I.
If
the Torrance Costco would’ve just had the right
damn pickles, Montrose Laughlin III wouldn’t have had to stifle his
day, driving mother’s beloved Jag twenty minutes outside his
comfort zone to visit the Long Beach Costco. Although, it wasn’t as
if he had any real plans—like most days. The inconvenience was what
irked. Surely, the Torrance store’s employees had taken notice
every time he trudged inside (first day of every month) to re-stock
his cabinets for another thirty days. And he always
bought multiple
four-packs of monster hot and sour dills—couldn’t live without
them—and now, today of all days, they hadn’t the foresight to
replenish their goddamn load. For certain, the world was playing a
fine cruel joke.
The
San Diego Freeway was crammed, inching along, bumper to bumper—no
longer functional in its design for modern vehicles. Mother’s
Jaguar hadn’t been on any freeway in over two decades, a garaged
beauty fit for coastal cruises or a night on the town. She’d be
inflamed at the thought of her only son cruising her “baby” into
the bowels of Los Angeles on such a laughable task. But she couldn’t
react one bit, not from the mantel she was perched back home—her
gold urn, cold and unamused as her lifelong gaze. The Jag’s engine
revved in-place. Monte huffed in defeat, searching the radio for any
sign of sports talk, it being mid-season when baseball trades shook
the world.
He
arrived at the Costco thirty minutes later than it should’ve taken,
exiting the car and charging a bay of carts. By the clothes on his
mousy frame, one never would’ve pegged him as an heir to a real
estate fortune. When mother passed, he gave up on appearances, one
thing she had an iron-grip throughout his youth. Private school
uniforms. Apparel for every season in matching hues. The last time
he’d purchased sneakers was in 1997: Air Jordans (black/red/white),
an entire crate, size nine. Same with baggy denim and loud T-shirts.
Mass quantities of comfort that he didn’t care looked dated
nowadays.
Mother’s
ghost just grabbed her chest.
For
a Tuesday afternoon, the store seemed tranquil. Layout looked to be
nearly identical to Torrance, so he headed through stacks of
processed foods, towards giant canisters and condiment buckets. Eight
pallets ahead, on the left, sat the pickled goods. The sight of that
pink pig on every jar nearly sparked flatulence. He loaded up the
cart, buying triple his usual, just in case Torrance couldn’t get
their shit together. After free samples of sausage and a long line at
the register, he was back on the road for home.
***
With
the 405 still a mess, Monty navigated streets, hoping to open the
Jag’s engine down Willow till it morphed into Sepulveda. Hadn’t
been outside the South Bay in so long, almost forgot what the real
world looked like. Everything was in decline: roads, buildings. The
violet pedals on jacarandas even appeared to be weeping. He revved to
a stop at Long Beach Boulevard; the looks on other drivers’ faces
had him wishing he’d raised the convertible’s roof. A hearty
voice called to him from the center median. He craned to see a large
black gentleman holding a sign with a picture of a teen flashing his
gold teeth. The poster blared, FUNERAL DONATIONS 4 ’LIL MEEZY.
“Anythin’
will help us, sir. My son. Firstborn—only twenty-three an’ taken
back to God’s glory.” The man pointed across to the far median.
“Two young girls ova dere his keeds. Four an’ nine.”
Monty
scanned the intersection, watching other poster clad family members
walk up and down car lanes, pleading for compassion, scooping an
occasional dollar. The light flashed green. Monty returned to the
man, meeting his crystal gaze. “Sorry. No cash.”
Before,
“God bless,” could leave the poor man’s lips, Monty’s engine
charged west.
II.
Lamont
Craig II decided he’d had enough for today, soon as that pricey
foreign roadster left him penniless, flying down Willow—its driver
a disheveled, shell of a man. He guzzled a large Gatorade from out a
cooler in the rear of his “work truck”— a ’92 Suburban with
magnets across its body that read:
CRAIG
ELECTRICAL CO.
You’ve
been Had by The Rest. Now try The Best!
1-888-GO-CRAIG
His
wife, Eloise, was fanning off his granddaughters with a newspaper
beside him, misting water above their beaded braids. Their faces were
painful to take in, two pairs of his dead son’s eyes beaming back.
He handed the bottle to his remaining son (Trey, eighteen), busy
counting donations they’d gathered before the heat beat them down.
“What it do?”
“Made
like two hunny.”
Lamont
reflected, adding the total for the past two days in his mind: $520.
A drop in the bucket—the urn
for
what they needed to send his boy to heaven right. There was no
savings to dip, no retirement plan to plunder. This was all a bad
dream, aftershocks in play for the rest of his days.
How
could his boy be gone in a whisper?
Eloise
loaded the girls into the car, its insides finally cool enough to
buckle them. The men climbed inside. As Lamont drove home, the blank
looks off every person he approached in that intersection churned the
brain. Nevermind what they thought:
another dead thug on the ghetto streets. To them his boy was probably
just some hood that deserved what he got. But
he didn’t.
