Say Your Prayers
The kid stood in front of the Family Market. He leaned against the wall with his arm propped on the brick ledge and his head just high enough to see through the tinted windows. His jeans were soiled with grease and hung off his narrow hips. His black T-shirt was torn, patches of pale skin showing through. His sneakers were untied and he wasn’t wearing socks. His dark hair poked out from under a black hat. Even at fifteen, a pretty sloppy bandit.
His accomplice showed and together they tucked themselves behind a soda machine just outside the entrance. They shared a lit cigarette, each one taking a drag and placing it back on the brick ledge. It finally got too hot to handle and rolled like a firecracker onto the sidewalk. They both jumped at it, stepping on each other’s toes trying to stomp it out.
The small parking lot was over-flowing with mini-vans and luxury sedans, little old ladies pushing rusty shopping carts through the automatic doors and loading their trunks full of groceries. The afternoon sun had already started its slow trip downward. The rush was on, housewives hurrying home, one step ahead of their husbands with the evening supper.
A woman in a short, black skirt pushed an overloaded cart into the lot. Her ten-year-old son towed the cart from the front. A bag of frozen French fries fell out and she bent to pick it up. Her legs were lean and strong, the high-heels accentuating the curve of her calf. She raised the rear hatch of a brand new Mercedes. Her tight white sweater slid up, revealing the taut muscle of her midsection, the smooth, tanned skin. She had money written all over her.
“Hey, lady, can we help you with those?”
A coy, knowing smile trickled over her lips. Her son scowled, the little man in him already growing defensive.
“Absolutely, boys, I sure could use it.”
They started loading the plastic bags, two at a time, into the truck. Her son eyed the boys suspiciously. It was a job normally reserved for him. He noticed his mother’s purse in the cart, wedged between a gallon of milk and a box of tissues. It was a big, brown, leather job with handles that hung down like meat hooks.
The two bandits reached for the purse, almost split it in two tearing through the parking lot, dodging cars across the busy street. They ran down the sidewalk like rabbits, wide-eyed and afraid to look over their shoulders, see who might be chasing them. They never thought it would be that kid.
Jack Sullivan swung his car door open and blocked the path of the two escaping thieves. He caught them in his arms and pinned them to the emerald green hood of his Chrysler convertible. The kid with the torn shirt held the purse with two hands. Jack snatched if from him and opened it up, lifting a monogrammed wallet off the top and pawing the bills inside.
“A nice catch, gentlemen. Keep up the good work.”
The manager of the grocery store was outside now, comforting the young lady with a hairy arm over her shoulder. He was holding her hand as though he was about to propose. They heard the sirens just like Jack did, just like those boys did, the police coming fast and furious like it was the crime of the century.
The squad car came to a screeching halt, blocking the entrance to the Family Market. The wailing siren echoed and slowly died, the overhead lights still pulsating. A uniformed officer ran to the woman, replacing the shopkeepers arm with his own while she pointed down the block, directly at Jack Sullivan.
The officer smoothed his dark mustache, straightened his hat and led the way. His blue shirt and pants didn’t have a wrinkle on them. The gray tie lay flat against his chest between a polished gold badge, a nameplate and a collection of ribbons fit for a three-star general. The three of them marched down the middle of the street like some half-assed posse.
Traffic was backing up behind the police car, customers waiting to get out of the lot and others waiting to get in. Somebody beeped their horn and others followed and a woman got out of her car and started yelling before she realized that the police weren’t going anywhere, not until they were good and ready.
“Drop the purse, Jack.”
“Are you going to shoot me, Bill, or is the gun just to scare me? Here are the culprits, caught red-handed.”
“What happened here, Monica?”
She didn’t answer. She brushed past them, reached for the purse and yanked it out of Jack’s hand. Her light blond hair splashed against his cheek. Her movements were fast and she smelled like wild flowers. Jack never took his eyes off her.
“Take a picture, Jack. It’ll last longer.”
“Don’t need one. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Get in the back of that police car, boys, and I’ll drive you home. I’ll see you at home too, Monica.”
