Fiction: The Proxies

The Proxies

SLiGO pub, what a shithole. Situated on a dead end street between a dilapidated triple-decker and a refuse filled empty lot, it's a one story windowless box slathered in grimy stucco veneer. In front, blowing trash and empty liquor bottles litter a crumbling cement sidewalk and pothole filled asphalt road. Interspersed along the street, the empty metal frames of several decayed cars lay torn asunder, like bones picked clean by vultures - scattered debris, deteriorating in the elements. At the entrance, the pub's only sign is a warning that reads 21 and Over; regulars learn the name as if by osmosis.

It's a bit past 4pm Wednesday afternoon when I pull open the pub's front door and step into darkness. In a putrid wave, the stench of cheap air-freshener and Murphy's Oil Soap combine with wafting stale beer and old barf. A red-and-blue neon Miller High Life sign hangs above and behind the bar, providing the only illumination. Slowly, my eyes acclimate. But not my nose.

Sal Raggucci sits on a bar stool, his back facing me. In his mid-forties, he's an enormous man, both in muscular mass and physical girth. His chest must be 50 inches around, and his waist nearly as large. He wears an old yellow and green checkered-plaid blazer, with heavy wrinkles across the back noticeable even in the dark. He's a cop, I'm a reporter for the Lowell Times, and ostensibly am here to interview him. But we're really just here to drink on company time.

I approach. "Hey Sal."

He spins the stool with his feet, his neck too thick to simply turn his head. His face is fatfuck round, pockmarked like a golf ball, with a balding military crew-cut on top. Large orange-tinted sunglasses inside plastic tortoiseshell frames perch upon a bulbous nose. Underneath the blazer he wears a black button down shirt with oversized lapels, top buttons open to reveal peppered black and grey chest hair and a gold braided necklace. Because that's Sal Raggucci.

We make brief eye contact as he scratches out, "Jeremy," his chords like vibrating metal prongs on a rake. He stomps out a filterless Pall Mall. "Let me get you something." He signals to the bartender, "Barney, get my friend what it is he wants," then turns back toward me, "But you caught me at a time I got to go piss bad."

"Take your time."

"With my prostate, these days I have to," he replies chuckling. Then off the stool, he waddles away toward the bathroom. That man is a freaking linebacker, holding scrimmage with a gold badge and a WWII issued Colt .45. He calls the gun 'Mr. Respect.'

At the other end of the bar an elderly derelict twitches over an empty shot glass. An emaciated stick in oversized Salvation Army clothes, his wiry beard and shock of clumping unwashed grey hair streak down like a used cotton ball. He's the type of drunk who in the morning loiters at the front door, milling about jittery-desperate before the place opens, examining the ground for used cigarette butts tossed by patrons the night before.

"Watcha drink'n?" the bartender asks me.

"Pull the usual, Barn." And then we share the usual bartender-patron banter while Barney wipes the counter. How's business, he asks. Can't complain I say. And you, I ask. Fine, he replies. Whatever.

"Hey," the derelict interrupts, "another one?" pointing to his empty shot glass.

"You still owe from yesterday. Pay up."

"Jeesh, Barn. I need another drink. I got it bad."

"And I got bills to pay and-"

"Christ," I mumble, shaking my head, annoyed by the pathetic wretch.

"-a kid who wants new sneakers. Pay up now and order a drink or leave."

The guy turns around, his eyes blazing into mine with bluster. "Yeah?" He bellows in old-man-wobbly gusto, "and why don't you just shut the fuck up, bitch!"

Fear and adrenalin shoot through my veins. I clutch my beer mug, staring at the drink, still shaking my head. He's a weak old thing. I could take him. I'd shove him off that stool, kick him in the ribs, claw his eyes out, fucking kill him on the spot. But I keep it all under control, acting cool. There's no need to fight, is there?

He blurts, "you want a piece of me little man? I'll fucking stick you. You'll bleed right out on the floor. Fuck you up good and forever. Mother fucking, shit eating, faggot-ass puss-"

"Get out." Barney says with calm ferocity.

Just then Sal exits the hallway with a loud sigh, pulling khakis up over his gut while splitting apart the blazer's front in an inverted V, shoulder holster and gun flashing for a brief second.

"Oh, come on Barn, I'm just fucking with the guy. How about ano-"

"Get the fuck out." Barney hisses back.

"You got a problem, Barn?" Sal asks.

Sal stops in front of the derelict as he's walking by. He stares over and down at the drunk who glances away and scatters out of the bar like a cockroach. Still grasping that beer, my fingers are jet white. I force a release and try to ignore my trembling hands.

"And don't come back asshole!" Barney yells after him. I take a long pull on my beer to calm down as he and Sal look at each other to share a chuckle. Then begins wiping the counter again. Sal walks over to his stool, sits, and stretches while expelling a noise somewhere between a yawn and a growling dog.

"How about another beer, Barn?"

"Right up."

"Whiskey too."

The bartender nods. Sal turns toward me about to speak but I interject, "See you got your gun back."

"Yeah, Mr. Respect is back home." Sal shoots back, not fazed in the least. He pats his chest where a slight bulge in his blazer reveals the gun.

"Long time." I say, as Barney returns with Sal's drinks.

"Yeah. Fourteen weeks desk duty. What a bitch. Internal Affairs here and Clearwater working at the speed of gub'mint. When that shit crosses state lines it takes forever and back. But it's just a formality. They got to do what they got to do. One freak'n form in triplicate at a time."

"How's the poor kid?" About four months ago his daughter found her mother shot to death on the living room floor after coming home from elementary school. Shaking my head, I sigh and pull on my beer. No kid should experience a nightmare like that.

"Oh, she's OK. Terrible shock and all. But Amy will bounce back. She's making new friends. Enrolled in school. Sarah and her Timmy just moved in, so Amy's got real family again. The school counselor's helping. Work out her grief. But she's a tough kid, she'll be fine."

Sal and his wife split sometime before he moved here. Sarah and Timmy are his girlfriend and her twelve year old son. "Yeah. There's nothing worse for a child than losing her mother." I say and feel an uncomfortable lull mingle with the bar-stench as a result. I finish off the beer and then signal Barney for another.

"They figure out what happened?" I try to renew the conversation.

"Robbery. House was torn all to shit. Still looking for the perps. They're probably long gone by now. Fucking Florida cops got their heads all up their asses to their necks. Can't collect evidence for shit and wouldn't know a witness from a 'tard."

 

I shake my head as Barney drops off my beer and then offer him a quick thanks.

"Yeah. And how about your kid?" Sal asks.

"Toby's OK. I guess. The bitch still won't let me speak to him. Been over eight months since the split and four since a call. It's a lawyer cluster-fuck."

"That ain't right!"

"Yeah, I just want to hear my kid's voice. What's so fucking wrong with that?" I return the lull while pulling deep on my beer. Sal stares ahead, hunched over the bar, hand holding his beer mug. Then he fishes a cigarette and gold Zippo lighter out from his blazer. He lights it, takes a drag, and blows out a long stream of smoke. He seems perfectly content bathing in the quiet. I guess if some criminal's gun in his face couldn't pierce that self confidence, why should a conversation lull?

"Hey," I open up, "thanks for the tip on that gym. I've been adding two-and-a-half pounds a week to my bench-press. Almost at a hundred pounds now!"