No one earned the right to be on the wrong side of a bullet—no
matter who they were. And Lamont Craig III—Meezy to the homies—was
his son. His blood…taken out like a rabid dog for wearing the wrong
color shoes. He sparked a Marlboro 100 to vanquish them all, those
dumb stares, ghosts out his lungs into a blistering sun.
***
Eloise
and the girls gently wept in the backseat; Trey handed over fresh
Kleenex as the Suburban pulled into the driveway of their weathered
abode. Couldn’t remember the lawn ever being green or window bars
not rusted. His brother would often joke about the place, calling it
The Kennel, often met by father’s sneer; Pop’s knees had been
obliterated by years spent crawling floors, wiring nicer homes in
better neighborhoods so his family could eek out this life. One thing
was certain: There was no way he’d be another stooge on his knees
when he
grew up. Life was one big hustle, either the moon or the gutter, and
Trey wasn’t going to gamble on something better—he would achieve
it—become a professional in this world. He’d already killed the
SATs and been accepted to two private colleges. Wasn’t like he was
in line for any grants or scholarships though. The plan was to hit
Long Beach Community for his undergrad; hopefully by then, he could
save enough working for Pops and take out a loan to help make that
dream a reality. But there was one major caveat: He wouldn’t be
taking over the family business, like his brother was supposed to—and
that wouldn’t be tolerated by Pops. Shit, just going to community
college got met with a chuckle by the old man. With this sudden death
in the family, that dream would have to be a secret from now on.
The
room he shared with Junior had cracks in the walls covered by
pictures of Gang Starr and Tribe. (He never called him Meezy. He was
Junior since day one—no matter what the streets claimed.) Band
posters were all that Momma would allow, never tolerating big titties
or butt cracks inside her home. He opened the closet, staring at
Junior’s blue wardrobe, taking out a puffy Dodgers jacket and
sniffing it, burying emotion deep inside. He slid it on in front of
the mirrored door. His hands dug into the pockets, right one hit
something cold, hard. Instantly, he knew what it was, slowly pulling
out the revolver, noticing it was loaded.
The
fuck, Junior?
When
did it all go south?
He
opened a high drawer, one used for socks and undies, burying the
Smith & Wesson deep inside. He wondered how much it’d fetch on
the street. Could
buy a haul of textbooks.
Knew exactly who to approach: Kermit. Tomorrow they were going down
to the funeral home too—same one Kermit’s dad owned. He’d
probably be there, working. Kermit ran with a questionable crew, like
most boys out here. Surely, he’d know someone that needed a
piece—hell, maybe even himself. Trey took another glance in the
mirror before tearing off the jacket and kicking it into the closet.
III.
A
brisk, salty breeze welcomed Monty back to Manhattan Beach, ocean a
snoring beast in the distance. To think his great grandfather had the
foresight to purchase large swaths of acreage up this coast many
years ago; Monty still held title to several homes and businesses
throughout the community. Would’ve had more if mother hadn’t
began selling off parcels to eager socialites and celebrities
throughout the ’70’s. Didn’t really matter though—not like he
had any children or other family to pass the fortune. If he ever got
short of money, he’d just sell a home for five to ten million and
go on with his humdrum ways. There were no worries in store for
Monty, so when the issue of a potential new neighbor moving in next
door became a possibility, it tilted his barge.
ESPN
radio had no reports of any Dodger players being traded yet. Monty
felt a short relief wash over as the Jag climbed up his narrow
driveway, then descended into a subterranean garage. The home was
originally built as a two-story, back when his father still
controlled the acreage between it and the coast. Upon his passing,
after mother’s selling spree to uphold her gilded existence, the
home was demolished and re-built to accommodate four-stories,
cementing a panoramic view above all who’d built downhill. Monty
rarely even visited the first two stories, now converted into
storage, filled with mother’s artifacts from her global escapades
and priceless paintings sheathed in plastic. He rode the elevator up,
arms heavy with pickle jars. Approaching the kitchen, a sound of the
television brought concern. In the living room sat his best and only
friend, his neighbor—a relief pitcher for the “Boys in Blue”
named Robbie Slate.
“Elle’s
having another one of her Real Housewife parties. Had to bail, man.
You don’t mind, right?”
Monty
tossed him a beer can from out the fridge.
Robbie
caught it with his right arm—the left shackled in an intricate
brace from a recent labral tear repair.
“My
place is your place—why I gave you that emergency key. You didn’t
have a problem with the new security system, right? Same code.”
“Nah,
it was cool. What’d you do to it?”
“Upgraded
the surveillance—smaller cameras. Guess I just got bored with the
old one. They’re coming out next week to set-up the exterior."
“You
don’t have outdoor cameras?”
“I
do, but the monitor’s busted. Wear and tear.”
Robbie
popped the can with his teeth and sniffed its contents. “This a new
South Bay brew or what?”
“Nah,
they’ve been ’round a few years. Harbortown Ales. Specialize in
Belgians but this is their unfiltered Citra DIPA. Drink it.”
