American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 48
“What the fuck?” Josh yells nearly flying out of his car.
“Shut up, boy!” Bruce replies as his feet hit the dirt.
“Why are you following me? I thought the plan was to
split up. You gave that big speech about not contacting
each other. You were the one all freaked out telling me
if I dared as much as even call you, you would slit my
throat. You went on and on about how you can’t go back
to prison, all that third strike bullshit. And now you’re
the one following me?”
“Look, I got involved because of a promise I made
and…”
“And I thanked you with an eight ball.”
“You are one stupid motherfucker. Do you actually
think I‘d help you for a frickin’ eight ball? Did you really
think I would chance goin’ to prison for five hundred
bucks? Look, I made a promise and now it’s done and I’ll
be damned if I’m gonna trust some lame greener like you
to get rid of the murder weapon.”
“I’m here aren’t I? And anyway what do you have to
worry about? You didn’t kill her.” Josh pauses and adds,
“And what favor? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Do you think I walked into your life by accident, my
friend?” Bruce says, drawing each word out as he steps
closer to Josh.
Josh shifts his weight and his trademark baby face
reveals fear.
“Relax asshole,” Bruce says, lighting another cigarette.
“Melissa’s brother, Jackson, helped me out of a tough
spot a while back and I promised him I’d keep an eye
out for her. She really likes you, man. And that bitch you
wasted was gonna kill you. Jackson wanted her de….”
“Wait a minute. Melissa told me her brother was dead.”
“That’s what her fucked-up family would like you to
believe, all dressed up in their Sunday-church-goin’white-picket crap.”
“Listen, he saved my ass once. In prison.” Bruce drops
his cigarette, gingerly uses his big toe to extinguish it
in the mud. “All he asked in return was that I watch out
for his kid sister. Which I did. Made sure she had an
apartment, food and shit,” a small grunt escapes as he
bends down to retrieve the cigarette butt and stick it in
his pocket. “Goddamn Jackson,” he continues, shaking
his head, “that boy took a knife meant for me and now
he ain’t never gettin’ out.” Bruce’s voice rises. “Crawled
around on the floor like a fuckin’ snake for two weeks
until the prick warden got him a wheelchair.”
Bruce squints his eyes and stares off over the field.
“Melissa said he died in a motorcycle accident. She’s
got a goddamn urn in her apartment, for Christ’s sake,”
Josh says, now suspicious.
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American River Review
Bruce exhales in disgust. “That’s how fucked up their
old man is. He wanted Melissa to believe Jackson was
dead. Truth is, Jackson was banned from the family when
she was like twelve or some shit, but the fact remains that
he’s been watchin’ out for her for years. He just never
made contact. Their step-father told Jackson to stay out of
her life or he’d fuck with him.”
“Melissa’s step-dad is the former chief of police.”
“Exactly. You get what I’m sayin’?” Bruce places a
hand on Josh’s shoulder. “And besides, you know that
wife of yours was plannin’ on takin’ you out. The money
she stole, the way she screwed with your job. Hell, the
fuckin’ concussion. Melissa told me all about it. Man,
if she’d been my wife, I would’ve offed her a long time
ago. I mean you didn’t even have to hide her body, you
practically had yourself a Gone Girl defense.” Bruce
grins making the tattoo around his mouth fold in on itself.
“Look, I ain’t here to bullshit. Let’s get rid of that piece
and get outta here. Then you can go on with your life and
I can go on with mine.”
What the hell is Bruce talking about? What money?
The money Josh stole from my family? “And as for his
concussion, Bruce,” I say out loud. “I was the one who
took him to the hospital, drunk off his ass. The split
lip, the broken ribs, God knows who he got in a fight
with. I changed the wrappings. I woke him every thirty
minutes. I was the one who quietly returned the bowl to
the kitchen counter when he’d say, ‘Look at my lip, you
stupid bitch, you think I can drink hot soup?’”
I glare at Josh, whip the blood-stained hair from my
shoulders and scream, “Tell him Josh! Tell him that I was
the one who convinced your boss to give you your job
back. Tell him!”
And that’s when it dawns on me. Josh is a better liar
than I thought.
I stand deep in the water and try to catch the gun as his
quarterback arm propels it like a winning pass. I hold my
hands up but, like the lies, the gun rips through me as if I
never existed at all.
The men slap their palms together in a gladiator grip
handshake never breaking eye contact.
“Take care of Melissa, Josh. She meant a lot to Jackson
so she means a lot to me. You hear me?” Bruce says,
stilling the rhythm of their handshake, pulling Josh closer.
“Yeah. I got you,” says Josh with a tone that holds
just enough deference to show respect and just enough
annoyance to keep his dignity. Josh turns back toward
the car, stops and turns around, strokes his chin with his
thumb and forefinger. I can feel the rage brewing inside
him. He feels disrespected, confused as he tries to make
all the pieces fit. “Something doesn’t add up,” he says.