Authors: Tim Maleeny
The phone scared the
bejesus
out of Larry and Jerome.
They’d been home for hours, talking through their plan. No television, no radio, just the sound of their own voices until maybe an hour ago, when it seemed there was nothing left to talk about. Larry lay on the couch, sipping Tab and staring out the window. Jerome sat in the kitchen watching the clock. In the perfect stillness of their thoughts, the phone sounded like a fire alarm.
Jerome grabbed the handset and grunted hello. Larry watched as his brother’s brow furrowed and his expression changed from curiosity to wide-eyed disbelief.
“No can do, Z,” Jerome said mildly. “We only had the one toaster.” The wrinkled brow again, followed by, “Never mind, it’s not important. We’d love to help, but that’s boxing outside our weight class, know what I’m saying?” A pause, then Jerome nodded, as if expecting what he’d just heard. “Sure, we can do that, but that’s all we can do. Yeah—crystal.
Adios
.”
After Jerome hung up, Larry asked, “Zorro?”
Jerome nodded. “He changed his plan. Either that or the cop changed it for him.”
“The cop didn’t show?”
Jerome shrugged. “Got me. The only thing I know for sure is Zorro is pissed.”
“How pissed?”
“Pissed enough to call us himself.”
Larry thought about it. Zorro always worked through intermediaries. “What happened to Buster?”
Jerome raised his hands. “What am I, Google?”
“Sorry, what did he want?”
“He wanted to know if we’d kill the cop.”
Larry spit Tab across the living room. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed his mouth and said, “You’re serious.”
“You heard what I said about the toaster.”
Larry took a deep breath. “Probably not the answer he wanted to hear.”
“I don’t know,” replied Jerome. “I think he had to ask, you know? I mean, if we were willing to cross that line, it solves a lot of problems. But he didn’t
want
me to say yes—there was something in his voice…”
Larry picked up the thought. “He wants to do it himself.”
“Yeah,” said Jerome. “So Zorro’s coming here.”
Larry shook his head as if shaking off a nightmare. “What does he expect us to do? Just sit here and wait for him?”
“Nope,” said Jerome. “He wants us to keep tabs on the cop—he said he wants us to be his eyes.”
“His eyes.” Larry put his chin in his hands. His head felt incredibly heavy.
“He’s going to kill the cop, then pay us for our trouble.”
“Pay us?” Larry was incredulous.
“We help him get the cop off his ass, he gives us a bonus, then we’re back in business.”
“I’m done with this…
business
.”
“Me too, bro,” said Jerome. “But one last paycheck would make it a lot easier to kiss it goodbye.”
Larry looked like he was about to get sick. “We don’t have any choice, do we?”
“You want to change the plan?” asked Jerome. “We could run, you know.”
Larry kept his head in his hands but his voice was firm. “It’s a good plan.”
“OK, we stick with the plan.”
Larry sighed. “
His eyes
—he actually said that?”
Jerome nodded. “Those were his exact words.”
“They will be my eyes, and then I will eat theirs.”
Zorro plucked an eyeball from his little jar of horrors, but Julio was unimpressed. Zorro was a pig, and Julio was getting tired of his monologues. He remembered when they were just getting started, struggling in turf wars with rival gangs. Zorro was one of the men, a natural leader, not someone who believed his own bullshit. Julio would come home with blood on his shirt and cash in his pocket. The good old days.
“We will kill everybody,” said Zorro.
Julio shifted his size-fifteen shoes and frowned. “Everybody?”
Zorro sucked on his teeth and nodded. “The cop.”
Julio held up his right hand and extended his thumb. “That’s one—”
“—the brothers.”
Julio opened his index and middle finger and held them high. “Two and three—but I thought they were your eyes?”
“After they spot the cop, they are just loose ends,” said Zorro. “And tomorrow I tie them all up.”
“You’re going to tie them up, and then kill them?”
“No, idiot.” Zorro shook his head. “I am tying up loose ends. I meant it metaphorically.”
Julio nodded. What a
pendejo
. “So how are you going to kill them?”
“
We
,” said Zorro. “
We
are going to kill them.”
Julio shrugged—just another day at work. “OK, how are
we
going to kill them?”
Zorro held up his hands. “You have no suggestions?”
“I say we shoot them.”
“Not very dramatic.”
