Authors: Dan Thomas
16
Battle Stations
Bah.
Friday night became Saturday morning, and on into the wee hours the bad pictures in his head rolled and continuously rewound to roll again. Around five, he finally gave up on the idea of sleep altogether and sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his neck. A dull headache scolded his brainstem.
He reached out and touched the handle of the meat cleaver on the nightstand, was reassured by the sight of the Louisville Slugger leaning against the headboard.
Royce got up, went over to the corner where he had dropped his overcoat—an aging Sears ersatz trench coat. If the coat looked bad before, with its dingy grime, it looked simply ghastly now, with the gory blood stains. Keeping the coat at arm’s distance, he snatched up Craig’s baseball bat and headed towards the kitchen (checking on Craig along the way). He rolled the coat up and stuck it in the broom closet. Later, he would run it out to the garage and hide it there until the trash came.
That done, he plugged the phone back into the jack (the “Fuck you!” and “I don’t take any shit!” harassment calls had gone on until two, when he put the phone out of commission). Amazing how Cliff managed such bombasts on a full stomach. The one refreshing incident had been a call (he was sure it was Christine) labeling him a “raging faggot whipping boy queen.” After the first few calls, he had dialed star 69—at seventy-five cents a pop—to confirm what he already knew, that the calls were coming from blocked phones.
Royce started the Mr. Coffee and, bat in hand, fetched the newspaper off the front porch. It was a sunny, mild day for early December.
The front page of the Metro section had screaming headlines about another prostitute’s body found and a shootout between skinheads and the cops. But Royce had his own problems to stew about.
His mind, such as it was, was running with a fevered focus. First thing upon arriving home last night he called Jimmy Westin’s folks. No, Sally Westin, Jimmy’s mother, said, Mr. Westin, Jimmy and Craig weren’t home from the movie yet. It didn’t get out until nine-thirty, she said.
Claiming Craig had a seven-thirty haircut appointment Saturday morning, he asked that the Westins bring the boy home right after the movie, all of which seemed very agreeable to Sally. After all, who wouldn’t want to have a ten-year-old boy out of your charge?
Then Royce had done a hurried security audit of his home, making sure all windows were closed and locked, locating household items that could be pressed into combat if need be (the bat showed the most promise).
Today, though, first thing, he planned on upgrading his arsenal. He turned to the sports section to see if any of the sporting goods stores were running handgun sales.
The phone rang, disrupting his Rambo mood. Time for Russian roulette.
He snapped the receiver off the wall mount, just listened.
“Royce?”
“Les.”
“Did I get you up?”
“No. Jules?”
“Oh, Royce,” Leslie said softly, “she has a long, tough road ahead of her.”
“That seems to be going around,” he said, thinking of Brenda’s son.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. It can wait.”
Les sounded upset with her sister.
“She is spending all her damn time worrying about her disfigurement, when she should be concerned about the radiation treatments and the cancer going into remission.”
“Maybe it is just as well,” he said philosophically.
“I’m coming home tomorrow afternoon. Mom is here now.”
“Do you think you should?” he asked. It suddenly dawned on him that this “thing” with Cliff might be best handled if his wife were out of town—in the event it got out of hand.
“No, there’s nothing more I can do here. Besides, I miss you and Craig. I have my own family to look after.”
He jotted down her flight number and arrival time.
“You sure everything is okay there?” Leslie asked. “There’s something in your voice.”
“Well, we’ll talk Sunday.”
“Okay. Sunday afternoon then.”
“I’ll be there…love you, Les.”
“You too.”
Craig was up, a bewildered look on his face as he saw the baseball bat at Royce’s side.
“Just a little precautionary measure,” Royce explained. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your bat.”
“Gosh,” was all the boy could manage.
After breakfast, they drove to Giant Food (the bat brought along in Darth’s trunk) to pick up a few groceries (chips, pop, milk, cereal and a frozen pizza) and a sci-fi video for the afternoon.
On the way home, they detoured to a sporting goods store. There, Royce approached the gun counter with the same apprehension he would have if he were going into a porno movie house at high noon. He was overwhelmed by the variety of guns, as well as their price tags.
But the sales clerk quickly put him at ease, cheerfully showing him an array of pistols all “suitable for home defense.” Craig, to Royce’s surprise, wasn’t the least bit interested in the firearms, avoiding the gun department to gawk at soccer balls and snowboards.
After handling some lighter automatics (“ladies’ guns,” the clerk categorized them as), he finally settled on (“maneuvered” was more like it) a .357 Colt Python because it felt and looked lethal—a blued steel killing machine that might dissuade a bad person without firing a shot.
“You’ve made an excellent choice. Top of the line. A real man’s gun,” the clerk effused.
“This come with instructions?” Royce asked, hefting the weapon’s awesome weight.