Robbie
swilled. “Tastes like oranges…grapefruit even.”
“People
are going ape shit for it—camping out along Western.”
“Fuckin’
delicious. You buying in?”
“I’ve
made it known that I’m willing to invest. They’re all young
though. Kids. The brew master ain’t out his twenties. See what
happens, but yeah…I want in.” He cracked his own can. “Heard
you haven’t been placed on the chopping block yet.”
“Who
told you that?”
“Radio.
If you get traded, wanna sell your house back to me?”
“Fuck
no. We’ll rent in whatever shit city they send me.”
“If
you get traded.”
“Yeah…if.”
“Think
it’ll happen?”
“Fuck
if I know. My numbers were solid, before…” He raised his broken
wing.
“What
the doc say?”
“I’m
on ice for at least ten months—best case scenario. Anyway, if I
don’t hear from my agent by midnight tomorrow, I’m good for
another season.”
He
plopped on the couch, admiring a yacht in the bay.
“Lemme
ask you something, Monty.”
“Shoot.”
“Beer,
you serious? Why don’t you put money in real estate—I mean, it’s
in your blood, bro?”
“Golden
Road just sold to Budweiser for nearly a billion. How’s beer not
lucrative these days? I own enough property as it is."
“I’m
talking new developments. Have you been in downtown lately?”
He
laughed. “No."
“Elle
and I were at this charity function the other night—”
“What
charity?”
“Some
foundation for the blind—or maybe it was prostate cancer. Shit, I’m
at so many of these things, I lose track.”
Monty
reflected on the last time he ever did anything nice for anyone other
than himself. Charity?
He should try it one of these days.
“What
was I saying?”
“Downtown.”
“Yeah,
so, we’re at this dinner at the Ritz—I’m gazing out the
windows, taking in the view. Fuckin’ cranes galore, man. Every
corner has something new going up—and I mean up—high
in the sky. Most of the designs are bat-shit too. Everyone’s got a
boner for Frank Gehry, right? So, then it hits me. The
Future.”
“Future
smacked you in the face?”
“Kinda.
Marvels
are being built, man. Mini metropolises. Giant works of art!
Live/Work/Play. Condo owners never have to venture out their
building’s grounds. That’s when it hits me—this is the future
of Los Angeles. Build some giant campus—a contained city within the
City, make it shaped like something weird—a legion of colliding
locomotives or some shit. Next door, a developer builds another, even
more outlandish—the view out every unit window framing another 3-D
Dali built across the way. That’s the future. Build ’em high and
keep folks dumb—drunk on steel. I’ve already got my accountant
reaching out to developers, ones moving into South Central. Never
been done before in the history of L.A. The future is now, and if you
don’t buy in, you’re gonna miss out, man.”
Monty
snickered into his beer.
“That
funny to you? Think I’m crazy, right? I’m not.”
“No,
I feel you. It’s just—”
“Just
what?”
“My
father used to always say the
future
depended on investing in children—their livelihood…education.”
“Whose
children? You an’ I don’t have any dogs in that race.”
“I
know but kids own the future—can’t argue with that—even ones
that brew beer.” By the twist on Robbie’s face, the concept was
lost, so Monty refrained. “Forget it. That’s a good idea
though—yours. I’m sure you’ll make a killing."
“Damn
right.”
“’Nother
beer?”
“Please.
Hey, you should come with Elle and me to the next event. She thinks
you look generous. Always says you got them Vin Scully eyes. Very
kind.”
Monty
headed for the kitchen, smiling. “Don’t know about that, but
Elle’s an angel for thinking.” The word charity
flashed like neon in his brain.
Why
hadn’t he entertained it earlier?
He
knew the answer, it reflected back at him, eye to eye in the sleek
refrigerator door. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. Come
here, check this out.”
Robbie
rose from the couch and joined Monty before a ceramic nude bust of a
female torso, hanging at the hallway entrance. “That’s cool, man.
Erotica.
New?"
“Yeah.
See anything weird about it?”
Robbie
analyzed the bust. “Nah.”
Monty
switched off the hall lights. Inside the ivory nipples were pinpoint
red dots.
“No
way. New security cameras?”
Monty
nodded. “These spy minis are all over. Pretty cool, right?”
“Shit,
yeah. Maybe the home security market is where to invest?”
“Possibly…or
else we just keep on living our dang lives.
Monty
smiled as Robbie mimed slurping an areola.
***
Next
morning, the Jag pulled into an industrial corridor just north of Old
Town Torrance. The Strand Brewing Co. was located inside a large
warehouse where craft beer was brewed and bottled on a daily basis.
Monty retrieved two amber growlers from out his trunk and walked
inside to have them filled. The tasting room staff didn’t know him
very well, but they knew of
him—word through the beer community about some stiff with deep
pockets, hoping to pay to play in their business. He sipped a pint of
pale while his bottles were filled, sitting at a picnic bench,
scrolling through his cell to see Robbie’s trade status. Looked
like his neighbor was safe for now, their conversation yesterday
keeping Monty awake for part of the night. He
should
do something positive with his inheritance.