Julio took a deep breath and spoke very deliberately. “He is—or was—a cop, Zorro. He will have a gun. The brothers—if they don’t run away tonight—will be suspicious. That makes three possible threats, and we are only two.”
“But you, my friend, are a giant.”
Julio held his arms out from his sides. “With only two hands. They live in an apartment building in the heart of the city.”
“The guns will be too noisy then, no?”
“No,” said Julio. “The noise will scare people. If they are afraid, they are more likely to stay in their apartments until the police come. But if they hear a struggle, who knows? Maybe they rush into the hallway to help, become a witness. And then—”
Zorro frowned. “We have to kill them, too.”
“Guns are fast, Zorro. We go in, shoot, and run away.”
“I thought you were going to make the brothers commit suicide.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you decided to kill the cop in his home.”
Zorro grunted. “You’re saying you can’t do it?”
I hate this job
, thought Julio. “I suppose I could…maybe. After we shoot them, we could put the guns in their hands, make it look like they came after the cop, but he shoots them at the same time.”
“A Mexican standoff,” said Zorro, clapping.
“We set them up, and then we run away.” Julio felt it important to repeat the
run away
part, in case Zorro wasn’t paying attention the first time.
Zorro frowned. “What about the eyes?”
Julio clenched his jaw but forced a smile. “You want to go to jail?”
Zorro didn’t answer.
Julio sighed. “We could always get them later.”
“From the morgue?”
“Sure.”
Zorro seemed content. After a minute he said, “Any word from Buster?”
Julio shook his head. “The men are still looking. I think he’s hiding, or he ran.”
“Maybe the cop killed him.”
Julio thought about it. “Maybe.”
“When we find him, add Buster to the list.”
“The list of loose ends?”
“You have another list?”
So this is how you lead your men
. “I’ll see to it myself,” said Julio.
Zorro licked his lips. “We will use guns,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him. “But what kind?”
“Big guns,” said Julio. “The louder, the better.”
Sam drew his gun before he opened the door to his apartment.
He knew someone was waiting inside. The deadbolt had been turned before he left, and now it was unlocked. With his right shoe he flipped the corner of the doormat and saw that his spare key was missing. Given the events of the past forty-eight hours, leaving his key might not have been the best idea.
He flicked the safety off with his thumb and kicked the door open, crouching as he crossed the threshold, gun raised and held steady with both hands. Movement in his peripheral vision as he pivoted toward the kitchen just as Jill started to scream.
Jill’s coffee mug crashed to the floor as her hands jumped into the universal sign for
please don’t shoot me!
When the ceramic mug exploded, her scream came to an abrupt end. Sam lowered the gun and holstered it with a mildly embarrassed look on his face.
“Hi,” was all he could manage. Sam bent to pick up the shards of ceramic at the same time she did—their knees collided and both fell ass-first onto the floor. When they stopped laughing, Jill said, “Sorry I screamed. I never—”
“—had a gun pointed at you before?”
Jill’s eyes answered for her.
“Let’s hope it’s the last time.” Sam stood and brushed off his pants. He took her right hand in his and pulled her to her feet, then kissed her lightly on the lips before stepping back and saying, “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”
Jill forced a smile. “Rough night on the town?”
“Eventful.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Sam took her hand again and led her over to the couch, where they sat, knees again touching. “You want me to?”
Jill gave a tentative nod. “But maybe later, OK?”
“Sure.” Sam leaned back on the couch and tried to decompress. Still holding Jill’s hand, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze reflexively moved to the mantel, and what he saw there made him sit bolt upright. He released Jill’s hand as he stood and crossed to the fireplace with a sudden sense of vertigo.
All the frames were where he’d left them, but every picture had been replaced, some restored, others new. But in every frame the eyes looked back at him. His own face, smiling. Danny, trying to look serious. And Marie, her eyes as full of love as ever.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Jill. “You had told me where you kept your key, and I was going to make you dinner, but the pictures…” She faltered, then said, “I couldn’t stand looking at them. So I snooped around a little in your closet and found that box of photographs…”
She stood behind him a few feet, hesitant, wondering if she’d crossed a line. When he spoke, she couldn’t see the tears in his eyes, but she could hear the emotion in his voice.
“Thanks,” he said simply. “This is better than any dinner.”
