A Wild and Crazy Night
Tracy freaked out when her son staggered into the living room with an arrow through his head. Me? I laughed.
The difference was that she was about 15 years younger than I was, so she'd never seen Steve Martin in anything but sappy romantic comedies. I on the other hand, remembered when he was truly funny, back in the early days when he was "a wild and crazy guy," playing his banjo and doing King Tut. He seemed like a coke-fueled lunatic, and the arrow through the head was a classic.
"What are you laughing at?" Tracy said to me as she rushed over to Owen. As she bent over him, she could see the strip of plastic over the top that held the two ends of the arrow to the sides of his head. "You don't know. He could have been seriously hurt."
"Lighten up, babe," I said. "I did know. I brought it. The kid needs a little fun in his life. So do I." I refrained from reminding her that I just got out of prison two weeks ago. The arrow was in a box of things that my ex left for me in a storage facility.
Owen, just seven years old, rolled his eyes at his over-protective mother as she pulled the arrow off of his head, threw a wide, conspiratorial smile in my direction and ran back to his room.
I'd brought some burgers and fries over to their apartment for us to eat, wanting a quiet night watching TV. She came back and sat down next to me, grabbed her beer and tried to snuggle in to pick up where we'd left off. I'd lost the mood, however; this was the latest in a growing string of reminders that I was way out of my comfort zone here.
It wasn't always like this. I was married and headed toward a comfortable life at one time. Thing was, that comfort was coming too slowly, so when some guys approached me about using my position as the accountant for a chain of car washes to embezzle some money to our mutual benefit, it seemed like a good idea. Those quarters can add up. Want proof? Ask the independent auditor the owner hired after he thought his books seemed a little light. In three years I pulled $38,000 out of there.
The jury ordered me to pay it all back, plus $50,000 in punitive damages. That and three years away. The guys I worked for made it clear I should take the rap quietly, promising to help cover what I owed. But from the first day the bars shut on my cell, I heard nothing from them but more promises, and then nothing at all. I did hear from my wife, who divorced me, sold our house and took our kids out of state.
That left me here with Tracy, a single mother desperate enough for companionship and a male presence in Owen's life that she jumped at the chance to date a parolee. We met the day I was released; chitchat in the food court at the mall where I had stopped to pick up job applications had turned into what was starting to feel like a boyfriend-girlfriend thing.
Actors and rock stars can practically kill people and find work after a breezy stint in rehab, so it didn't seem unrealistic to think I could pay my dues and work my way back to respectability.
Meanwhile, my real job was to track down the guys I'd worked with on the car wash deal to see if I could squeeze the rest of my share out of them, or more. Then I could pay off the restitution and get back to even.
The laughs weren't coming tonight, so I lied about having to get up early the next day to look for work and stood to leave.
"Well, you seemed to think this thing was so funny, so why don't you take it with you?" Tracy said, handing me the arrow. "I don't want it in my house."
I clipped it to my head, bugged out my eyes and let my tongue hang out of my mouth, stumbling toward the door.
"You're terrible!" she said, pushing me out.
"What the hell?"
I furrowed my brow at the kid behind the counter at the gas station as I handed over two twenties.
"What's your problem?" I asked.
He pointed at my head. "Why do you have an arrow through your head?"
"For God's sake, it's a prop. You know, 'I'm a wild and ca-razy guy!'?" I said, pulling it off my head. I had forgotten I still had it on.
The kid just shrugged while he rang me up; I began to wonder if anyone still remembered Steve Martin, and felt really old. I grabbed my 40 of Old Style from the counter and walked out. I hated this swill, but I couldn't afford microbrews anymore. My cell phone—my one luxury, and, if I was serious about landing a job, a necessity as well—started ringing as I headed over to my car.
"Harrison," I said after I had flipped it open.
"So, the rumors are true," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Mr. Harrison has paid his debt to society."
"Who is this? What do you want?"
"I'm just someone who represents someone who appreciates the fact that you did your time quietly, that's all. I understand you've been making inquiries."
"I just want to reconnect and see if I can get the rest of my share," I said, leaning now against my car. "I was arrested before we split that last take. I want that, plus you guys promised to help cover my restitution. I'm tapped out and kind of desperate here."
"Of course. Why don't we get together? We can discuss your situation. Why don't you hop back in your car and drive out to the old packing plant on Cedar. Do you know where that is?"
"Sure," I said. "We're doing this now?"
"Why not? Let's get it taken care of," said the voice. "I know that's a little out of the way, but you're not the only one looking for us, and we don't want to draw too much attention."