She turned and walked away, back up the center of the street like she owned the whole town and everybody in it. She jumped in her car, checking herself in the rear-view mirror and applying a coat of thick, red lipstick. She brushed her hair, lit a cigarette and sped off, the Mercedes bouncing over the curb and barely missing the patrol car.
“You’re not going to arrest them, Sergeant Lasher? It is Sergeant, I see. The promotions seem to come faster to some than to others. It looks like I’ll just have to make a citizen’s arrest. I don’t mind doing your job for you, not after all you’ve done for me.”
“When did you get out, Jack?”
“Last night. Don’t they inform you of such things?”
“And you came right back here.”
“This is my home. At least it was until you sent me up.”
“And you just happen to be here in your car while Monica was in there shopping?”
“Strange coincidence, isn’t it?”
“You plan on staying?”
“Haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“You staying with your mom?”
“You sound more and more like a cop, Bill, and less like an old friend.”
“And you sound like an ex-con.”
Jack folded his arms across his chest and lifted his face to the blazing afternoon sun. He closed his eyes and felt its warmth.
“She could sure use my help over there. Things got sort of run down since I’ve been gone.”
“I would have helped her, Jack. You know that. She wouldn’t let me through the front door. That woman has a lot of hate in her.”
“Can you blame her?”
“She don’t know the whole story. I had to lock you up, had no choice. Burglary is one thing. Murder is another.”
“I didn’t kill that woman, Bill, and you know it. Trevor lied through his teeth, left me to hang. My mother knows it, too. There’s only one person she hates more than you, even more than Trevor. And like I said, I don’t blame her.”
“Monica never did anything to hurt her, Jack.”
“She didn’t have to. She had other people do her dirty work for her. She got whatever she wanted, at any cost. She got you, didn’t she?”
“She didn’t want that to happen, Jack. It was my fault. We spent a lot of time together during the trial and one thing led to another.”
“That’s bullshit. I don’t want to hear it. You two have done nothing but lie to me from the start, tried to make an old lady believe her son is a killer, a woman who was more of a mother to you than your own flesh and blood. Now that I’m out, the truth may not be far behind.”
Jack turned his back to him and swung the car door open. It scraped roughly against the high curb. He fell heavily into the driver’s seat. His weight pulled the car down and anchored the door onto the concrete. Bill came over and got a firm hold on the handle and lifted. He swung the door shut and leaned in.
“Keep your nose clean, Jack. I’ll do what I can to help you but I have a job to do and I take it seriously.”
“I can see that.”
“One more thing, Jack: Stay away from Monica.”
Jack stopped at Sanko’s Tavern on the way home. Ronny was behind the bar, stocking the coolers. Dickie Meyers and Goldie Miller were there. They practically lived there. Ronny filled a glass from the tap and set it on the bar. Jack’s first cold beer in ten years was on the house.
Dickie was on disability from a truck accident. He lived about a block away. He limped down every day around noon and limped home to bed around ten. His cane hung on the coat rack. Ronny had given him a key to the place, let him open up if Ronny was running late.
Goldie had inherited a ton of money from a father he never knew and planned on spending it, one dollar at a time, on draft beer and deviled eggs. The man never worked an honest day in his life. If you asked him what he did for a living, he’d say he was retired.
Jack held up the glass of beer, looking at it in the light. He took a few long swallows and lit a cigarette.
“When did you get out?”
“Today.”
“Welcome home.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Haven’t seen her yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“What are you a fucking priest?”
“Just asking.”
“Well don’t.”
“You want a piece of advice, Jack?”
“Not really.”
“Get out of this town. There’s nothing here for you, nothing but trouble. Too many bad memories, it’ll poison you. There’s not a cop in town that doesn’t know you. If you ask me, Jack, say your good-byes and hit the road.”
“Thanks but I didn’t ask you.”
Jack rolled off the stool and carried his glass over to the jukebox. The cigarette dangled loosely from his mouth. The blue smoke burned his eyes. He dropped in three quarters and pushed a few buttons. Sanko’s was a place where you could still hear Elvis and Patsy Cline and old Motown shit like the Four Tops and Smokey Robinson. The place would never change. Ronny would burn it down before he’d let that happen.
“Rack ’em up, Jack.”