"Hey, good for you. Just remember, it's not the weight it's the process. Keep it up and you'll gain. You ought to try the boxing ring. Freddy teaches good. Hard workout too. And you learn to take a punch and come right back into the fray. Good thing to know sometimes. Can save your ass in the right circumstance. I'll help you spar once Freddy says it's safe."

"Oh yeah? I'll kick your ass!" Sal doesn't bite on the friendly taunt but Barney bursts out a little giggle covered by several coughs into his fist. I ignore it. Sal blows another stream of smoke while a lull once again hangs in the air. I try to break it with "hey, I jumped out of an airplane once."

"Wow." Sal replies, disinterested, and I hear Barney's rude cough again. "Anyway, you got some work related questions." Sal changes the subject to business just like that.

"Yeah," I reply trying to shift with Sal and not reveal my disappointment. "So last week there was a shooting over by Clemente Park. Cops on the scene said it looked like a drive by. Probably drug related. But I dig and discover the victim turns out to be this new VP at Lowell Savings. What's up with that?"

"Well, I don't got nothing official to say on that matter."

"Off the record then." Like cops ever talk to reporters on the record.

Sal sighs. "Well, that ain't my case, Frank O'Brian's got that one. I've been pulling desk duty, right? But rumor is they found two Z's of coke in the guy's house, hidden under some floorboards. So, it's drug related. That's all I know. But I didn't say nothing."

"Much appreciated. Need a quote for the story though."

"Frank's a good guy. Case breaks, I'll ask. Maybe he'll talk."

Sal's whiskey is long gone and his beer is nearly done. He finishes the rest in one gulp. "Barn, on me." And his finger points down at the bar swirling around all our drinks.

"No Barn, it's my turn. I'm picking this one up."

"Barn, I said on me."

"Why don't you two love-birds work that shit out amongst yourselves and get back to me when you's done." Barney pipes back.

"Blow me," Sal grins, "like I said: On me."

Looking at Sal I quip, "Christ! Let me pick up a tab one of these days." But it comes out with the hint of a whine, and Sal looks back at me with an expression that screams: What a pathetic fuck.

"Oh, I feel for you Jeremy," as he drops a couple of twenties on the bar and steps up off the stool.

---

I'm at work. I've just spent lunch digging through notes instead of taking a break. But I should have been writing copy for another story, so it all evens out. I pick up a notebook marked: Clemente, one of several scattered across my archaic steel desk. I leaf through and find a section titled: Victim.

Decedent's name: Trevor Worthington. Born 7:30am July 12th 1963. Pronounced dead at 12:10am, May 12th, 2005 by a Dr. Branford Bishop, Lowell Hospital. Married to a Ms. Barbara Ailes on June 13th 1991. Both Brown Alum; class of '85. Probably met in college. Lived together before marrying. MBA, University of Wisconsin, 1990. Bank manager 5th/3rd Bank downtown Madison while in school, then promoted to securities management in 1990. Purchased house, November 1991. Credit spotless. Takes VP position, Lowell Savings, September 2004. Legal separation recorded in June 2004, but no county divorce records on file.

I look up from the notebook and distracted by thought gaze around the newsroom. It's one large space situated on the 3rd floor of an old brick mill. Nothing's going on. I look back down at the notebook and flip pages to the section: Barbara's bad day.

Barbara Worthington pronounced dead at 7:45pm, January 19th, 2005, by Dr. Ling Nguya, Madison County Hospital. Police report it a hit and run at the corner of Lake and W. Johnson. Street. Coroner rules it wrongful death by vehicular homicide. No witnesses. No suspects. Strange.

I grab a now cold and half eaten meatball sub off wax paper on the side of my desk and take a bite, then wash it down with warm cola. Linda, one of the only cute reporters here, strolls by saying hi. I nod back in return and flip the notebook pages to: Victim or criminal???

Two ounces of coke hidden under hardwood flooring in a cubbyhole. Question: what's a guy like that doing with all that coke? An eight ball; quarter ounce maybe. He's got a good job, a kid, and he's moving quantity? I don't get it.

The phone rings. It's an old piece of shit from the late '70s, with sticky push buttons and a real bell for a ringer. Someone nearby picks up and answers "city desk," then loudly announces a name and line number to the room. It's not for me so I ignore him. Back to the notebook and a page marked simply: Kid.

Nancy, born March 12th, 1992, Madison County Hospital. Just twelve. Kid enrolls at the Lowell Emerson Junior High eleven weeks ago. Trevor must have moved the kid here after her mother's death. Big question: where's that kid? School officials won't say a damn thing. Saturday May 12th 3:45pm: Star Market parking lot. Teacher, Mrs. Sandra Mulhoney, quote: "I only saw her for ten weeks or so. Nice but quiet kid. Nobody knows where she is. We're all worried." Off the record. And Brenda Adams, Massachusetts Child Protective Services, says, quote: "I can't find any records for a child of her age with that name." Also off the record. I don't think the cops even know she exists. Asshole O'Brian doesn't return any calls.

That's the part really gnawing at me: Where the hell is that kid? Before, the only question was why did this guy get killed? But the more I dig the weirder it gets. Why don't the local socials care about this kid? It's as if they don't want to know.

"Jeremy?"

I look up. It's my editor, Andy Peterson, standing above and looking down upon me with a frown. He wears a brown polyester blazer, a pink shirt, wrinkled khakis, and a lime-green coarsely knit cut-off tie that perfectly accents an enormous gut hanging tightly out over his belt. He's ugly, but at least he's not a bad editor - if rather uninspired. Sometimes friendly, but not a friend; competent, but risk averse. He probably busted ass his entire life to attain this lowly position, which is why when someone calls him editor he's the first to remind them that here he's: Editor in Chief. Which isn't saying much, unless you're Andy.

"Hi Andy. What can I do for you?" I hang up the phone mid-dialing.

"Well, for starters, you could meet deadline on that cops-jakes softball game fundraiser. That would be good. Real good."

For all his mass, the man's voice almost squeaks the words out. I hold back a sigh. Last weekend a bunch of townies from the police department had played against the fire department to raise funds for the Lowell Boys and Girls Club building, which is in serious need of maintenance. The firemen, in good health, won flat out with an embarrassing score against those donut gut cops. But Andy will want me to gloss over that fact and focus on the good deed done by all. He'll add a group photo of all the players so everyone involved can to point at themselves in the paper. Which, of course, increases sales for the day as everyone in the shot and all their friends and family buys the piece of shit edition. This is news? Yeah, in this clown factory, that's news.

"Sure. No problem. I've got the notes right here. I'll type it up and have it ready right away."

"Good. Because deadline is in an hour and I'd like to see finished copy before I sign off. Also, Mike's Pizzeria just bought a half page ad right next to this story. You understand?"

"Understood."

Deadline here is at 2:30 in the afternoon. Period. At my previous job, the Washington Examiner, soft deadline was 4:30pm with a hard deadline at 10pm for important late breaking news. But they are a news paper, not a local rag. They have money for the most modern computers and a fast laser typesetter. Here, we still use a thirty-five year old CRT typesetter connected to an archaic mainframe that outputs to real film negatives. Everything is so old you can almost smell the loom dust that once filled this space.