An act that would cost little to him but change someone’s life for
the better. Fuck real estate, that empty void often displaced those
truly in need. A random monetary donation would be like tossing a
stone into a lake, watching the ripples, knowing that he made the
impact. He’d start off small, maybe pay for someone’s groceries
or write a check to a soup kitchen or. . .
What
would Vin do?
The
beerback called his name; he approached for both growlers. The moment
his fingers touched that icy brew, it hit him like a crisp jab.
Yesterday:
that family with the funeral!
A
grin climbed his face as he rushed to the Jag and peeled out the lot.
***
The
intersection mirrored the day before, family members at every median
in the ninety-degree heat. Monty spotted the father at the southerly
light; he hooked a right down Long Beach and cut a quick U, heading
back to Willow. The father looked in his direction, but upon seeing
him, turned and headed back to a foldout chair set-up with an
umbrella. Monty honked to get the man’s attention. Soon as he
craned, Monty waved him over.
IV.
Lamont
leaned Meezy’s poster to his chair and approached the foreign
roadster, thinking, Fuck
this white fool want?
Grin on the dudes’ face was waxy—kind he’d seen in a hundred
horror movies. Before he could open his mouth, the man spoke.
“I’d
like to have a word with you.”
“’Bout
what?”
“This
whole production you got here.”
“Production?”
Lamont sneered. “Get the hell on witchoo.”
“I
mean no disrespect—that came out wrong.”
“Ya
think?”
“I
wanna help. Can we talk somewhere?”
Lamont
scanned the intersection; Trey was giving him a look, wondering what
was going on. He waved him over. The light turned green. “Meet me
in the parking lot—over there,” he pointed, “beside that
Suburban.”
***
Trey’s
face remained blank, wondering who this white man was in the vintage
Air Jordans, along with his agenda. By the frozen look on Pop’s
face, figured the old man held the same thought.
Monty
stood silent for a beat, wondering if they’d misheard him. “Said
I’d like to cover the costs…for the funeral—all of ’em.”
Lamont:
“May I ask why? I mean yesterday you—”
“That’s
just it. Yesterday got me thinking. Seeing your family out here, that
picture of your son—couldn’t recall the last time I ever helped
anyone beside myself. Look Laah…what was it again?”
“Lamont.
This here is my son, Trey.”
“Lamont.
Trey. Nice to meet you. I know this may sound bizarre, and I
understand your tentative reaction, but hear me out. My name is Monty
Laughlin. I’m a lifelong Angeleno from Manhattan Beach who is
capable of erasing the financial burden of your tragedy. That’s all
there is to it. There are no hidden fees with this offer or monetary
gain seen on my behalf—only the satisfaction of knowing that I did
something positive today—helping ’Lil Meezy get a proper burial.
Now…all you gotta do is say yes, and we can get started.”
“I’ll
need to speak with my wife first.”
“Sure
thing. I’ll wait.” He watched as Lamont walked to the rear of the
Suburban, tractor beamed by his spouse’s hungry eyes.
Trey
stayed put. “You serious about all this, Monty?”
“Cross
my heart. Can I ask what happened to your brother?”
“Got
shot outside a strip club—Fantasy Castle—over in Signal Hill.”
“Jesus.
I saw that in the Times.
They catch the bastard responsible?”
“Nope.
Never do. Say, what you do for a living?”
“I’m
in between things at the moment. Guess you could call me a…Beer
Man.”
“Beer?
What, like Bud Ice or something?”
“Craft
beer—West Coast IPAs mostly. I’m trying to invest in local
breweries.” The kid looked at him as if he were speaking French.
Lamont
returned with his wife and grandkids.
Monty
said, “Well?”
The
woman let go of the children’s hands and walked up to him, a
glimmer in both eyes. For some reason, Monty had the feeling she was
about to slap him. Before he could flinch, the woman wrapped both
arms around his ribs and began to sob.
***
They
insisted Monty come to their home for lunch; after all, they needed
to discuss moving forward with his help. Trey asked to ride along
with him in the Jag, helping guide the way. Monty couldn’t believe
this turn of events, a simple decision having him feeling completely
alive.
“You’re
going to have to park this car in our driveway. Believe me. You don’t
want it out on the street.”
Monty
surveyed the neighborhood, his jovial feeling subsiding with every
awkward glance by young men draped in blue, loitering on corners or
smoking on front porches. The sight of their home struck him oddly,
its deferred state. To Monty, the place was condemnable. He parked
where Trey recommended, not having the gumption to tell the boy that
this car meant as much to him as finding a heads-up penny.
He
humored his way through a lunch of leftover soul food, the dish both
warm and comforting. A Black Jesus cast judgement upon him, crucified
to a far wall. A matching Last Supper hung near the dining table. He
grubbed as the couple let on. Lamont and Eloise had already picked
out a funeral home they would use, a friends’ business. Still up
for discussion was the proper urn for their child’s ashes. Lamont
slid him a brochure with some modest looking urns, nothing close to
the grandeur of mother’s golden vessel.