He recognized the voice instantly.
“I didn’t see you, Trevor. I guess that’s your bike out in the lot?”
“I come in here every day. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“Bad habits are hard to break, I guess.”
“You should know. You spent a lot of time in here yourself. The beer is cold and Ronny takes care of us. Don’t you, Ronny?” he yelled over his shoulder. “The foods not bad either, better than what you’ve been eating lately.”
“I ain’t hungry. How’d you know I was back?”
“C’mon now, Jack. You know the answer to that. Women like to gossip. The bigger the secret, the more they talk, especially my sister. She can’t keep her mouth shut to save her life.”
“Is that why you came over here, to pass on a message from Monica? Well save it. I’m not listening.”
“Actually, Jack, I came to thank you. I appreciate what you did for me. I owe you.”
“Can you give me back ten years of my life?”
Jack racked the balls and broke. The crack was like a pistol shot.
“If you’re short on cash, Jack, need a loan or a job, I could help out.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Jack chalked the stick and studied the table. He kissed the three ball into the side pocket. He tapped the twelve and it rolled down the rail into the corner. He tried a bank shot, a shot he might have made ten years ago. The eight ball sailed toward the corner and stopped short. The cue ball scratched.
“You ought to get your floor leveled, Ronny.”
“You ought to get your eyes examined,” he shouted back
Jack raised the glass of beer to his lips before he realized it was empty.
“Keep it in mind, Jack. I can hook you up. Just say the word. I’ll see ya.”
He dropped a five on the bar on his way out the door. Jack put his glass on the bar and Ronny filled it.
“Do you got anything lined up, Jack,” Goldie asked?
“Like what?”
“Like a job.”
“I’m working on something.”
“Oh yeah. What are you working on?”
“None of your fucking business. Why do I have to live in a town where someone takes a shit and everyone else can smell it?”
Jack took a swallow of beer, slammed the glass down and stomped out. Dusk had settled in with a grayness that made him feel heavy, weighed down. He walked the three blocks to Dayton Road, past a long line of row homes with concrete stoops and wrought iron rails. His mother was sitting on the steps, waiting for him. She watched him walk towards her with tears in her eyes.
Jack held her to his chest and helped her into the house. Her tears soaked the front of his shirt. She sat on the couch and wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. The cushion sagged under her. She straightened the slipcover over the frayed arm of the couch and blew her nose. Jack sat next to her.
“There’s a pot of soup on the stove,” she said. “If you’re hungry.”
She was fiddling with the loose threads on her apron as she moved to the kitchen.
“Are you kidding? I’m always hungry for your soup. The soup in prison is like dirty dishwater.”
“Don’t talk about it, Jack. Don’t even mention it. Let’s just enjoy our time together, like it never happened.”
“Okay, Mom.”
Jack sat at the kitchen table and stirred the hot soup with a spoon. His mom pulled a paper towel off a roll, folded it in half and placed it next to his bowl. She sat in a crooked wooden chair against the wall, her arms folded.
“You look great, Ma.”
“I don’t feel great. I’m sitting here all day waiting for you. Been sitting here waiting for ten years and you wander in with beer on your breath.”
“Don’t start on me, Ma. You said we were supposed to enjoy ourselves.”
She pulled herself slowly to her feet and turned the heat down on the stove. She stood with her back to him, mixing the soup.
“Uncle Chet said you could work with him at the garage.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think about it! What else you going to do?”
“I said, I’d think about it.”
She dropped the ladle on the counter and it rattled onto the floor.
“Why did you come back here, Jack?”
“To see you, Ma.”
“Just tell me you won’t see her.”
“I won’t.”
“She’s no good, Jack. Promise me you’ll stay away from her.”
“She’s married to Bill now. They got a kid.”
“Promise me, Jack.”
“I don’t want nothing to do with her, Ma. I know what she is and I know what’ll happen if I get mixed up with her again.”
“Promise me!”
He put his bowl in the sink and wiped his face with the dishtowel on her shoulder. He picked up the ladle and placed it gently on the counter.
“I promise.”