"Good. Because we can't afford OT for printer and lithography staff. It's real tight." Andy then notices the notebook in my hand. "Is that more Clemente park crap?"

"Yeah. There is so much more here than the shooting. First, the guy's wife was killed in a hit and run months before. His kid moves here. Then the guy gets shot. Now the kid's missing. It's all very strange. I think we should-"

"Move on to another story. It's been nearly two months, this is taking up way too much of your time. We're not a big city paper with a million dollar investigative reporting budget. This is a local rag. We report on school issues, local politics, and town fluff, not missing children and unsolved murders."

"What about the guy and his-"

"We covered that in the obit."

"But the kid-"

"Shut up!" Andy, absolutely furious, glares down at me and replies with finality. "You're off the story. There is no story. Never was! Now get me that Goddamn softball game copy." Andy places his hands on my desk and bends over looking right into my eyes, then growls out a whisper, "And by the way, stop with the long distance calls too. We can't afford that shit. You know, we had great hopes for you Miller, coming from a national paper and all, but it looks like you're just a two-bit fuck up after all. I'm watching you. Got it?"

The phone rings as I stare back transfixed by his gaze. No one answers as eyes from around the newsroom fix upon us, our town of reporters prairie dogging by their desks, front paws hanging in space, little jaws agape.

"You going to answer that?" Andy glares.

"Yeah. Sure." Shaking, I take a deep breath and then pick up the phone, "city desk." Andy turns around and walks away to speak with another reporter a couple of desks away.

"Hello. May I please speak with a Mr. Jeremy Miller?"

"That's me. How can I help you?"

"Sir. This is Detective Steven Wilkowski of the Washington DC Metro Police. Are you the husband of Mrs. Elise Miller of 311 Argyle Drive?"

I meekly blurt out "What?" while slouching into the chair, heart tumbling down like a lead fishing tackle sinker while jerking in stress-induced arrhythmic palpitations. Whatever is coming, it's going to be bad.

"Sir. Are you Jeremy Miller, Husband of Mrs. Elise Miller, of 311 Argyle Drive?"

"Yes. No. Well, we're separated. Soon to be divorced. Oh God. Is she OK?" Andy hears my end of the exchange and looks over with his ass planted on a corner of that reporter's desk.

"Mr. Miller, are you sitting down?"

"Oh, God. No. Please don't say this."

"Sir. I regret to inform you-"

"Oh God. Fuck. No!"

"-that your wife was killed this morning at approximately 8:15am while waiting at the Potomac Avenue subway platform."

"What? How? Is this a mistake?"

"No mistake, Sir. The platform was very crowded. We're still trying to work out the circumstances behind how she fell."

"Oh my God! What else do you know? I have to fly out there. Is my Son OK? Have you told him? I have to arrange flight tic-"

"Sir. One question at a time, please."

"Oh, shit," I sigh, elbows resting on the desk, right hand holding the receiver, left hand fingers streaming through hair, eyes fixed to infinity in quiet desperation, as the detective explains the situation. After hanging up I see Andy standing above my desk again.

"What's going on?"

"My wife is dead." I respond blankly.

"Holy shit." He says softly. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah." And I stare out into nothingness. For the first time since I started working here the entire newsroom is completely quiet. Linda holds her hand to her mouth in shock. Then the phone rings and I realize I have to get up. Move. Get tickets. Call Elise's parents. Call my parents. Console my son. And funeral arrangements. Jesus fucking Christ! "Andy. I need-"

"Give me your notes and go. Take whatever time you need."

---

Elise is dead. Elise - the love of my life; the mother of my child; that bitch who dumped me - now she's dead. Gone. The words keep rolling past in thought, as if to convince me of this fact. For I still feel her life. I can still see her as if she were standing right here: Her button nose; her shoulder length black hair; her somewhat mousy round face; her little black horn rimmed glasses that cover piercing steel-grey eyes; her upright self-confidant stance and trim physique; her small but firm chest.

A man brushes me in the airport terminal. I look around. I know every corner of Reagan National Airport. It's my old hometown, everything is so familiar, yet less than a year after leaving, it feels so alien too. I notice a coffee shop and get in line to grab a cup, in need of a pick-me-up. While waiting I pull out my cell phone and call dad. He's still driving up from Baltimore, but should arrive at the airport shortly. I hang up and then check messages: Two from dad, one from Elise's parents, a message from the Brown's who live next to Elise report that Toby is in shock but otherwise fine, and finally a strange call from a James Malick. I don't remember him but he claims we were roommates in college. He says he has just been promoted to editor at the LA Sentinel, he knows I work for a shit paper, has seen my prior reporting at the Washington Examine, and asks if I would like to apply for a job? Then leaves a return number and email address. What an intersection of serendipity and misfortune!

I save the message and put my phone away. Then I order the coffee and walk to gate 42 where Elise's parents, Thomas and Martha Rizzo, are expected to arrive from Cincinnati. Among the several people waiting, I note a man wearing a trench coat and cheap suit who stands nearby holding a manila envelope and reading a magazine. Soon the plane arrives and the Rizzo's exit the gate. I wave to them and they walk toward me. Their faces are both ashen, with deadpan grim expressions of bewilderment and deep pain. Martha's mascara streaks down from her eyes while Thomas walks with the intensity of purpose.

"Thomas, Martha," I offer my hand to Thomas. He shakes it firmly, looking down into my eyes fiercely. I break his gaze to check specks of dirt on the floor, "I'm terribly sorry. I just don't know what to say."

"It's OK, Jeremy." Martha responds softly, grasps my arm, and looks up into my eyes with compassion. Thomas stares ahead into the distance.

I tell them that my father and mother are driving up from Baltimore, that I've reserved hotel rooms for us all near Elise's condo, and offer to walk them to the car rental agency. With a strained voice, Mr. Rizzo politely declines my offer for the hotel room, saying that he and Martha have already arranged accommodations. We walk down an escalator to baggage handling and wait for the conveyor to deliver the Rizzos' luggage. There the conversation falters, unable to exchange small talk given the circumstances. While waiting, Thomas glances at me out of the corner of his eye frowning. Martha stands holding her purse in front with both hands. Then, a voice from behind.

"Excuse me, are you Mr. Jeremy Miller?" I turn around, surprised by that man in the trench coat. He wears an overly polite smile as he opens that coat to reveal a gun and a gold badge clipped his belt.

"Uh. Yes. What can I do for you, officer?" I feel discombobulated by that peculiar smile.

"Hello. My name is Detective Steven Wilkowski. We spoke earlier on the phone."

I recognize the voice. "Yes. I remember."

"Would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

"Now?"

"What's going on?" Thomas asks.

"Uh. Thomas. This is Detective Wilkowski of the DC metro police. Detective, this is Thomas Rizzo, Elise's father." I reply.

The detective's smile is gone as he says, "pleased to meet you, sir. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

Thomas displays a mix of suspicion and concern as he nods his head and asks if there is any news. The detective says that it's an ongoing investigation, stating that he's here to simply ask a few routine questions. He then suggests that he and I step aside for a moment.

"Officer," I say, "this is not a good-"

"It will just take a moment," the detective says, and then smiles at me once again.

Thomas looks angry. I don't know what to do. What will Thomas think if I say no? I should at least have a witness present. Hell, I should have a lawyer. And I was hundreds of miles away, this is ridiculous. Anyway, Elise is their daughter, If I'm going to do this they should be present.