Monty
slid back the brochure. “Why don’t we head on down there and see
what else they have. I want everyone to be satisfied.”
Lamont
smiled at Eloise, taking off her apron. “Well, they were expecting
us to swing by today.
Monty
wiped off with a napkin. “Great. What’s the address?”
“I’ll roll with you. Lemme just grab my phone and meet you out
front.” He sprinted into the bedroom, opening the closet and
retrieving the pistol from Junior’s jacket.
V.
The
crematorium was located amongst a stretch of dilapidated commercial
and industrial buildings, the last functioning business on the whole
damn block. Monty counted liquor stores and USMC billboards the whole
way there. Once he parked the car in the lot, Trey began to giggle.
“What
is it?”
“Nothin’.
Just your getup is all? You realize what kinda shoes you’re
wearing, right?”
“Jordans,
man—come on. I love these shoes. Now you’re gonna goof on me?”
“Goof?
Nah. Them kicks be worth a lot a cash, dog. Jordan eights. Saw a pair
online go for over five
hunny.”
“No
shit?”
“True.”
“Well,
then I guess I made a smart investment, huh? What size you wear?”
Trey
perked. “Twelve.”
“These
are size nine. Bummer.”
Trey
squinted, contemplating a biblical gesture. “Were you just about to
give me the shoes off your
feet?”
Monty
killed the engine. “What?
No. Just asked ’cause I have about twenty pair in their original
boxes, back home. Bought them in bulk in ’97. Would’ve given you
a pair, if they fit. Bummer, right?”
“Damn
straight.”
They
exited, Suburban pulling into a slot beside them. Trey watched the
interaction between Monty and his parents; the man was some kind of
genie, one they never summoned.
***
Monty
chummed it up with the head of the mortuary, a skeletal black fellow
named Isaiah. They exchanged pleasantries, ones appropriate for such
a setting. Upon closer inspection of the grounds, the funeral home
didn’t look to be financially solvent: ceiling water damage, torn
carpeting—not even a secretary to answer the bereaved. Place didn’t
do custom urns either, like mother’s. Lamont and Eloise were stuck
surveying a shelf of copper urns till Monty pointed at some featuring
higher end precious metals. Isaiah jumped in to describe each of
their fine attributes. There being only two variants meant this place
hardly sold them. A young man came in from the back room. Monty
watched as Trey slapped hands with the kid—a deep scar on his chin
like one found on a flawed pumpkin. The boys headed outside. Focusing
back on the task at hand, it was easy to see which urn Eloise wanted
for her son—she just wouldn’t say it, caressing cold silver like
a newborn. Monty tapped Isaiah’s shoulder: “We’ll take it. I’d
like to cut a check for the total sum as well, including cremation,
et cetera. Do you accept checks?”
The
man’s eyes turned devilish, his broken smile could’ve split the
world.
***
The
boys took cover behind a tall dumpster at the rear of the building.
As Kermit perused the weapon, Trey kept his eye on the parking lot in
case his parents and Monty came strolling out. Kermit snapped the
cylinder, sniping down the barrel as if he’d ever shot one of these
before. Maybe he’d had; Trey didn’t care to ask, only thing on
his mind being book money.
“So,
what you think?”
The
scar on Kermit’s chin frowned. “Got bullets?”
Trey
dug out the original six from his pocket. “Jus’ a starter kit.
They sell ’em at Big Five.”
“I
know that.” Kermit handled the ammo. “How much you say again?”
“Got
wax in them ears, nigga? Four hunny.” Trey had done his research
online and knew the gun was, at best, a two Benjamin steal. Now he
sat back to see if Kermit had done his own homework, banking the kid
hadn’t when it came to high school. “Hey, you guys toss body
parts in here?” His knuckle knocked the dumpster.
“What?
No.” Kermit flinched at Trey, jutting his arms out like a zombie.
“Quit playin’.”
Trey
smirked.
“Listen,
this piece ain’t for me, okay? It’s for my boy—”
“Don’t
tell me his name! I don’t wanna know nothin’ ’bout ’nothin.”
“Well,
he ain’t gonna pay you four hunny—I can tell ya that.”
“So
what then?”
“Three.”
“Fiddy”
“Twenny-five.”
Trey
stuck out his hand. Kermit shook it, removing a wad of twenties from
out a hip pocket slouched beside his kneecap. He counted the bills.
“Who dat white fool witchoo?”
“Jus’
some dude. He’s paying for Junior’s funeral.”
“Junior?”
“Meezy.”
“Fool’s
Richie Rich then?”
“I
dunno. Enough bread to bury the dead.”
“His
Jordans are tight as fuck.” Kermit handed over the cash.
Trey
shoved it into his jeans. “Dude’s got a bunch at his house, he
said.”
“For
real?”