“I should’ve left a note on the door. Didn’t mean to startle—”
Sam turned and took her in his arms. As they embraced she backed toward the couch, a slow and awkward waltz that ended with her pulling him onto her as she fell. Within minutes they were on the floor and their clothes were scattered across the couch that Sam realized wasn’t nearly wide enough.
Afterward Sam padded down the hall and returned with a blanket. Pulling cushions from the back of the couch, he made a makeshift bed and lay down facing the sliding glass doors and the night sky, Jill lying in the crook of his arm.
“That was nice,” she said.
“You really do have a talent for understatement.”
“Want to tell me about your night?”
Sam shook his head. “I’d hate to ruin the mood.”
Jill ran a hand across his chest. “Fair enough. You can tell me later.”
“Deal.” Sam pulled her close. “How was your night?”
“After you left I kept working on the computer.”
“Singing?”
“Some, then I took a break and did some real work—the kind that pays the rent.”
“Websites,” he asked. “Or graphic design?”
Jill paused as she gave him a squeeze. “Shalya came over for a while. We worked on their site. They’re making a lot of changes.”
Sam chuckled. “Those girls will be co-presidents one day.”
“Of their own company?”
“Of the country.”
“You really should visit the site.”
“You won’t get jealous?”
“It’s some of my best work.”
Sam lifted the corner of the blanket and looked at her with open admiration. “Ever think about having your own site?”
Jill snatched the blanket away from him. “I’m too modest.”
Sam laughed. “Could’ve fooled me.” After a minute he said, “Thanks for coming over. Next time—”
Jill put a hand over his mouth. “Next time I’ll leave a message on the door.” Her eyes went wide and she sat up, adding, “I forgot to tell you—”
“What?”
“Earlier,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen and the phone sitting on the counter. “You got a message. I heard your machine pick up while I was rummaging around in your closet, so I didn’t hear the message—only the last part when I came into the living room—but it sounded important.”
Sam glanced toward the kitchen but didn’t move. He was way too comfortable, even though his arm was falling asleep from the weight of Jill’s body. He didn’t want to move ever again. “Did you hear a name?”
Jill nodded against his shoulder. “Oliver. He said you should call him back.”
Sam continued to look toward the kitchen but didn’t budge.
“Maybe you should call him back,” said Jill. “It might be good news.”
“Not likely.” Sam was about to describe Twisted Oliver’s penchant for doom when there came a knock on the door.
“Shit.” Sam stood, naked, and grabbed his gun from the counter.
“Who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “But it might be bad news.”
Sam held a pillow in his left hand and a gun in his right. The gun covered the door while the pillow covered his crotch.
He checked the peephole and sighed, relieved it wasn’t Zorro knocking. But he wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight, especially the two in the hallway. At his signal, Jill unlatched the deadbolt and pulled open the door. Sam took a step forward, gun raised.
Larry and Jerome raised their hands in perfect synchronization, as if they’d practiced as understudies for the touring company of Bob Fosse’s
Chicago
. Their eyes became perfect circles to match their open mouths. Larry was the closer of the two, so Sam dropped the pillow and dragged him into the apartment before his vocal chords caught up with the expression on his face. Jerome came trailing behind.
Jill shoved the door closed behind them.
“We come in peace.” Jerome kept his hands up.
Sam studied the startled pair before lowering the gun and saying, “Live long and prosper.” Then he turned and walked back to the living room, where he set the gun on the mantle before reclaiming his pants from the floor. By the time he pulled them on, Jill had come over to sit on the couch. She curled her legs beneath her and watched the two brothers with an amused expression on her face.
Jill had thrown Sam’s dress shirt on for cover, but her legs were bare and her breasts swayed suggestively under the fabric. Sam noticed Jerome taking mental snapshots for retrieval later and was going to say something when he realized Larry was looking at him in the same way. Frowning, he cleared his throat, which had the desired effect. Both brothers immediately tried to make eye contact with him.
“What do you want?” Sam asked.
“A beer would be great,” replied Jerome. Larry smacked him on the shoulder. Jerome flinched and added, “Or coffee would be cool. Whatever’s easier.”
“We need your help.” Larry cut in.
“With?”
The two brothers looked at each other. As if some silent exchange had taken place, Jerome turned and said, “With Zorro.”
Sam took an involuntary step forward. “What do you know about Zorro?”