The man grinned. “First gun for you?”
“Yeah,” he conceded, feeling a smidge emasculated.
“That’s okay. Easiest thing in the world to figure out.”
The clerk dry-fired the revolver, demonstrating its double action, then showed him how to open the cylinder and load.
“She’ll have a little kick, but you look beefy enough to handle it easy,” Royce was told. “Under the right circumstances, you could stop a moose with this thing.”
But will it stop Cliff Wells?
he wanted to ask.
With sales tax and a box of bullets, the damages came to a whopping $689, which would just about max out Royce’s MasterCard.
His house needed a new furnace because the present monstrosity was emitting cancer-causing particulates in the air, he still hadn’t bought a single Christmas present for anyone, and here he was plunking down nearly seven bills for a frigging gun.
Still, if the weapon showed Cliff that he really meant business, it was well worth it.
The sales clerk offered to show him a rawhide holster for sixty bucks and tried to sell him a cleaning kit for twenty-four, but Royce begged off, saying he would save those purchases for another day.
“Sure thing, pal. All I need is to see a valid Maryland driver’s license and have you fill out this ATF form.”
“Which is what?”
“Just fill out your name and address and sign that you are over twenty-one and not a felon. You can have your piece in two days, after the background check. Just pain-in-the-ass red tape, if you ask me.”
“Two days? I can’t take it home today?”
“Sorry. It’s the law.”
“But…” Christ, he couldn’t wait two days! He and his family might be dead in two days.
The clerk read the panic on Royce’s face and leaned over to whisper: “Look, pal, I don’t want to lose a sale, but there’s a gun show at the convention center today. No waitee.”
Royce smiled, slipped the clerk a five-spot. “Thanks, pal.”
“Just see Moke, booth three-oh-eight. Man knows his Colts.”
In the car, Craig made a face when Royce announced they were on their way to a gun show.
“It’ll be educational,” Royce said, half kidding. “I’ll buy you a hot dog.”
Royce recalled never seeing Craig play army or G.I. Joe. Craig could vaporize an entire planet on his video screen, but when it came to guns, he was out to lunch.
“Mom says guns are bad,” he said.
“They’re just tools, like a hammer or screwdriver,” Royce retorted, about ready to let loose with the full NRA rap. “They’re only bad when bad people use them.”
“A boy in my school was killed playing with his father’s gun.”
Royce didn’t have an answer for that.
“Royce?”
“Yes?”
“This guy who’s bothering you sounds like a bad dude. Why don’t you just go to the cops? Get him busted?”
Royce smiled wryly. For a mixed-up kid with deep-seated emotional problems, Craig was no dummy.
Late that afternoon they split a frozen pizza and watched the video they had rented:
The Empire Strikes
Back, one of Craig’s all time faves. By Royce’s reckoning, the boy had seen it seven, now eight times. As for himself, three going on four.
Thankfully, the phone had not rung once.
“Here comes the coolest part,” Craig said, moving closer to the screen.
Royce remembered the scene. It was where Han Solo rescues Luke Skywalker in an ice storm on the planet Hoth. Luke is nearly frozen to death. But Solo uses his light sword to split open the sides of this dead beastie (kind of a cross between a camel and an ostrich) and stuffs Luke into the critter’s spewing, steaming white intestines.
“Oh, cool!” Craig said, when the creature’s innards went splat.
“Neat,” Royce agreed, then told Craig he’d be back in a few minutes and headed down to the cellar to become more familiar with Code Blue (his nickname for the newest member of the McCulloch family).
Just handling the piece made him feel more secure, invincible. He was a Big Swinging Dick, with a Big, Big Gun. He drew a bead on the furnace (two-handed, TV-cop style) and pretended it was Cliff he was aiming at.
“Say your prayers and kiss your ass goodbye, old buddy.”
Forefinger quaking, he managed to pull the heavy trigger; the hammer slammed against an empty chamber.
He knew it was a mistake, driving Darth, instead of his wife’s Civic, to Tony’s place.
There weren’t many Porsches in Tony’s neighborhood, on the edge of Federal Hill, so the sports car drew quite a lot of attention. The Garzas’ neighbors on both sides had to amble over, hands in pockets, and kick the tires.
“You gone into drug dealing or what, bud?” Tony asked.
Royce was ready with an answer.
He said, “Just a little perk from Southwest Leasing. I helped them land some heavy capitalization, so they’re letting me borrow this thing for a few days.”
Then he worried that his story about the car’s origin did not jive with the story he’d told Craig (the details of which he couldn’t remember anyway). But his stepson was too busy showing Michael and Sara (the Garzas’ kids) Darth’s rear spoiler to have heard.
“Gee, I’d be careful about parking this car in this neighborhood,” Tony teased. “At the least, they’ll bend your aerial.”