“O.G.’s,
brand new—from ninety-seven. Not sure if I believe him though—”
Trey heard the Suburban roar to life on the other side of the
building. “Shit. Gotta roll.”
“Nice
doin’ binness, cuz.”
“First
and last time, son. First an’ last.” Trey sprinted through the
parking lot, hollering for everyone to wait up.
Kermit’s
father could be heard, yelling for him outside the funeral home. He
quickly opened the dumpster, slid the Smith & Wesson inside a
sweaty McDonald’s bag and stashed it before rushing back.
Isaiah
was in his office, massaging the knot of his paisley tie back to its
pristine form when his son rushed through the door.
“What
is it, dad?”
“Where
were you?”
“Took
out some garbage.”
His
stern look pierced the boy. “Need your help with deposits again.”
“You
know I can make them on your phone these days? I told you that,
right?”
“Boy,
you
don’t tell me
shit. Why do I need to use a phone when I have you?”
Before
Kermit could answer, the man brought up a fist. He winced.
“Such
a weak, weak boy. Take after your bitch mother. But you already knew
that—can feel the weakness coursing your veins, can’t you?” He
approached his desk and handed over Monty’s check. “Take this to
the bank now.
The sum is too great to have lying around. They close soon."
Kermit’s
eyes bulged at the amount, just under eighteen thousand. Images
conjured of a procession for ’Lil Meezy featuring a glittering
hearse with twenty-four-inch spinning rims—or maybe Snoop playing
the wake…. His eyes fell on the check’s signature. He scoped the
top corner for the dude’s details: Montrose
Laughlin III, 210 16th
Street, Manhattan Beach—”
A palm struck the back of his head. “Fuh!”
Isaiah
paused before a second blow. “Run along, boy.”
Kermit
pocketed the check and sped for his bicycle.
VI.
“No
shit! You just…what—got a feather in your ass and decided to fly,
huh?” Robbie reclined on Monty’s couch, sipping White Sand IPA
straight from a growler Monty had filled. “Paid for just the urn or
the whole shebang?”
Monty
leered out the windows, sunlight dancing about the tide. He licked
froth from his upper lip, beer tasting better than any he’d ever
had. Could feel mother’s disdain from the mantle, bellyaching his
deed. “I ponied up for the whole tamale. Even tossed them a grand
to handle the reception—food, booze, whatnot. They want me to go,
but…I dunno.”
“That’s
great, man. You should
go. When Elle and I attend to these charity events, we don’t ever
get to see how much the donated funds accomplish firsthand—just
read about it on a printout the following year—at the next event.
You marched into ground zero and came out a hero. Better man, I can
say that.”
“Wanna
come with? It’d blow their minds—a real Dodger in their midst.”
Robbie
paused to gulp. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow
night."
“I’ll
see if I can move some stuff around."
“Prolly
busy sitting on my other sofa, I suppose.”
“What
can I say? I’m a man of leisure these days. Plus, I hate the public
seeing me in a sling like this—some fucking gimp.”
“No
one respects a gimp."
“So,
tell me more about this family, man? The Craigs.”
“Good
people. Hard working. Father is an electrician—son, Trey, works for
him.”
“Hey,
you should get them to finish wiring the outdoor security cameras.
Might hook you up with a deal.”
Monty
thought about it, not caring about expense. He did enjoy talking with
the man and his son. Could be another chance to get to know them,
outside of their family tragedy. After all, they were the first real
folks
he’d encountered in some time. “I should do that,” escaped his
lips, even though he knew deep down he probably wouldn’t. After
all, he’d just stepped out of his cocoon for a day, wasn’t quite
ready to welcome others inside just yet.
***
Kermit
leaned his bicycle against a picnic table in Veteran’s park,
placing the McDonald’s bag beside him as he sat atop warm wood. His
stomach growled, having no time to grab a quick bite. A Rally’s
burger sounded nice. They told him to be here now but, obviously, the
gun buyers weren’t present. He hated having to deal with such
thugs, but one had to do what they could to survive in these parts.
His cousin, Young Mel, ran with this crew and vouched for Kermit.
When Trey phoned with his proposition, Kermit dialed Mel soon as he
clicked off the call. His stomach roared. As he doubled over, he
locked onto his left hand, scribbled across the back of it in blue
ink was the name and address on that check. Montrose
Laughlin III.
An Idea had struck him as he waited inside the Wells Fargo,
completing father’s errand. Maybe he could squeeze a few more bucks
out of Mel’s boys with it. Sell them the pistol, along with some
information—the whereabouts of a rich fool giving away his wealth.
A
dense mass of four bodies entered at the park’s rear. As the blob
came closer, its color set Kermit at ease, a legion of blue, puffing
blunts, acting belligerent. He waved them over, as if he wasn’t
sticking out like a wart on a nose.
Mel
came up close before smacking him upside the head. “The fuck you
thinking, Kerm, carrying that piece in a goddam baggy. Hide the
pistol on your person, fool. Don’t be slippin’."