Larry looked at his feet. “It’s a long story—”
Jerome nodded. “—about two brothers and their toaster…” Larry smacked him again but Jerome was on a roll. “…a story of hope, betrayal, and the search for true love—”
Larry managed to get his hand over Jerome’s mouth long enough to say, “We’re in trouble—” Jerome shrugged him off and added, “And so are you.”
Sam stared at them and tried to figure out what was part of their act and what was the result of years of unsuccessful therapy. Finally, he gestured at two chairs adjacent to the coffee table and said, “What’ll be, then? Beer?”
Larry sighed with visible relief and said, “Got any Tab?” Jerome shook his head in embarrassment and took the nearest chair.
A minute later Larry sat sipping a Diet Coke. Jerome held a bottle of beer. Jill gathered up her clothes and said her goodbyes. Sam walked her to the door and said, “You’re welcome to stay.”
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Tell me about it later.”
Sam smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
Jill lowered her voice. “I should be thanking
you
for that…”
Sam blushed despite himself. “OK, then. We’re even.” He stepped into the hall and watched until she reached her door and opened it. She waved once and then was gone. Sam turned and crossed into the kitchen, where he grabbed a beer of his own.
“OK, let’s hear it,” said Sam.
“Well,” said Larry, “we make sandwiches—”
“—but not
just
sandwiches—,” said Jerome.
“—we also make a lot of money—”
“—a
lot
of money—”
“—because Zorro is our business partner—”
“—sort of a
silent
partner, only—”
“—lately…”
“…he hasn’t been so silent—”
It went on like that for almost an hour, neither brother finishing a single sentence. Their story was one long, unbroken narrative that Sam couldn’t have interrupted if he’d tried.
When they had finished, Larry looked at his can of soda and said, “I have to pee.”
“Me, too.” Jerome placed his empty beer on the coffee table.
Sam almost shook his head in wonder. Maybe they were born Siamese twins, joined at the hip from birth? He gestured down the hall. “There’s two. First right, or keep going through the master bedroom for the second one.”
Jerome stood. “I’ll make the long walk.”
Larry followed him down the hallway. While they were gone Sam tossed his beer bottle into the recycling bin and started a pot of coffee. He suspected this was going to be a long night.
Next to the coffee pot, the Ziploc bag of cookies Gail had forced upon him sat neglected. Sam tried to remember all the flavors but only came up with
macaroon
. That morning seemed a lifetime ago. One day you’re chatting with the nice old lady down the hall, a few days later you’re waiting for someone to cut your eyes out.
Just to the right of the untouched cookies, the answering machine lobbied for his attention, its red eye blinking mournfully. Sam glared at it but it kept blinking, even when he didn’t. Sam sighed. Sparing a glance down the hall, he pushed
play
.
Twisted Oliver’s unctuous voice filled the room.
Sam stared at the answering machine as the tape unspooled, his expression changing from anxious to confused as he tried to reconcile what he was hearing with the more pressing problem of Zorro. It was a litany of medical terminology, chemical names, facts and figures, Oliver getting excited about puzzle pieces that still needed to be fit together. Words that needed to be translated into plain English. When the message was over Sam took a deep breath and looked at the clock to see if it was too late to call. Oliver and his theories would have to wait. Unless Sam could figure out how to survive the next twenty-four hours, Danny was going to have to connect the dots, right after he attended Sam’s funeral.
The brothers returned to their respective chairs. Sam took the loveseat across from them and started asking questions. Cop questions, one right after another, not giving them time to think or manufacture any bullshit. He kept on them for half an hour, at which point they looked more exhausted than defensive. Finally, Sam leaned back in his chair. “It took balls coming here.”
Larry and Jerome looked at each other, their expressions clear that they’d considered it an act of desperation.
“You could run,” said Sam.
Jerome shook his head. “That never works. Seen too many movies.”
Sam didn’t argue. “You could have done what Zorro asked and set me up.”
Larry frowned as Jerome said, “You think Zorro’s gonna leave us alive, after he kills you?”
“Not a chance,” said Sam. “He’s planning to kill you both.”
Larry sucked air through his teeth, as if hearing the threat spoken aloud had knocked the wind out of him. Jerome put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and ground his teeth together before saying, “Zorro thinks he’s going to kill us, but he’s wrong.”
“Sounds like you have a plan.”
The brothers nodded in unison.
“Good,” said Sam. “So do I.”