Jack climbed the stairs and crawled into bed, drowsy from the mixture of warm soup and alcohol. Shadows crept across the windows. Headlights coming up Valley Road filtered through the trees. A car stopped outside, its engine purring urgently. He looked out and saw Monica duck behind the hedge. He cringed on every creaking step on the way down.
“I had to come, Jack. I’m sorry.”
“Won’t Bill be worried if he wakes up and finds you gone? Or is he used to your disappearing acts by now.”
“He’s working. The boy’s with Trevor.”
“You left your son with Trevor? Are you crazy?”
“It was the only way.”
“I wouldn’t leave my dog with your brother. He’s a goddamn lunatic. You know that.”
“You didn’t care about that when you two were robbing houses.”
“What does one thing have to do with the other? You’re as crazy as he is.”
“Maybe I am a little crazy.”
She moved closer. The darkness was thick around them. Jack smelled her sweet, cloying perfume, the booze on her breath. Her head rested on his chest, her arms around his waist.
He pushed her deeper into the bushes, hidden from the house and the road. The sharp branches scratched their skin. Her body was alive, pulling him closer as though they could melt into one.
“Why couldn’t you have stayed away, Jack?”
“You know why.”
“If it’s revenge you’re after, forget it.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Monica.”
“It can’t be like it was.”
“Why would I want it to? I was set up, Monica. I spent ten years in prison. You don’t know how that feels. I’m just taking what’s owed me. That’s it.”
“If I give you what you want, will you leave us alone, me and Bill, and the boy?”
“I don’t think you have a choice.”
Jack grabbed her by the arm and kissed her hard. Their teeth smashed together and he tasted blood. Her mouth was warm and wet. He pushed her to the ground and was on top of her. She never uttered a sound.
Chet’s garage was down a narrow alley called Caitlan Court, sandwiched in a row of dilapidated garages. The wooden doors hung open, warped and dry-rotted. The roof leaked and the concrete floor had begun to crumble. Chet kept a space heater going in the corner. He’d stacked an odd assortment of folding chairs against the wall where the old guys from the neighborhood could sit and smoke.
Chet had an old Mustang up on the lift when Jack walked in.
“Glad you could make it, Jack. Fix yourself a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks, Chet.”
“You know Georgie and Fred, don’t you?”
The two old men nodded in unison, nothing coming out of their mouths. They wore heavy wool sweaters and baseball hats.
“Sure do. That’s exactly where they were the last time I saw them.”
He’d coaxed a weak laugh out of their toothless mouths and they sipped their coffee, touching the mugs lightly to their lips as if they were kissing a baby.
“Your mom asked me to keep an eye on you but you look like you can take pretty good care of yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Jack hadn’t been there an hour, barely got his hands dirty, when a motorcycle thundered down the alley. Trevor parked a shiny new Harley in front of the garage. He dropped the kickstand and stepped off the bike and walked over as though he’d been in the saddle all day. A black bandanna was tied around his head and hung down in the back like Indian braids. He wore tight black gloves and dark sunglasses that clung to his angular, reptilian face.
“You don’t waste any time. Do you, Trevor?”
“I stopped by the house. You weren’t there. Your mom told me you were here.”
“My mom wouldn’t give you the time of day.”
“I guess that depends on how you ask the question.”
“Stay away from her. I’m warning you.”
“I believe you were warned to stay away from Monica.”
Chet stepped out with a double-barrel shotgun in his hand. He looked Trevor square in the eye.
“What’s your business here?”
“Petey Johnstone wants to see Jack.”
Chet didn’t have anything to say about that. Petey Johnstone owned TNT Tire and was a silent partner in a dozen other businesses. He owned people, too, like politicians and police chiefs and judges. He was President of the bank, the Chamber of Commerce, the local college and the church. He gave generously to charity. He sold real-estate. He was a real solid citizen. Nobody sold so much as a cigarette in that town without a nickel landing in Petey’s pocket.
“What if I don’t want to see him?”
“I’m just the messenger.”
“Is that all you do for Petey Johnstone—deliver messages?”
He didn’t answer, exposing a row of sharp white teeth. He gunned the bike and rumbled away.
