammad Ali?" The giant rushed him. Mike slammed his right fist into his gut, and it felt like hitting a brick wall. The punch had no effect at all; it didn't even slow him down. He grabbed Mike by the neck and shoved his back up against the wall, squeezing tightly on his throat with both hands.
The room was starting to spin again, and with the power this man had, Mike realized that boxing skills alone were not going to save his life. The man seemed intent on killing him and Mike had to do something, fast. Despite gasping for breath and feeling faint from the guy's body odor, he summoned enough strength to ram his knee up into the brute's crotch. He heard him grunt in pain, and instantly felt the release of pressure on his throat. Mike shoved him backward and punched him square in the nose. He felt the crunch of the bones an instant before he heard it. A massive amount of blood was now spurting out over the man's face.
Mike knew he couldn't let up. He dove to the floor and grabbed the belt, then came up behind the bleeding beast and quickly pulled it around his neck, sliding the open end through the buckle.
The rage was surreal. Mike had never before experienced such a cocktail of strength, hate, and adrenaline. He swung the beast around by the belt, slamming him into the wall face first. Then, planting his feet firmly on the hardwood floor and bending at the knees, Mike yanked him back and started pulling the shocked giant around in a circle, around and around, slowly at first, then faster and faster. He let go of the belt at just the right moment, sending the dizzy man flying straight down the basement stairs.
Mike leapt after him, hitting the light switch and taking the stairs down three at a time. He found the guy crumpled on the floor, groaning and struggling to get back on his feet. Mike would have none of it. He grabbed the belt that was still around his neck and pulled the free end until he could feel the tension on the man's throat. Mike lay down on the floor behind him, positioned his feet up against the massive shoulders and leaned backwards as if he were fighting a tug of war—pushing with his feet, pulling with his arms. The animal on the floor began coughing and twisting, clawing helplessly at his throat with his hands. For a sickening second, Mike was afraid that the head was going to tear right off the top of his neck.
Mike prayed that he was still himself, Mike Baxter, pulling on the belt— but he couldn't help but wonder. Something inside of him wouldn't allow his hands to let go, and that scared the shit out of him. This cruel bastard choking to death on the floor was not going to walk out of here alive, and it felt like there was nothing that could change Mike's mind on that.
That was, until he heard a frantic little voice from the top of the stairs. "Don kill my Daddy! Please, Mister Mike!"
Chapter 28
Mike lifted his eyes from his victim for just a second; enough time to catch a glimpse of his little friend at the top of the stairs, and also just enough time for the man on the floor to detect that Mike's grip on the belt had weakened slightly. Before Mike could react, the guy had flipped himself over into a kneeling position facing him.
A massive fist came next, then blackness.
*****
David Samson didn't want to kill Mike Baxter. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Instead, he wanted to ruin him—in every way possible—his life, marriage, career, dignity, and confidence. Gerry Upton's death had moved up the schedule. David would have been content to suck the company dry for as long as he could; he had been willing to wait for his revenge. However, life—and death—work in funny ways sometimes, and there was no reason to wait any longer. The process had already started. Mike was already hurting now, not necessarily physically, but mentally. This is the kind of pain David wanted Mike to have. He wanted him to feel it—to know what it felt like to be humiliated, alone, helpless, living in fear. He wanted him to feel like a loser.
Following Mike's career over the years had become an obsession for David. He had never lost sight of him. He hated him more than he could ever imagine hating any man. David had discovered that the feeling of hate didn't require knowing someone—it just required knowing of him. He had never really known Mike in high school. They had never talked, never hung out together or even in a group. They were in some of the same classes but David, or more correctly Dawud back then, had been invisible to guys like Mike.
Mike probably hadn't even known his name, or if he had, he had dismissed it as being foreign so not worth remembering. Dawud hadn't served a useful purpose to the "cool" kids, except of course when they needed someone to jostle around, or humiliate. Then he wasn't so invisible.
Mike and Dawud had even graduated in the same year, walked on the same stage. When Mike had gone up to receive his diploma, there had been a standing ovation for the hero who had broken every school athletic record imaginable. The quarterback with the arm of steel. The track star whose record for the one hundred meter dash was probably still standing after all these years. The jock who had dated half the cheerleading squad. Yes, Mike had been the whole package and the audience had let him know just how they felt about him. They loved him.
The audience also let Dawud know how they felt about him when he went up on stage to receive his diploma. First, someone in the front row tripped him before he reached the stairway to the stage. Lying flat on his stomach in his gown he could hear the jeers and the laughter. Then, when he finally made it up the stairs he heard catcalls of "Loser," "Camel Jockey," "Faggot." Then more laughter. The principal went to the microphone and politely asked them to stop, but he wasn't too assertive. Dawud thought he detected the man snickering a bit himself.
Dawud had decided that he would never set foot in that gym or on that stage again. There would be no reunions for him.
David had just held the last meeting with his five associates—the last meeting before the event. They were well prepared and they knew their orders. They al
so had their weapons—in fact, the most frightening small arms weapons ever manufactured. David chuckled at the irony of Arab terrorists brandishing machine guns made by the Israelis.
At a pre-set time one of his men would cut the telephone and fire alarm lines on the outside of the building, while two others would be pretending to mingle inside the gym. The last two would wait in the hallway until the lines were cut, then, joined by their associate from outside, they would firmly usher any hallway stragglers into the gym. From cut phone lines to the end of their assignment, they would be there no longer than thirty minutes. David's operatives had to commit to memory the names of eight men who would be attending the party—all of them former football stars, all of them now successful and wealthy. Each of the eight had always enjoyed the spotlight and David was going to give them that spotlight once again, this time in a way they had never experienced before.
*****
Cindy rushed into the house, carrying two garment bags over her shoulder. She'd just spent the last two hours choosing costumes for her and Mike. Mike had left that task to her. He would be going as Abraham Lincoln, and she as Annie Oakley. Her costume was simple—western garb, cowboy hat, and boots. Mike's was a little more elaborate—long black jacket with matching pants, white frilled shirt with tie, legendary stove pipe hat, and a full head mask of 'Honest Abe.'
Cindy really didn't want to go to this stupid reunion, but it was important to Mike so it was important to her. She would endure it, smile, listen to all the old stories as well as the usual accolades dished out to her husband, and then sweetly talk him into leaving early. It was the same routine every five years. She thanked her lucky stars that it wasn't an annual event. And she always reminded Mike that she never dragged him to her school reunions. She didn't believe in re-visiting the past. She thought reunions were unproductive and egocentric. Everybody was always trying to show each other up—bragging about how far they had come since high school. Her attitude was—who cares?