"OK. Right here. But please make this fast." I reply.

The detective nods. He pulls a notebook and pen out from his coat and begins asking a series of obvious questions about our separation and current residence. I answer them all with ease. Then he removes from the envelope copies of court records from our legal separation and shows them to me. Confused, I ask him why the questions if he already knows? Just routine questions, he answers. I begin to feel very uneasy about the situation. The detective then asks if it was an amicable separation, whereupon Thomas exclaims Jesus! as Martha begins to cry. The detective again suggests that he and I separate, for the Rizzo's. Feeling nervous I nod my head, thinking that I could ask to speak with my attorney once we separate. But Thomas says no, he wants to hear it all. And then the detective smiles once again, and turns back toward me. Now I feel trapped.

A series of questions related to our separation pour forth. I answer them all truthfully: I left Washington for a job; she took custody of our son; she kept the condo. Money had nothing to do with it.

At that point the detective rudely rejoins with, "rarely in this business do I see men who don't complain about money while divorcing their wives."

I'm stunned speechless, while Thomas exclaims another Jesus! just as my father walks through sliding glass doors into the baggage area. He strolls toward the group wearing his traditional fine cashmere tan coat and tailored black suit. I signal dad while the detective stands there waiting for me to say something with that unbearable smile, ignoring my father's arrival.

Finally, I reply angrily, "she was divorcing me."

He nods his head calmly and continues. Are you in contact with anyone in the DC area? If we check your phone records will we find calls to DC recently? No and no, I answer. He nods. Dad arrives just as he drops the bomb.

"Do you know anyone who might want to kill your wife? Other than you, perhaps?"

"I did not kill Elise!"

Martha gasps, hands to her mouth, while Thomas grabs her shoulders holding her in tight.

"Is this a murder investigation? Is my son a suspect?" Dad asks.

Then Thomas angrily interjects to the detective, "Was my baby girl murdered?"

"We'll know more after the autopsy," the detective answers.

Martha begins to wail, falling to the floor holding her husband by his legs.

"My son is not answering any more questions."

"Dad, butt out."

Thomas pulls Martha up, who's still crying. She removes tissue from her purse, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

I look at the detective, "I did not kill Elise. How many times do I have to say?" Then the existence of her boyfriend occurs to me and I point out, "Why don't you ask her congressman boyfriend?" Martha turns away at this question, still holding the tissue to her mouth.

"Congressman Bloom has yet to return my calls. But his staff has been most helpful," the detective answers. He turns to Thomas and asks, "Would you know how I might contact him?" Then his monstrous smile is directed at Thomas, who doesn't smile back.

"No. Elise had a cell phone. We didn't need his number. She and Caleb broke up several weeks ago. I don't know why. Caleb and I haven't spoken in months."

"Congressman Caleb Bloom. Isn't he married?" My father asks.

"Actually," the detective responds, "Mrs. Bloom died in an airplane accident about two years ago."

It comes to me in a flash. "Yeah. During his first congressional run. Wasn't his wife flying to a rally or something? And then bad weather or engine trouble brought the plane down. It was big news for a time."

"Yes," the detective responds matter of factly.

"Then he won in a landslide." I say while rubbing my chin. "Isn't that when Elise first interviewed him? Right after the election?" Then I realize it all with a start and I turn to Thomas with accusation in my voice, "So they were together for all that time?" He doesn't reply. "Jesus Christ!"

Of course she would have to know him. She collected sources all over Washington. It's her job and she did it well. She used flirtation as her crowbar, prying out facts one detail at a time. She would wrap men around her notebook with a cocked head, a flash of eye contact, a little toothy grin - just slightly licking her lips in suggestion, yet not smearing her designer lipstick. She was a barracuda when digging a story. I guess this time she met her match and the congressman wrapped her around him instead. Thomas always hated me. He must have been pleased to discover his daughter was divorcing me. I bet the adultery didn't bother him one bit.

"Well, that's a very interesting fact Mr. Miller." The detective directs at me, then he finishes with, "You seem a little agitated. Is that anger in your voice?"

My dad grabs my arm to get my attention and says, "Jeremy, it's time for us-"

"Yes. No! It's not like you think." I reply.

"Regardless, would you be willing to come down to the precinct house and offer your fingerprints and a DNA sample?"

"No!" My father interjects.

"Why not?" Thomas responds to my dad.

"Mr. Miller, it's just a question," the detective responds coyly to my father.

"I didn't kill Elise!"

"Oh my God!" Martha gasps as her hand rushes to her mouth.

"I didn't say you did, " the detective replies to me, "but with DNA and prints maybe we could rule you out."

"Tell him no, Jeremy. Leave with me now!"

"And why wouldn't you help the detective, Jeremy?" Thomas asks. Martha's face is completely ashen. She seems to be teetering, like a tree about to be felled.

"No. No. Look, this is a bad time. I have a son waiting for me. I have funeral arrangements to make. You can't just take me like this!"

"You're not under arrest, Mr. Miller." The detective replies.

My father grabs me again, telling me not to be such an idiot, and begins pulling me away forcibly. He whispers into my ear not to answer the man's questions. But I don't know what to do. I didn't kill Elise! The Rizzo's must believe me! And how could I not help find her killer? Won't this just exclude me, anyway? I wrest my arm away from dad's paws and notice the empty coffee cup still in my hand. "How about I give you this cup instead? You can pull what you need off that, can't you?"

"You idiot!" Dad exclaims.

"Dad, you're a patent attorney. What do you know about this stuff?"

The detective pulls a ziplock plastic bag and a surgical glove out from inside a coat pocket. He draws the surgical glove over his hand and opens the bag. Reaching out with the gloved hand he smiles and replies, "Yes. That will do nicely."

"You've been a journalist writing the crime beat for over twelve years and you that asinine question?" Dad replies to me.

Then the detective announces to us all, "I have what I need, thank you all very much." And he walks away.

---

I look past Toby out the airplane window, deep in thought. Congressman Bloom's wife died in a plane crash two years ago. He and my wife begin having an affair. Now she's dead. Coincidence, or am I being paranoid? I don't remember anything strange about that incident in the news. I'll have to do a search at work when we return. I recline comfortably into the coach seat as the word Clemente pops in my head. I shake it off. That LA job just might happen, but I can't screw with the job I still have. No more Clemente bullshit. Toby's moving in yet I rent a dingy two bedroom apartment. He deserves better. At least the sale of Elise's - no, my - condo will help. I did fund the down payment on the damn thing. Why should I feel bad about selling it? Toby needs this.

At least that week long nightmare is finally over. The wake and funeral went as smoothly as possible, given that the Thomas and Martha obviously believe I am a suspect. That always fosters trust. All of our old friends and co-workers showed to pay their respects. But between the terrible rumors at the office before I left the Examiner, and now rumors that I may be involved in Elise's murder, few shook my hand. I've done nothing wrong, yet I'm a pariah. At least that detective never bothered me again. I don't know why. Maybe he finally realized I'm innocent. Now Toby and I are in the air and on our way back to Logan. Home.

Toby sits next to me playing a handheld video game. It's a fantasy game with hyper-realistic and colorful animation, but I'm utterly bored by it. An attractive flight attendant arrives with an enchanting smile and offers a drink.