I got back in the car and started driving. The packing plant had been closed since before I went away, and numerous attempts by various elected officials to turn it into a park or a casino or whatever the flavor of the moment was had failed. It was mostly a place for kids to go throw rocks or shoot pellet guns. Or, it seemed, for cons to meet.
As I pulled through a broken gate and into the darkened complex of buildings, I thought about what the man had said: "Why don't you hop back in your car?" How could he tell that I wasn't in the car unless they were watching me? And if they were watching me, then this had been no idle attempt to reach me. I was probably being set up.
I thought about going back to Tracy's, or just driving away somewhere, but I was already here and so were they, I was sure. I might as well see where this went. I was probably just being paranoid. I dimmed the lights and pulled through the gate and up behind one of the buildings so my car would be cloaked in shadows. I opened the door, then realized the dome light was like a beacon, so I reached up and flipped it off. I slipped out, left the door open in case I needed to get away quickly and made my way around to the front of the building.
Walking around the perimeter, I was careful to stay in the shadows. I was coming around the corner of one of the buildings when I saw them. Two young goons, each with a pistol held to the side of his leg, looking around nervously to see if anyone was coming. I must have pulled in when they had been turned the other way. I'm sure these were new guys hoping to make their bones so they could really start earning. That made me very nervous. I heard the crackle of what sounded like a walkie talkie.
"You see him yet?" I couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the guy from the phone.
"Nope. But we'll whack him when we do."
Great. A couple of kids brought up on "The Sopranos" and "Goodfellas." Maybe I had a chance.
"So, what'd this mook do?" said the other one.
"He stood up tall and did his time. But now he's asking questions, and questions mean trouble. Probably could have gotten back into things, but now he's a loose end. They want us to tie it off."
I slipped back around the corner of the building and weighed my options. I'd made it into the plant without them noticing me, but I feared I wouldn't be so lucky if I tried to leave. There was a 10-foot chain link fence around the perimeter of the property, and I'd make enough noise to draw their fire long before I dragged my 40-year-old ass over the top. I could wait them out, but they'd eventually see the car and bring enough guys to flush me out.
Sticking a hand in each of my pockets, I took inventory: I had my cell phone—which I took a moment to set to vibrate—a handful of ketchup packets from the burger joint and Owen's plastic arrow. Back in the car was the 40 of beer and nothing else. Not exactly the tools you'd pick to help get out of a jam. I'd bought the car used the week before and knew there wasn't even a tire iron in the trunk.
I slipped back to the car, made sure they couldn't see me and leaned in to pull the beer bottle from the passenger seat. I crawled back into the shadows and tried to think of a plan. I remembered something the guy on the phone had said: Other people were after these guys, too. I could use it to my advantage.
I poured out half of the beer from the bottle a few feet from the open driver's side door of my car, then pulled out my phone and dialed 911. I quietly told the operator there had been a shooting at the plant, then hung up and headed back toward the men.
The plant was really four buildings with raised steel catwalks between them. There were no lights, but a three-quarter moon cast a little light and even more shadows, which I knew would help. The buildings were set up in a quad, with the goons standing right in the center below where the catwalks all converged. I stepped lightly around the corner of the closest building, just 20 yards or so away from them. I knew I had only one chance to make this work.
Still out of sight in the shadows, I waited until they turned away from me to scan the road behind the plant, grabbed the half-full beer bottle by the neck and tossed it high and hard toward the catwalk above the men. Not waiting for it to make contact, I ran back toward my car. The bottle hit the steel beams, making a tremendous racket of shattering glass and clanging metal.
"Damn!" yelled one of the men a second later. "I been hit!"
"Somebody else is here," yelled the other one. "Get down!"
When I got to the car, I slammed the door shut, then opened and closed it twice more, hoping the goons would think there were several people on the grounds. Then, I prepped myself and lay down with my head in the pool of spilled beer.
A few seconds later I heard footsteps approach.
"Holy shit! Somebody took that guy out with a crossbow!"
"Where are they?" said the other guy. "Get down behind the car!"
I laid still, the arrow fixed to my head with ketchup oozing from around each side and onto the ground. I had hoped the whole thing would look real enough in the moonlight to buy me some time.
It did. I heard sirens in the distance, and this time the cops were coming to help me rather than arrest me. Or so I hoped.
"Let's bolt," said one of the young cons. "We'll just tell 'em somebody took care of him for us."
I heard their shoes kick up gravel as they ran out of the gate and down the street. A car started and pulled away as the sirens got closer. I got up, pulled off the arrow, started to wipe the ketchup away from my head and prayed that the cop who responded would be an old guy with a sense of humor.