Royce took Carmen and Tony for a ride, then Michael, Sara and Craig, then Mr. and Mrs. Lucero from next door. He felt a little uncomfortable, chauffeuring all these people around with Code Blue in the glove box.
Finally, the novelty of the car wore off, and Royce was glad to be perched in the Garzas’ living room, a Samuel Adams in hand, enjoying the savory chili smells coming from the kitchen.
“I was so sorry to hear about Leslie’s sister,” Carmen said, graciously presenting him and Craig with a “bachelor’s basket” of delicacies that included a whole roast chicken and homemade bread.
He thanked Carmen profusely, explaining that Les would be home tomorrow afternoon and he’d have her call Carmen first thing.
They then dined on hot, green-chili tamales and bowls of menudo (the kids, Tony’s included, opted for “cowboy chili” instead of the soup made with tripe and pozole). Frankly, Royce would have preferred the chili as well, but he was doing his utmost to be in a festive, congenial mood.
After dinner, Tony suggested he and Royce go get some ice cream for dessert.
“Might cool things down for you,” he teased.
The kids wanted to go along (another ride in Darth), but Tony was quick to say they had to stay and help Carmen with the dishes.
“You be okay?” Royce asked Craig.
“Well, sure,” he replied, embarrassed. “I’ll be fine.”
On the drive over to the grocery store, Royce conceded things were heating up.
Tony asked, “The dude threatening you? Physically, I mean.”
“No, nothing like that,” he said slowly. “Just phone calls for now.”
“For now, you said. You expecting this to escalate?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I hope not.”
“You had your talk with Leslie?”
“No, I’ll get that accomplished tomorrow.” Tonight, he would have to script it.
“Then we’d better go to the police Monday, Royce.”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“I have to take a deposition at nine that should be over by ten. Why don’t you just come by my office. We can head over to police headquarters.”
“Okay,” Royce said uneasily, recalling all those photos of him screwing Christine that Monica spoke of. If those got out…
Even with a restraining order, what was to stop Cliff from doing a “general mailing” to all of Royce’s clients and friends before blowing town? Maybe even the mayor and the governor for good measure. Cliff, especially the “new” Cliff, was just that vindictive.
No, he decided going to the police wouldn’t help matters. In the first place, it wouldn’t stop Cliff, who was a psychopath. Secondly, he didn’t relish going public, even to the cops, with this business of the photos. No telling who might find out. And if there were still a chance of Leslie not knowing about the sex part…
“Tomorrow, I want you to write down everything, as many of the details as you can remember. The numbers and times of these calls. Keep a log if you get any more. Write down the exact threatening words used, no matter how obscene. Also include as much personal information about this Cliff Wells—and the female—as you can. If you need help with it, call me. I’ll just be watching the game. Although I don’t know why.”
“Sure, thanks, Tony.” That was Tony Garza for you, a gentleman in the truest, most noble sense of the word—Hemingway’s personal code and all that macho bullshit. God bless him. He wasn’t going to ask who the “female” was. She was a fucking she-bitch, that’s who she was. Would he have to threaten Monica with Code Blue as well?
At the grocery store, Royce popped for a half-gallon of Rocky Road. In the check-out line, his eyes happened to wander to the bulletin board where all the coupons and lost pet announcements were thumb-tacked.
Right below a “Have you seen my cat Nicky?” was a poster with a real out-of-place look and flavor. Its headline screeched, “Have you seen this man?”
He squinted.
Fuck
. The lost man was Royce McCulloch, and the photo was of yours truly standing proud and tall and sporting a boner, a shit-eating grin on his face. Monica was down on her knees before him, her lips firmly clamped around the working end of his peter.
On their way out of the store, Royce bolted to the board, snapped the poster down and secreted it behind his back. He had wadded it and jammed it into his jacket pocket by the time they reached the car.
“You okay, bud?” Tony asked. “You look kind of sick.”
“No, I’m fine.” His face was blazing red, his bowels were twisting, his heart was jackhammering, he was sweating like a sow running a ten K.
“No,” he reiterated, unlocking the doors. “I’m fine.”
On the drive back to Tony’s, Royce vowed to himself to have it out with Cliff,
mano a mano
, ASAP.
Royce pulled Darth into Tony’s driveway.
“I just remembered something,” he said. “Monday I have something I just can’t get out of—an all-day planning session for the board of one of my clients. They’re flying these guys in from all over the country for this.”
The attorney scowled. “Well, then, I guess it will have to be Tuesday, Royce. You really shouldn’t be delaying this.”
“I know. I know.”
“I’ll be in court that morning. One o’clock, then?”
“One o’clock it is. Tuesday.”
By then, Royce hoped, all his troubles would be over.