"What do you have?" I ask.

"Soft drinks, coffee, tea, mineral water-"

She's interrupted by the sound of a woman who lets forth a blood curdling scream. The flight attendant looks over to my son and stares at that contraption in his hands. I follow her eyes. He's changed the game to something with total carnage and mayhem. A shotgun juts from the bottom of the screen while the player steals a nearby car as a woman bleeds to death on the sidewalk. What kind of sick game is my kid playing?

"-beer, wine, and spirits," the flight attendant continues, hiding her distraction with professional customer service fluidity. She looks back at me with a smile that seems both friendly and forced. I almost order the mineral water, but as I look up into her eyes I sense warmth. Feeling masculine I order red wine instead. She nods approvingly and shifts over to the cart to pour the drink. I can't help but notice a crack that forms between two buttons on her blouse, flashing the hint of a white lacy bra underneath; her flat tummy in counterpoint to a fabulous behind. Toby's contraption lets forth the scream of a dying man this time.

"And for the boy?" She asks while catching my wandering eye.

"Uh, Toby? Coke or ginger ale?" I glance away to my son, blushing.

He's lost in that damned video game and answers "ginger ale" mechanically. In the game he pulls some woman with a baby out of her car, shoots her, and then kicks her and the baby while she's lying on the ground. The game announces: Triple damage: Female civilian with infant kill! My stomach churns.

"Toby. Turn that off. That's disgusting. Where did you get that game?"

The flight attendant nervously laughs and our eyes meet again. I hear another scream as Toby continues to play. He doesn't answer me.

"Toby. Turn that off!" I look back to see Toby blowing away some guy holding a machinegun. The pixilated character groans as blood splatters out from behind him with each shot until he crumples to the ground. A submachine gun appears spinning above the corpse and Toby exclaims Alright! as he grabs the weapon. I place my hand over the screen to get Toby's attention while the flight attendant waits in the isle, holding our drinks with a forced but clearly annoyed smile.

"It's just a game, Dad. I'm losing!"

"It's a disgusting game, Toby. Play that other one."

"But I want to play this one. Dad, you're ruining my game!"

The flight attendant clears her throat to get my attention. I turn back to her, clearing the screen of my palm, smile at the woman, and reach my hands out to accept the drinks. Toby starts to play the damned game again.

"Toby! I told you to turn that off! Now give it to me!" But he crouches toward the window, his back in view, clutching the game with both paws while my hands are pinned holding the drinks. The flight attendant moves to the next passenger down the isle. My neck tenses as burning anger builds. I imagine tearing that damned thing from Toby's paws and stomping it to pieces in the isle. Instead, I gulp almost half the wine and set it down on my tray. Then I ready Toby's tray while he crouches ever further into the window. At this rate that kid is going to bore a hole through the freaking plane.

 

"Toby. Take your drink and turn that damn thing off," I hiss and place his soft drink down. He doesn't answer. Another woman screams a brutal electronic death. Fuck! "Toby," I say sternly, reaching out to him, trying to get my left hand through his protective arms, to that damn contraption in his hands, as he writhes violently. Then, I grasp it and pull hard in victory. But Toby's soft-drink tips, spilling its contents all over him, and hits my pants too.

"Dad!" Toby slams the tray up into the seat, echoes of teenager-to-be stirring, and stands up hissing, "You suck!"

I lift the wine up off my tray to let him pass, and he stomps down the isle toward the restroom. Nearby passengers look on, as if slowing to view a traffic accident. They quickly glance away when I make eye contact. I gulp the rest of the drink as I feel the first jolt of wine kick in and fall back into my seat with a sigh, shaking my head. Kids! Then I pocket that damn game.

A man in uniform walks toward me. He stops, grasps both isle seats, and bends down to speak. "Sir. Is there a problem?"

"No problem. I'm sorry, I'm just having an argument with my son. You know how it is."

"Sir, may I suggest you resolve this after we land? We've had some complaints."

"Understood."

"Thank you very much, sir." He walks away toward the airline restrooms. I exhale in relief, sit up, and signal the flight attendant for another glass of wine. I'm going to hide that damn thing from Toby as soon as we get home. I can't imagine that contraption is appropriate for a child, especially one who has just experienced a real death in the family. It's time to set some parental authority. The flight attendant hands me that second glass of wine, this time without smiling. I thank her and she nods in return without eye contact. Then I rest back into the seat and suck down nearly half the glass in one gulp, and mutter the word shit under my breath.

Just then I hear a ruckus from behind the plane. The flight attendant rushes up and tells me I'm needed at the restroom. I stand up and set the wine down, both concerned and angry. The flight attendant walks while I follow, every eye on the plane focused on me at each step. This time, they don't glance away when I look back. The official stands by the restroom door and signals me over. A small crowd of passengers, obviously in need of its services, express their derision as they stand in wait.

"He's locked himself in the bathroom and won't come out." The uniformed man says.

I step up to the bathroom and knock on the door. "Toby" I whisper, "please come out. If you have business to do, just let us know and finish it. Otherwise, you have to come out. Other people need the restroom."

"Go away!" Toby yells.

"Toby. You have to come out!"

"I don't want to! I don't want to live with you! I want to live with grandma and grandpa. You suck!"

"Toby," I place my palm on the door and whisper through the door, "it will get better, I promise."

"No! Mom's dead and you don't care! You probably killed her! Maybe you'll kill me! I won't come out!"

The official looks at me as I roll my eyes. "His mother just passed away. Please understand." He sadly nods his head, but remains stern on the matter of removing Toby from the restroom. "Sir, if you don't resolve this I'll have to file a report with airport security. It could lead to charges."

I press myself against the door again. "Toby. They could arrest you for this. I'll give you your game back. Please, come out!"

Toby says nothing while we wait. The official eyes me again, shaking his head. Just then a click and the door opens a crack. He peers through and I pull the game out from my pocket to show him. Then he steps out, grabs the game from my hands, and rushes up the isle toward our seats. One of the waiting passengers exclaims Thank God! while rushing to the bathroom. I stand around, apologizing profusely to everyone else waiting. While returning to my seat I see the flight attendant remove my half glass of wine, ignoring my calls that it's not finished. She walks away as I arrive. And Toby is, of course, playing that same damn game yet again.

---

I fold a black polo shirt and place it into my open luggage carrier, getting ready to leave for that job interview with James and the LA Sentinel. The doorbell rings. I walk to the living-room-with-a-kitchenette and press a button on the wall which unlocks the downstairs front door with a loud buzz. Outside, the sound of stomping grows louder as feet climb the hallway stairs. Then, a knock to my door. I open it.

"Jeremy," comes Sal's harsh voice.

"Hey Sal."

Toby exits from what was my closet of a study. It's just large enough to fit Toby's small bed and bureau.

"Uncle Sal!"

"Hey, kiddo." Sal ruffles Toby's hair. "Look at you! Growing bigger every day." Sal smiles at me and says, "Hey, check these shoulders out!" pointing to Toby, "You going to be a quarterback. Maybe a linebacker!"

Toby looks to the floor rocking back and forth while grinning. He giggles, then says "Hey! Check this out! I'm taller than dad!" He steps beside me and damn if it isn't true. Twelve years old and my son is slightly taller than me. I want to feel proud, but something gnaws at my gut instead, like bad sushi. I force a smile.

