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The best course of action is to head directly to the auto parts store. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I turn out of Hope Street onto the main road. The last thing I need is for Officer Danish to stop me yet again, this time with a load of ready-mix stored in the back of the mini- van. Heading down the hill, I drive Broadway in the direction of the city until I come to the AutoZone auto parts store. Parking the van, I head inside and immediately make my way to the front counter. An older gentleman who’s wearing a red AutoZone vest is seated on a stool and watching the local news from a high def flatscreen that’s mounted to the far wall.
He spots me and smiles. “How can I help you?”
“They let you watch the TV on the job?” I say.
He grins. “I like my sports. Especially the Yankees. Never miss a game.”
“You got the news on,” I say.
“I also like to keep up with current events,” he adds, almost proudly. “Plus I own the store, so I’m the boss.”
“Buck stops with you,” I say. “Along with the remote controller.”
“Exactly,” he says. Then, putting on his professional auto part salesman face. “So what can I do you for?”
I know that’s supposed to be a joke, but after the morning I’ve had, I’m not much in the mood for kidding around. But I manage to squeeze out a fake laugh anyway, just to be nice.
“I need a brake light bulb for a Dodge minivan,” I say.
“Year?” he says, while typing something into his laptop.
“1996,” I say.
“Jeeze,” he says, “you’re goin’ way back. That’s a relic. Sure all you need is a brake light?”
I’m reminded of the hatch lock. How it sprung when I drove over a pothole. I’m also reminded of the tires, how bald they are, and how the brakes squeal when I engage them. Then there’s the torn seat cushions and the cracked sideview mirror. I suppose if I wanted to, I could run up a hell of a bill. But then, all goes well, I’ll be driving something brand new and sporty in no time. So will Joanne.
“Hey, it’s paid for,” I say.
“Nothing wrong with that,” he says. “Nobody likes a car payment. Besides, it’s guys like you who keep me in business.” He scrunches his brow like he just caught himself saying something he shouldn’t have. “I mean that in a good way, of course.”
“No worries,” I say.
He slides off his stool, his eyes still focused on the computer screen.
“Let me go check on that brake light,” he says. “Back in a jiff.”
My eyes gravitate to the TV then and the local news. A story about a local statue being torn down by a bunch of rowdy militant protestors is currently running. The young radicals have tied a rope around the bronze likeness of George Washington that’s been displayed in Albany’s Washington Park ever since it opened in the late 1800’s. Or so the caption under the action states. As the statue is pulled down, and the kids proceed to trample on it and spray paint it with red paint, I can’t decide if I feel more sorry for George and his memory, or the country I’ve lived in and worked for all my life.
The story ends and a new one immediately begins. A news crew is located on a wooded roadside. A hotrod can be seen in the shot, its front grill severely banged up. The driver’s side window is shattered, and the passenger side window is covered in blood spatter. I can’t hear what’s being said by the attractive young Black woman with a mic pressed to her mouth. But when two still photos are superimposed over the live shot of the banged-up car, my stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
Both men are clearly Latino, and both have shaved heads. Their faces and scalps are covered in identical tattoos and each of them have at least one gold cap covering a front tooth or two. They are the young men Joanne killed. The men whose drugs and money we stole. The men we disintegrated in our bathtub and buried in our basement.
Their names appear under their likenesses. Names I now recognize from their driver’s licenses. Hector and Julio Perez. Both hail from Mexico. Or hailed anyway. They were twenty-one and twenty-two, respectively. Just kids.
“You hear about this?” AutoZone Man says.
His voice startles me. I guess I was so engrossed in the news story, I never noticed his return. He sets a small box down on the counter.
“Un uh,” I lie.
He shifts his focus to the television.
“From what I understand,” he goes on, “those two real good looking gangsters owned that car. It was found with all sorts of blood inside it, and at least one shell casing. Cops determined there was an accident, and one of the gangsters must have been run over somehow and the other one was shot, pointblank, while still sitting in the passenger seat.”
“You don’t say.” I’m still trying to act shocked and surprised.
“But here’s the kicker,” he adds. “The bodies are nowhere to be found.”
“Nowhere to be found? How do they even know the brothers were together when this happened?”
“Their older brother, Juan, confirmed they were out together that morning. He also confirmed that the car on the scene is theirs.”
“Jeeze, you know a lot about this thing.”
“Told you, I like to keep up with current events and I also pay attention to detail. Kind of goes with the auto parts business.”
I nod as though agreeing with his logic.
“So where did the bodies go?” I ask, like the auto parts guy is the lead investigator on the incident.
“That’s the thing,” he says. “Nobody knows. But the cops did say one thing. They believe the driver of the car...the one who got run over...was dismembered. The blood trails lead to that conclusion. There’s even blood in the woods, like whoever did this dragged the bodies around for a while, maybe even while they were still alive and breathing.”