The
other boys laughed, chiming in with their own taunts until Mel
shushed them with the back of his palm. Kermit wanted to hand over
the gun and run away that second, not being cut out for this type of
thing. But
then he’d be out all the money he’d saved working the past three
months.
And
what the hell would he do with a gun? It’d be all for nothing. He
humored the crew, acting as if he were just like them, swiping a hit
from a blunt while one of the older boys inspected the merchandise.
He’d have to act the part to get paid; couldn’t let these jerks
know how soft he actually was. An attack of coughs overcame him soon
as he exhaled the plume. More laughter ensued. Someone called him a
little bitch.
So
much for saving face.
***
The
older guy named Smoke purchased the pistol for three hundred, biting
Kermit’s profit to negative twenty-five dollars. He lied and said
he turned a dollar. For three hundred, the crew wanted to buy more,
if he had any. Kermit poo-pooed the notion, claiming (like Trey had
told him) that this was a one-time deal. He then proceeded to
disclose his other item for sale.
“Hey,
lookie here…”
He’d
anticipated some
interest
when he told the crew about this rich dude in the South Bay, but
their exuberant reactions took him by surprise, the boys all high as
fuck, jonesing for a lick. When he said they could have the dude’s
address for another hundred, everyone roared in laughter. He
pretended like he was playing too, nearly on his bicycle to head for
a cheeseburger.
Mel
pushed Kermit off the bike and forced him to come along, clawing the
back of his neck, shoving him in the direction of a parked sedan.
“You talk a big game, Kerm. Now take us to where this moneybags
lives.”
Without
hesitation, Kermit surrendered the scribbles on his left hand.
***
The
sun dipped its final brilliance through the living room windows as
Monty and Robbie watched an Angels’ game snoozer, tearing into the
team’s coach for not believing in sabermetrics, oblivious to the
perfect L.A. sunset. A tirade out Robbie came to an unexpected halt.
Knocks
at the door.
Monty
glanced down at his phone before remembering the security monitor on
the entrance wasn’t hooked-up; it had fed through his cell with a
view of guests. Usually it was either Robbie or UPS. He placed his
pint down and went to a wall mount to buzz the person up. If it was
UPS, they always left the parcel behind a front post. Could
be a neighbor signed for the package.
Monty craned to Robbie, now busy inspecting the nipples on the
hallway bust; looked as if the growler was mixing perfectly with his
pain meds. The elevator shaft began to whine. Robbie accompanied
Monty in seeing who was here.
The
doors began to part.
Elle
Slate walked in wearing a soft red sun dress, slightly buzzed enough
to come over barefooted.
“Another
cocktail party, Elle?”
She
gave Monty a friendly embrace. “Got the gals headed over in a few.”
Robbie:
“What’s up, babe?”
“The
audio is messed up, a button got hit—haven’t a clue.”
Monty:
“Real Housewives again?”
“Bachelorette
in Paradise.”
Monty’s
eyebrows became enlightened.
Robbie
pointed to the second growler on the counter. “I’m coming back,
so don’t kill that.”
Monty
opened the refrigerator for some pickles as the couple headed to the
elevator.
***
Mel’s
Monte Carlo made it to Manhattan Beach just as the sun was gulped by
the Pacific. He parked the sedan a few blocks from their target,
having circled the block three times to scope the setting. Smoke
loaded the pistol with six bullets from out Kermit’s pocket. The
crew got out, eyeing a sidewalk lined with manicured roses, cement
clean enough to slurp spilled ice cream. They lit Newports in unison
to brace nerves. Kermit pretended to smoke one, never inhaling, a
trick he’d learned in middle school to avoid getting bullied. The
five boys sat at a lone bus bench, trying not to turn heads. They
tranced on the open ocean, its normal dark blue bleeding oranges and
pinks. Was as if they’d only seen this type of thing in drug store
picture frames or a textbook from long ago. They waited for darkness
to seep up the hill, bringing them back into their comfort zone. The
moon sparked howls from backyard dogs. Mel punched Kermit’s arm,
signaling him to lead the way.
***
Monty
had a clean buzz off his growler, closing one eye to focus on landing
another pickle, spearing it with a knife. There were only a few left
in this jar, all scurrying from his blade with each thrust as if they
were alive, fish in a barrel, all smarter than him. He reclined on
the sofa, exhausted from concentrating, belly full of red pepper,
vinegar and dill. He checked the wall clock; there was no way he’d
be able to stay awake if Robbie came back. These craft beers wore
heavy on the brain. He’d had a full day too—one he was glad to
have had, but would most likely relive only once a year. Next
time he’d do something nice on Christmas.
He clicked off the television, steadying himself on seafaring legs.
Approaching the counter, he emptied his pockets into a crystal candy
dish, one mother used for her beloved butterscotch. The checkbook sat
prominent before a bowl of apples, stoic almost, as if it’d known
what it accomplished today. Monty opened it to a carbon copy of the
check, grin climbing his drunken face.
A
stone tossed in a lake.
Ripples…all
because of him.
