It’s what I told myself in rhythm with each blow I served to Pittman’s abdomen, a symphony of screams sabotaging my serenity as I flexed Flutte’s index finger backwards to kiss the skin of his wrist on my last job.
I have a family, a dream to get them out of here, to give them the better life they deserve; that has to count for something. It’s the only reason I joined up with McGee’s crew in the first place, that promise for progress. Hell, it certainly doesn’t hurt to be good at what you do, neither- I must have completed hundreds of calls from a few broken ribs there to some hairline fractures here, never once giving up the ol’ ghost and always washing my hands clean after.
That’s why this final job is everything- my last hurrah before it’s curtains for your boy Curtis Cain. Molly and I were looking over beach town flyers the other day, the kinds with a seagull penciled in the corner and the brightest blues shining off the animated waters. The kind with open skies in the backdrop that seem to go on forever, ones you can stare up at and get lost in the safety of the clouds. Yeah, that’s where I’m headed.
Only thing standing in my way is this redneck piece of shit Griffey and the ‘reminder’ McGee asked me to deliver. The only question I’m asking as I wait behind a stack of hay the amber color of burnt wheat in the tweaker’s yard is how I should do it. Something that he’ll remember for next time he decides to skip payment; a mark he can wear around like a badge of honor for the county scum.
After running my hand down the length of my belt, I decide on a pair of rusty metal pliers that look like they have weathered more storms than screws, sporting a spherical stain the color of black cherry that just won’t seem to come out no matter how many times I run it under the washer. I’ve been watching Hank Griffey for the better part of a month now, and after a few observations it became clear of the overweight man’s daily evening habit of opening his screen door to rake the few leaves on his front porch. His workout for the day, probably. I decided a few times after that I would crouch behind these hay stacks that hadn’t been touched since the man moved in with his 19 year old son, Harvey Jr., few years back. The scouting report on these two includes a penchant for moonshine and crank during the evening hours of Jeopardy droning in the background, cashing insurance checks in between commercial breaks. Maybe that’s why I feel as if I’m doing the boy a favor by lighting a fire under the sleazy ass of his father, a free lesson on how the world works.
I peer over the bale just in time to see the pounded screen door handle turn, hear the creak of the latch as it works to open. Like a sick song leading to one’s end, I duck down and move my pliers to the left hand, ignoring the pounding in my heart that even after all these years still refuses to shut up. Hank coughs a phlegm-laced tune as I camouflage under the old oak tree in dire need of a pruning, just 10 feet between me and freedom for my family. Maybe I’ll become a professor of something; hell, I’m sure my skills would translate well to some law enforcement program or something like that.
As I close in on my subject, like a python ready to pounce, I find my gaze shifting from Griffey to the endless open skies above. When I feel the cold steel of the .22 jam into my left ear, all I can hear is the sound of the waves of that bluest ocean crashing against each other, my blood pounding in my head and McGee as the seagull on my last-sight postcard, the one places over my eyes as the shot breaks the silence of the night.
I don’t belong here.
~ fin ~
Brandon Green is a teacher of English, lover of literature, and purveyor of punk rock. He currently resides in Staten Island, New York with his lovely wife and (diabolical) dog. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated by this author, who is currently in the process of planning more work(s) to come.
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