Sal grins. "Wow! Yes you are! Look at the big man!" Then he says to me, "Check this out." and turns to Toby. "Come here. I want you to punch your uncle Sal in the gut as hard as you can."

I'm concerned, but Toby but likes the new sport.

"You sure?" Toby says.

"Yeah. Right here." And Sal points to his bulging stomach.

"OK," and Toby lets that K linger in the air while he makes a fist and pulls his elbow as far back as he can. Then he looks to Sal and Sal nods back. Toby lets it rip and punches Sal hard enough to sound a thud. Sal doubles over with an exaggerated Ommmph!

Oh Jeremy! You got a killer kid here! He's dangerous weapon with that fist, I tell you!"

Toby laughs, then asks, " Can I bring my game, uncle Sal?"

"No, Toby. That's off limits now." I interject.

"Dad! It's mine! Are you going to keep it forever?"

"Don't worry about it, kid." Sal pipes up. "We got plenty for you to do. We got games, and you and Timmy can go in the yard and throw a football or something. Plus we rented MegaMan for tonight."

"Alright!" Toby replies.

I give Sal a questioning look. He asks me if I saw it last year, but I shake my head no in reply. Are you kidding me, everyone saw that, he expels. Then he lets me know it's rated PG, not to worry. I nod my head OK. Toby leaves for his room to finish packing and Sal says to me, you got to get out more. I've had a hell of a year, I reply. I hear that, he says back. A typical you are such a culture 'tard type exchange. We share a conversation lull. I stand around looking at nothing in particular, and then try to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Hey Sal, I don't know how to thank you for this."

"Don't worry about it. Timmy and Toby are friends. They'd be doing sleepovers anyway."

"Yeah. The interview is on Monday. I should be back Tuesday afternoon."

"You just land that job. I'll be sad to see you go."

"Yeah, me too. But you know, I have to do this."

"Oh yeah. Money's money." He shrugs. "It looks like it's all working out for you, Jeremy. You got Toby now, maybe a new job." Then he gets a little closer to say, "you think about it, as horrible as it was, maybe it was for the best."

"What, you mean Elise?"

"Yeah," Sal nods. "That's exactly what I mean."

"How could you say that? She was my wife. She's my son's mother. He'll be scarred for life!"

"He'll be fine. People got to learn how to deal with death, Jeremy. Happens to us all someday. And look, she had you by the balls. Squeezing, like. She wiped your bank account, kept the condo, kept the kid. And what happened with your job back there?"

I blanche. Does he know the details of our breakup? How could he know why they fired me? But I'm innocent! I would never do that! I look down at my feet and say with a shaky voice, "It all turned sour, Sal. That's all."

Sal gets up close to me and whispers, "No. She bent you over the very dining room table you bought for her. She fucked you. Bad. Then she kept the table as a souvenir. So, Jeremy, I ask: In this life, do you want to pitch or catch?"

"What?"

"I said, do you want to pitch or catch? Cause lately, you've been catching good." Sal finishes and his eyebrows pop to accent the disgusting analogy.

We both notice Toby's face peering out from a crack in his door. He emerges from his room. "I like pitching. I can throw real good! Hey, Uncle Sal, can we play baseball?"

I gasp in horror, but Sal just shifts the topic right with Toby.

"Sure, kiddo." Sal says, "you and Timmy play whatever you want. You ready?"

"Yup. Got some clothes and some comic books and my sleeping bag."

"Did you pack your toothbrush?" I ask.

"Toby rolls his eyes and with a sarcastic voice taunts, "Yes, daddy."

"Now Toby, you be good" Sal says. Then he turns to me, "It's time we left. Sarah's expecting us for dinner."

I nod, offer thanks again, and open the door as Toby grabs his backpack and rolled sleeping back tied together. Then they leave, feet clomping as they go down the stairs. Just before I close my door and smile as I yell to Toby, "Be good. Have fun! And don't forget to brush your teeth!" Toby turns around and sticks his tongue out at me and waves that damn game with his free hand in reply. How did he find that game? Shaking my head in disbelief, I close the door.

Finally, I'm alone. I go to the kitchenette and remove a bottle of scotch and a shot glass, then walk to my room and sit at the side of my bed. I pour out a shot and I slug it down at once. I pour another, and drink that one too. Then I set the bottle down on the nightstand and rest my elbows on my knees and place my face into my hands.

How could Sal know anything about what went down in DC? How Elise dumped me and why the Examiner fired me like that. Hell, I'm not even sure why I got fired. Like a nightmare, it all just happened without seeming to make sense. One day Elise told me to move out, the next I got served with separation papers and moved to a hotel. Soon after I began hearing whispers by the water cooler that would stop in a burst of quiet as I passed by. Or strange looks from people I barely knew, while old friends and coworkers avoided me. Then, for reasons I couldn't fathom, I was fired. Without cause.

Months later, after finally landing that shit-job in Lowell, I called an old friend back at the Examiner, hoping to get the inside scoop on a celebrity murder case. As soon as he heard my voice he hissed back, "Don't ever call again. You're sick. People like you should never have children. You should be castrated!" Then he hung up. Elise must have spread rumors around the office suggesting that I was a child molester! The fucking cunt! How could she? As my lawyer said after I told him, "It's all too common. In divorce, the preemptive strike is everything."

I pour another drink. Then another again. The buzz begins to really hit me so I lie back. I never used to drink like this. My friends were all upper class snobs who hosted Saturday night brie and wine parties on their upscale patios. We talked opera, Chaucer, or the latest office dirt with a snide laugh. Nothing so real as living harsh, being tough, and standing tall. But all that changed, so now I drink the hard stuff, like a man.

I remember the time we first made love: I over confident, too cocky and vastly inexperienced, she simply happy to be in my arms. Afterward, we held each other in bed as I stroked her. And the wedding, when she shoved that slice of cake in my mouth a little too hard and I had to spit it out, coughing, with her hand patting my back. Everyone laughed. Or that special day I came home from working late. As I closed the door she came up and stood by me eye to eye, kissed and she pulled my hand to her tummy as she whispered into my ear: I'm pregnant, love.

And now she's dead. Gone forever. I begin to blubber out a sloppy crying fit. Shaking in fits, I bury my face into a pillow, staining large wet spots into the fabric. My God. If Sal saw me now. What would he think? That I'm a pussy. Tell me to be a man. Stand up and take what life dishes out. It's all a stream of pain until one day you're plopped dead in a pine box. I pull myself into bed and pour another drink down my gullet, then pass out.

I'm in a warehouse. Or is it a studio? Huge blocks of granite over there. A table filled with tools. In the center of the room an ivory statue of a beautiful woman stands on a golden pedestal. I step forward for a closer look. She's all but nude, with astonishing detail carved throughout. I reach out to touch. Suddenly, her head turns toward me and she smiles. Her arms reciprocate while I step up onto the pedestal, the smell of Elise blossoming from her. We kiss as I stroke her face and she strokes mine, her ivory fingers now flesh. Then her face contorts in fear as if to say: how could you do this to me? In my arms she starts to crack. She breaks apart, falling to the floor in pieces, broken fragments of her arms, legs and torso scatted about; evanescent dust filling the air. I've lost everything and I want to cry. Then I hear a loud buzzing alarm. I look down and find a hammer and chisel in my hands and feel such oppressing guilt! I look up, disoriented. Where is this? I'm in a museum? A red light on the wall flashes with the buzzing alarm. I hear steps rushing toward me. In panic I hurry out the room through a hallway. As soon as I'm in it I can't escape. It stretches to infinity while time slows and the running behind me nears. The buzzing grows ever louder...