Jack shuffled through the showroom of TNT Tire like any other customer. The oily smell of new rubber was heavy like furniture polish. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the counter. Johnstone’s office was upstairs. Petey would send one of his grease monkeys to escort him up.
He waited by the window, watching the cars roll in and out of the lot. He didn’t have very long to wait. He saw Monica, moving toward her car in a thin yellow dress and heels. His appointment with Petey Johnstone suddenly had new meaning. Jack had seen that dress before. The sheer summer material clung to her skin. It danced over her swaying hips and long legs. When the sun hit her just right, she was like a picture in a magazine. If she was wearing anything underneath, it wasn’t much.
He caught her by the arm and led her behind a minivan with plenty of tinted glass.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His grip tightened on her arm.
“I should ask you the same question.”
“Do you ever give a straight answer, Monica?”
“I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“You got something going with Petey, don’t you? He’s just your type, just the type you’d set your sights on.”
“Let go of my arm, Jack.”
“You better be careful with Petey Johnstone. He doesn’t fool around and he doesn’t like to lose. You might be aiming a little over your head.”
“You don’t know anything about it and you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“Petey’s a good man, Jack. He helps people.”
“At what price?”
“Does everything come with a price tag?”
“Usually does.”
“I got a kid to think of, Jack. I want better for him and Petey can do that for me. How do you think Bill got his promotion? He’ll be Chief someday. How do you think I send my son to private school? I could never afford it on my own. Try to see it my way. Talk to Petey. Listen to him.”
“He can’t buy me, not like he bought you.”
“You think I like it? You think I like sneaking in and out the back door like I’m keeping some big secret, when everyone knows what’s going on anyway. I do it for my son, Jack, for our son.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The boy is your son, Jack. I wanted to tell you while you were in prison, but I couldn’t. Things were going so well with Bill. He’s a good father to the boy, and with Petey’s help, our future was set. I didn’t know what the right thing to do was.”
He pushed her harder than he wanted to, pinning her shoulders against the van.
“If you’re lying to me…”
“I’m not, Jack. I swear.”
Petey Johnstone’s office was big. His desk was big. Leaning back in a padded leather chair and barking into the phone, Petey Johnstone was big. He thrust a thick finger in Jack’s direction, pointing at an empty chair. Jack sunk into the padded leather. A cigar smoldered in a crystal ashtray on the desk.
“I know you’ve already lost a lot of time, Mr. Sullivan, so I won’t waste any more of it. It seems that you and I have some things in common. That’s why I sent for you.”
“If Monica set this up, I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Listen first and think before you open your mouth. I do things for people. I also get things in return. It pays to get along with me, son.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to take care of a little problem, a problem for you really as much as for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not what…who. It’s Trevor Kranick. He’s out of control. He needs to be stopped.”
“By stopped, you mean killed.”
“I didn’t say that, Jack.”
“But you meant it. I’m not a murderer, Mr. Johnstone.”
“What would you say, Jack, if someone betrayed you, someone close to you? And that someone was so bad, capable of the utmost cruelty, behaved like an animal, like a rabid dog, pure fucking evil? Tell me, Jack. What would you do? Even if that dog was once your pet, an obedient part of the family. And suddenly he went crazy, turned on you, bit your fucking kid. Tell me, what would you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what you’d do. You’d put him down.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Johnstone.”
“You wouldn’t just be doing me a favor. You’d be helping yourself. Shit, you’d be doing everyone a favor, the whole fucking human race.”
He pointed that thick finger at him again, squinted up his hazy, bloodshot eyes. His dark eyebrows came together, forming a dense ridge across his brow.
“And if something should happen to Trevor Kranick, there’d be an opportunity for the right man.”
“You know, Mr. Johnstone, my mother took me to church every Sunday. She prayed and cried and begged for God to save my poor soul. It never stuck, though. I was never much of a believer. But when I was locked up, I’ll tell you, I said my prayers every night. Every fucking night I sat on that cold steel bench, behind those iron bars, and prayed. I looked into that blackness, at all those cold, dead faces and prayed like I was back in church with my mother at my side.”