He
turned to mother’s urn, raised his fist and exploded the middle
finger. This
is what I
think about what you
think,
mother. He
returned to the check, contemplating removing it from the pack to
frame or laminate, maybe put above his toilet: a daily reminder of
how great he could be…you know, when he felt like it. On second
glance of the copy, a slight panic took hold.
The
billing address.
He’d
forgotten to buy new checks once moving into mother’s old
house—this
house. After years of extensive remodeling, he’d finally shifted
all his things from next door, barely two years ago. Robbie became a
Dodger around then, his people making an offer on the “Bastard
Home” (mother’s words) that he couldn’t refuse. How
could he say no to a Big Leaguer…a potential celebrity
friend?
Oh, how embarrassing it would be if that check were to bounce. Did
things like billing address even matter these days?
He’d call the bank first thing tomorrow. No
need to worry the Craigs about it—not during this horrible time in
their lives. Everything
would be fine. He’d make sure of it. And order new checks. For next
time.
***
“What.
A. Doll. He did that?” Elle sipped Shiraz at the breakfast nook,
watching Robbie eye the stereo system as if it were from Mars.
“Paid
for everything. Cremation, urn. See, that’s rewarding. No banquet.
No autographs or selfies. Straight to the source.” He punched the a
remote to zero response.
“It’s
them Vin Scully eyes, I tell ya. What a kind-hearted man.”
“Don’t
remember what you pressed here, huh?”
“I
didn’t touch anything.
Think Priscilla might’ve used it as a chew toy.”
Robbie
sent a dirty look at Elle’s Yorkie, snoozing on the couch. “When’s
everyone supposed to be here again?”
“Soon.
Like ten minutes.”
“Fuck.”
He adjusted his sling, techno stress killing his buzz. A strange
button at the top corner of the remote caught his eye. Auto
Vol?
He punched it and sound came blaring out the speakers. As he
scrambled to save the subwoofer, Elle approached and draped an arm
around him, planting a wet kiss, careful not to disturb his shoulder.
Her breath was sour, pungent as bile. She began to undo his belt.
“We
have ten minutes...”
He
slid his good hand up into her sun dress, caressing the fold of her
ass.
She
went in for another hard kiss, but the doorbell stifled the moment.
Robbie
cursed, re-doing his belt. Elle went to freshen up for her guests.
The second Robbie cracked
the doors’ frame, he was met by a
revolver pointed at his nose.
***
The
computer screen lit-up Trey’s face in purple hues, his eyes
scanning pages and pages of textbook sales, titles dancing in the
glint of his eyeballs. Pops was asleep on his recliner; Mom busy
putting the girls to bed. He scrolled a new page, eyeing a piece of
paper with his undergrad curriculum requirements, then back at book
titles. It was all happening, the future coming at him in spectral
bursts. And all he had to do, so far, was numb his conscience. He
sold a gun, so what? Who cared what others did with their own
wretched lives?
Not like he was pulling the trigger. He added another text to his
online cart and thought, I’d
do plenty worse to this world just to be done with the neighborhood
forever.
***
Smoke
held the gun steady as Young Mel had Kermit and the others use duct
tape to bind the couple together on the floor. Hoods helped conceal
all their faces. Kermit immediately knew something was wrong, too
frightened to mention that he’d never seen this man (or woman) in
the funeral home earlier. Didn’t matter now. The act was in
progress.
He
was a full-blown criminal.
A
safe in the bedroom had been opened by the husband; a quick smash to
the face with Smoke’s pistol helped speed the process. Dude’s
nose was gushing for days. Mascara exploded about the wife’s eyes,
her sobbing turned to gentle weeps. There weren’t any Air Jordans
like Kermit had promised; however, the guy had an unhealthy amount of
Dodger gear. The three stacks out the safe softened that blow, just
over thirty grand. Their shit dog began to yap at the door. Mel
turned to see four older women, faces pumped to the max with Botox,
all fisted with wine or champagne. The sight of Smoke’s weapon
sparked banshee screams, the ladies trembling in horror.
A
bottle crashed to the ground.
Smoke
jumped, accidentally firing a round.
Kermit
ate the bullet, directly in the chest.
The
boys scurried out a side door and sprinted up the block.
Kermit
collapsed to the tile floor, eye to eye with the yapping dog, warm
blood pooling beneath him until a coldness came over, one he’d only
feel for the first time. Such
a
weak, weak boy.
***
Monty
stirred from his drunken slumber, a pop followed by screams in the
night disturbing sweet dreams. He got up to close the sliding glass
door, gazing out at adjacent homes, not seeing anything alarming. A
car must’ve backfired, sparking someone’s night terrors.
He climbed back into bed, feeling sorry for whoever was that
frightened this time of night. He thought about his deed again and
smiled, closing his eyes, licking his teeth. He’d place mother’s
urn in a closet or drawer tomorrow. No need to have her so prominent
within his house. A
truly great day, today.
The ocean purred him back to dreamland, an angel’s sleep for the
angel he was.