It's the alarm clock. I'm hung over and late to catch that plane. I stand, waves of nausea and guilt flowing, as I stumble to the bathroom to get ready.

---

I'm in the hotel at the bar holding my second glass of port by the stem while swirling the syrupy red fluid. It's exceptionally good. Relief pours over me as I consider the day's events. The interview went swimmingly. When James and I finally met we recognized each other instantly, pointing and laughing and saying: hey, I remember you! The Managing Editor is a graduate from our school too. Alum camaraderie, you just can't complain. I smile and finish off that port. Damn, I think I landed that job!

A patron gets up and walks away leaving a copy of the Washington Examiner. I grab it. The front page has the usual stuff: The President complains about congressional over-spending; inflation is too high; there's another corporate financing scandal. I flip through a few pages casually until with a chill I notice a small headline: Congressman Bloom of Wisconsin Dies at 51. Skimming through the short notice, I learn that he died of a heart attack at his home on Sunday. How tragic. I suppress a small smile. Hey, the asshole deserved it.

"Jeremy." Sal announces from behind. I turn startled.

"Sal, what are you doing here?"

He sits down, lights a cigarette and orders a whiskey. Blowing out smoke out he simply eyes me with a detached stare until I break it by looking down at my empty glass.

Sal's whiskey arrives and he downs the shot at once. "Another," and holds up two fingers. The bartender nods.

"Jeremy. I need your help. You got a debt that must be paid."

"What?" Concerned for my son I then ask, "What about Toby?"

"Sarah's got him. Don't you worry about that. You just got to come with me." Sal's next two whiskeys arrive. He slugs them in quick succession. "Well, Jeremy," Sal says in a regretful tone, "I guess it's finally your turn to buy me a drink."

I start to ask what's going on, but he just shushes me and says it's time to go. I drop a couple of twenties on the bar and we get up to leave. I don't know why, but I feel compelled to follow. We step through a set of revolving doors into a beautiful LA night and Sal leads to a parking lot and stops at a rented Lincoln. We get in.

"The interview went great. I think I landed that job."

"Good for you, Jeremy. But I betcha after tonight, you won't take it." Sal turns toward me in his seat, steering wheel jammed into his side, and reached into the back seat to grab a laptop and a manila envelope. He then removes a disposable cell phone out of the glove compartment. He hands me the laptop and says to open it, then hands me a CDROM taken from the envelope. He orders me to insert the disc and select boot from CD on the startup menu. Dubiously, I accept and start the computer, whereupon the machine boots off the removable media. A bunch of text scrolls by too fast to read, then the screen flashes, and a progress meter pops up on the screen crawling toward finish. I sigh, tapping toes within my right shoe while wondering what this is all about.

Sal grabs a screwdriver out of the glove compartment and pries open the cell phone's casing. He pulls a mini flashlight out from his front shirt pocket and bites down to hold it in place. Suitably illuminated, he then grabs a computer cable with one end split into various wires ending in clips and attaches them to spots on the phone's circuit board. I'm befuddled and slightly amused by Sal's unexpected technical expertise. He hands over the contraption telling me to insert the connector into the USB port on the laptop. I do so.

Soon the startup progress meter finishes, the screen flashes, blanks, and a notice is displayed: Network Activated. Then a window pops up: Enter Search Phrase.

"What is going on here?" I ask, but Sal doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls out a sheet from the envelope.

"Type in: TN74X Slutty Suzie's Anal Adventure."

"Are you kidding me?"

"You heard me."

"This is too much Sal. I'm tired. I have to catch a flight back to Boston early tomorrow morning. And that's definitely not my kind of thing."

"Shut. The fuck. Up." He growls. "Do it!"

I begin to tremble, causing several mistakes as I type. Finally I finish. The screen blanks and a notice pops up: Searching... It blanks again, and another notice pops up: Downloading from alt.binaries.multimedia.erotica.anal with a progress meter slowly offering the download tally. We wait until it completes. Then a media player window opens displaying unbelievably vile pornography. Slutty Suzzie's performance is less than believable as she groans out supposed ecstasy. My stomach twists like I want to puke, yet I can't quite look away from the filth and I feel my manhood reply. Another progress meter labeled: Steganographic Extraction pop up as the video continues to play.

"That's fucking disgusting, Sal. This is why brought me here?"

Sal guffaws, "Hey, I don't pick 'em," then he leans over to take a closer look and with a leering chuckle remarks, "God rained fire and destroyed an entire city for that sin. Hallelujah!"

The video and progress meter complete in unison. The screen blanks. A new window pops up with the words: Enter Decryption Key:

Sal looks at his sheet and says, "type in: w1lt3dflow3rs."

"Whatever," I sigh and do so. The screen blanks yet again. Then a driver's license photo of a well dressed brunette woman in her mid-thirties appears, along with a name, an address, date of birth, a telephone number, and a court date for divorce proceedings about six weeks hence. At the bottom of the screen the words: Next Search Phrase: PL29S Mistress Krista Disciplines a Defiant Amy. Next Decryption Key: plat1puss1e.

"It's done. Write that search phrase and decryption key down." He fiddles with an electronic map on the car's dashboard. The screen spits out a route across a street map of LA with moving arrows to show direction. "Now, we drive." He starts the car, pulls out of the parking lot, and tosses the remnants of the disposable cell phone and cable out the window.

We drive without speaking. I'm annoyed and frightened by Sal's asshole behavior, and zone, thinking and peering out the car door window as the cityscape thins into a more suburban landscape. The cell phone was connected to the Internet, obviously. We downloaded pornography. But why? Sal didn't seem to care about the video. Instead we started driving after that woman's ID photo appeared. What the hell? Just then he pulls to the side of the road and stops the car, whereupon I notice that we've parked by a beautiful little townhouse.

"Where are we?" I ask, but he doesn't respond. "What's going on? Why are we here? Are you going to say a Goddamn thing?"

"Shut the fuck up, Jeremy."

Then I notice that the address on the house is the same as listed on that woman's ID from the computer. Oh, shit! "This is the address on that photo. What was that porn all about? What are we doing here, Sal?"

"Public porn postings, Jeremy. The most popular activity on the 'net. Makes for a great haystack to hide us a needle. All you need to know is which video and the decryption key. The gub'mint never sees a thing."

"You're an assassin. A terrorist!" I whisper, trembling. I rub sweaty palms on my pants to control my hands.

"No. Terrorists care about politics, we care about men."

"Please don't kill me. Toby needs-"

"Don't be a dumbass, I'm not going to kill you. If you're going to be killed, they will kill you. I already know you, it won't be my hand that does the deed. And they is everywhere, Jeremy. Everywhere."

"Did they kill Congressman Bloom?"

"Who?"

"He was having an affair with my wife. Before that his wife died in a plane crash. Just seems both familiar and weird. This detective laid it all out in DC."