“For a guy who had nothing, I asked for a lot of things. I wanted revenge mostly. And I kept hoping someone would come around, a guy like you, and give me a chance, a shot at making something of myself. Now, I’m staring at it in the face and I don’t know what to say.”
Petey pulled the dead cigar out of the ashtray and puffed it back to life. The heavy blue smoke lay like a cloud over the cluttered desk.
“Think about it, Jack. You’d step right into Trevor’s shoes.” He shook his head in disgust. “Kid would have had it made if he kept his nose clean, kept his dick in his pants.”
“Does Monica know about this?”
“Not exactly. She told me what Trevor did to her, his own fucking sister. She wouldn’t have told me and not expected me to do something about it. All things considered, he’s getting off easy.”
“You’ll hear from me, Mr. Johnstone.”
“Jack…make it soon.”
Jack stopped at Chet’s, grabbed the shotgun from the bottom shelf. He broke it open, slid a shell into each barrel and snapped it shut. He didn’t tell Chet where he was going and Chet didn’t ask.
Trevor’s motorcycle was at Sanko’s. Jack pushed through the front door, the shotgun low behind his leg. Dickie was behind the bar and Goldie sat opposite him, nursing a bottle of beer. Trevor was leaning over the pool table with a stick in his hand.
Jack raised the shotgun. Trevor straightened up and pointed the pool cue at him.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“It’s not for shooting pool, Trevor.”
“Wait a second, Jack. Let’s talk about this. If it’s money you’re after, you got it coming to you.”
“It’s not about money, Trevor. It’s about you.”
Trevor stepped to the edge of the table. His movements were slow and controlled.
“How about a drink first, for old time’s sake? A condemned man deserves one last drink.”
Jack kept the gun at his back as they moved around the bar. Dickie and Goldie had disappeared. Jack pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf and poured two shots.
Trevor raised his glass and Jack raised his.
“To good whiskey and good women…both taste better with age.”
He swallowed the brown liquid in one quick gulp. Jack put the glass to his lips and drained it slowly. He never took his eyes off Trevor. The whiskey wasn’t even warm in his stomach when the door opened behind him. Jack turned and Trevor made his move.
He pulled a pistol and fired before Jack could bring the shotgun back on target. Jack dove behind the bar, the deafening blast ringing in his ears.
It was Monica in the doorway, holding her son’s hand. She’d come looking for Jack, wanting to put her cards on the table once and for all. Now, she was clutching her chest, the bullet from Trevor’s gun burning her flesh from the inside out.
Jack spun around with the shotgun and gave Trevor both barrels in the face. His head opened up like a smashed pumpkin. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall and the floor and the bar. Trevor’s headless body fell twitching at Jack’s feet.
Jack ran to Monica. He touched the side of her face. Her mascara ran in black, tear-streaked lines. He ran his hand through her hair, pushing it gently off her forehead. Her eyes met his. She lay in a growing pool of her own blood. Bright red blood trickled from her open mouth.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“Take care of my Billy. Please, take care of my Billy.”
She died in his arms. He closed her eyes and eased her head back. Ronny had called it in. The ambulance was on its way. That’s when Jack heard the click, the sound of a hammer locking back. The boy had picked up Trevor’s gun. He held it trembling in both hands, pointing it at Jack’s chest. His face was a frozen mask of fear, confusion and hate. He stared in silence at this stranger in front of him, at the dark brooding eyes not unlike his own, at the sad smile that now seemed strangely familiar.
He pulled the trigger, short choppy strokes with the same gun that had just killed his mother. He’d closed his eyes and fired three more times in short succession, each bullet finding its target.
Sergeant Bill Lasher was only seconds behind, coming through the door out of breath in his policeman’s uniform as though he’d run all the way. He saw the boy with the gun still in his hands, looking at it as if it was attached to him, some useless appendage with power he couldn’t control.
Sergeant Lasher took the gun. He put his hand on the boy’s head and wiped a spot of blood from the boy’s face. He picked him up and carried him outside. A gray, windy dusk had settled in. The boy looked over Sergeant Lasher’s shoulder at the mutilated body of Trevor Kranick and the bloody corpse of Jack Sullivan and at his mother, dead in the doorway of Sanko’s Tavern.