Sal whips around and grabs my collar, "Did you answer that detective's questions?" Then he pulls me right into his face, halitosis overpowering his whiskey breath, growling "Answer me."

"No! I didn't say a word. I swear! My dad's a lawyer." I lied.

"OK. Just remember, people who answer questions to cops get dead fast." Then he lets me go and I flop back. Sal reaches behind the back seat, grabs a cardboard box. He opens it, removing several items: a pair of surgical gloves; a package containing a plastic rain tarp; a ski mask; a pillowcase; a glass cutting tool; a spray bottle filled with some clear-blue fluid. Finally, he pulls a semiautomatic handgun hidden in the pocket of his blazer. My eyes latch onto that gun like a pit bull's jaws on it's prey, following its every move in utter terror.

 

"His wife died, huh?" Sal pauses for a moment, thinking. "Maybe he was one of us who talked or got in the way. Or maybe not and he just died like anyone else. There's no way to tell. Look, I know just two guys, the man who initiated me and you. My guy knows a guy who initiated him who will never meet me. And up the chain it goes. Nobody knows everybody, even at the top. That way, a guy gets caught, organization stays safe." Sal looks at me with deadly serious eyes to change the subject. "First thing, find a pillow to muzzle the gun blast," he says. "This is bleach. When your done, spray it everywhere. Then go steal shit. Find jewelry if you can."

I suddenly realize what he expects in shock. "No fucking way! No fucking way am I doing that!"

"Yes. Yes you will. We did you a favor, now it's your turn."

"I never asked you to kill Elise! I'm no murderer!"

"Yeah, I know. We arranged this favor for you. Innocence is the best defense with prying cops. Like I said, you'll thank us someday. She fucked you, so we fucked her back for you. But now it's time for you to return that favor. And you got to do this. Look. you love your kid, right? You do this or they kill you, then they whore the kid out. That's the deal. Understand?"

My hand covers my mouth as I blurt "Clemente! Worthington! His little daughter! Oh my God! What are you Sal? What kind of person would do this?"

"A man, Jeremy. Same as you. At least I hope so. Worthington refused to pay his debt. He pussied out. You know what happened after that. Too bad about his kid."

"So you're going to kill me and little Toby if I don't?"

"You don't listen. I already told you, that's not how they work. It happens when you least expect. From someone you never met. And as for your kid, they arrange that in ways I don't know. Look, if she doesn't die tonight, me an my kid, and you an your kid, we are all completely fucked. But if I do the deed, job's still done. So then just you and your kid is fucked. How they know, beats the fuck out of me. But they will know. So I promise you, either way, she dies."

I have another epiphany and begin to feel woozy from the shock. "Your wife... you killed your wife!"

"Jesus Christ, you is stupid. Did you kill your wife? Wish I could thank the guy who did mine though. Saved me a ton of money and got me my kid back. I keep saying, you'll want to thank whoever did it too."

"Oh my God! And what if I run? What if I go to the police? What then?" Tunnel vision surrounds as I panic, craving to flee out of the car, to run from this insane man. The only thing that holds me back is my little Toby. And the visceral fear of Sal grabbing me by the neck and snapping it in two.

"We all get killed. Real quick. Of course by a total stranger, so that's where the trail ends for the cops. " He points the gun at me. "I really don't want you to do that," then looks at me until I nod my head, and continues, "Either way, the organization goes on just like before. Now put those gloves on and get out of the car." He pops open his door and walks around the vehicle. Standing there, he looks over me, waiting. "I said, put on those gloves and get out of the car!" Then he yanks open my door.

"No," I reply in defiance. Sal responds with his fist, smacking my jaw like a cement block impacting bone. My gold wire rimmed glasses are knocked to the car floor by recoil, the jolt an earthquake down my lanky frame. I'm knocked senseless and sway, blurred vision whirling. Without realizing what I'm doing, I grab my glasses and stand up out of the car. Sal pulls the gloves up over my wrists by their open ends as they wrap tightly around my fingers.

"Hold up your arms."

Like an automaton my hands raise, plastic rain-poncho darkness descending as it slips past my head, Sal pulling each of my arms through the sleeves. He lifts the poncho, yanks the pillowcase through my belt, and hooks the spray bottle to the same. Then, grabbing my arm, Sal pulls me toward the house until we're standing in front of a large living room bay window. Inside, the woman from that photograph reclines in a plush chair, with beautiful yellow and red flowers embroidered into the fabric. She breathes softly with the regularity of sleep, her eyes closed, legs resting on an ottoman, a book splayed across her stomach. A pair of black horn rimmed glasses and an empty wineglass rests on an end table. Behind her a print of Picasso's Motherhood hangs on the wall to her right. Through the window I faintly hear one of Chopin's nocturnes playing in the background.

"In six weeks she's going to divorce some innocent man and take him for everything he's worth. Everything that made him a man. That is, unless you do something about it."

I begin to cry, blubbering "no, no, no," in whispers, until Sal grabs my poncho by the nape of the neck, drawing me close, his sour-whiskey breath once again invading my nostrils. He growls "Get it together. Be a man. Do what you got to do!"

As if in response a warmth runs down my legs. "I think I just pissed my pants."

He sighs and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry about it. You won't need those clothes. We burn everything and toss the loot and gun afterwards. Anyway, I pissed myself first time I saw combat in Desert Storm too. Don't matter for shit. Everybody does it. What matters is courage. What matters is standing tall like a man and doing the job. In life, there's precious few times when what you do, at that very moment, matters for everything. You either do or die. It's a time of moral clarity that's thrust upon you. Right now is that time for you. Don't you pussy out!"

I turn away from the window and look into his eyes, saying meekly, "I jumped out of an airplane once."

"An you either pulled that 'chute cord or you died. Right?"

"Yeah."

Then he whips out a flask from his blazer, unscrews the top, swigs large, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He hands me the bottle. I gulp, the stinging juice flowing down as bubbles plop up inside, a calm drunken numbness overtaking my senses. He pulls the ski mask over my head. Then a sharp shove from behind and the front door to the townhouse looms. And suddenly I'm out the plane, tumbling, a hurricane screaming past my ears, thick wrinkles of my clothes flapping about, the ground twirling toward me in a frenzy, clenching onto that rip chord for dear life. And a dead weight is placed in my hand, pulling me to the ground ever faster, my finger wrapped around its trigger. I try to cast all doubt away, calling forth gladiatorial imagery, but instead hear thoughts of: I am not a murderer! Oh God, but I will be. Hey, I took a punch! Will killing a stranger really make me powerful? Can I live with myself afterward? Will other men step out of my way like they do for Sal? Will Toby finally respect me? Worthington's daughter - can't let that happen to Toby! Fuck, Worthington was the real man.

I turn around as Sal lights a cigarette. Then, in a seeming afterthought he whispers coarsely, "Oh - hey, Jeremy," as smoke flows out through his teeth. Staggering backwards I stumble over a granite stone buried along the path and nearly trip. Then my vision of him drunkenly wavers as I stand. Sniffling, I raise a hand to wipe my nose, discover the ski mask sopping wet with tears, and hope Sal doesn't notice my pathetic state.

"Yeah?" I slur.

"Welcome to The Proxies."

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The Proxies rev 3.8 Copyright ©2005 J. Maynard Gelinas.