“For the love of Pete,” I say. “Do the cops have any idea who could have done such a ghastly thing, even to a couple of gangsters?”
He nods, purses his lips. “The only conclusion based on the evidence so far, is that a rival gang is responsible. They must have followed these two guys, rammed into their car, ran the driver over when he got out and then assassinated the brother. They tortured the severely injured men before killing them and disposing of the bodies. The bloody car was left behind as a warning to the rival gang.”
“How frightening to know gangs like this exist in our community.”
“These are some bad hombres indeed,” he says. “Can you imagine how sick in the head these rival gangsters are? How ruthless and cunning to be able to take out two gang members or whatever they are, with such ease and then have the balls to take their money, their drugs, and the bodies? Must be one formidable group let me tell you. Sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it.”
“Jeepers,” I say. “Me too.”
By now the news story has long moved on to another story about the Saratoga thoroughbred racetrack.
“But hey,” AutoZone Man says, “I’ve kept you here too long. Let me ring you out.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He rings me up and I pay in cash.
“Don’t see much of this anymore,” he says.
He hands me my change and a receipt. I thank him again, and head out to the parking lot where I grab a screwdriver from out of the center console. Heading around the back of the van, I unscrew the cracked plastic shield that protects the brake light and replace the old bulb with the new one. Tossing the plastic and cardboard packaging into the trash receptacle near the store’s front door, I get back behind the wheel of the van and return the screwdriver to the center console. Since I have no way of knowing if the brake light works or not, I’ll just have to take my chances.
Starting the engine, I head out of the AutoZone Auto Parts lot, charged up with the knowledge that the whole world thinks of Joanne and me as ruthless bad asses.
––––––––
I PULL INTO THE LOWE’S lot and park pretty much in the same spot I occupied earlier. I am a creature of habit, after all. So is Joanne. We’re like two peas in a pod that way. Routine is everything for us. Wake up at six, coffee and toast at the kitchen table, shower, and then off to work while she does whatever she does during the day. Come home, pop the tab on a beer, dinner at five-thirty (meat and potatoes), Jeopardy at seven. In bed at eight while she binges her cable TV shows. I fade off before nine, wake up to pee two or three times during the night, then wake up for good at six whether I like it or not. Rinse and repeat. It’s not glamorous, but it’s our life whether we like it or not.
I head into the store, grab a cart and make my way outside to the Garden Center where the masonry and concrete products are housed. I make my way past all the pretty, colorful hanging pots of flowers and overpriced palates of plants until I come to where they keep the bricks and the decorative concrete patio blocks. Set beside them are several pallets of fifty-pound bags of cement and next to those, another several pallets of fifty-pound bags of sand.
Inhaling a deep breath, I bend at the knees as if I were about to take hold of an extra heavy case of mail, and heave. My lower back feels like it’s about to explode as I strain to set it into the cart. Correction, I end up dropping it into the cart. For a quick second, I’m pretty sure the bag has exploded on the bottom and all the fine cement has poured out of it. But upon closer inspection, I can see that the bag hasn’t burst. Score one for me.
Grabbing another bag, I drop it on top of the other one. Then, I do the same with a bag of sand. By the time I’m done, I’m sweating up a storm. I really should get back into working out. Once upon a time, I used to jog and hit the gym pretty regularly. But these days, the most exercise I get is hauling mail bins from one truck to another and delivering the mail from door to door via my mail truck. Maybe age has something to do with it...the general loss of precious testosterone...but by the end of a long day, I’m whooped. All I wanna do is go home, put my feet up, and drink a cold beer or four.
I think about what I’m going to mix the cement in, and I recall the fifty-gallon tub I never used. Turns out Joanne was right. It would come to good use after all. Pushing the cart towards the outdoor register is not easy either, it turns out. It’s like pushing a boulder uphill. It takes all my leg and upper body strength to get the cart moving. By the time I make it to the register, I’m out of breath. Sweat is pouring down from my forehead into my eyes. Pulling my hanky from my back pocket, I wipe my eyes. That’s when I see who’s manning the register. It’s the stoned kid who rang me out earlier.
“Well look who’s back,” he says.
With the sweat running into my eyes, I’m having trouble focusing on him, but when I do, I can see that his eyes are still glassy, like he smoked a joint during his lunch break.
“Turns out I needed more supplies,” I say.
He stares into the cart.
“Concrete,” he says. “What are you gonna do with that, dude?”
“You always ask the customers what they plan on doing with the stuff they buy at the Lowe’s?”
“It’s part of the job description,” he says. “We’re supposed to offer advice on home improvements.”
I look him up and down. He’s maybe six feet tall and can’t weigh in at more than a buck forty. His jeans are too big for him and so is the black T-shirt under his too big blue Lowe’s vest. His hair is thick and black and hasn’t seen a comb in weeks, if ever. His smooth face sports the remnants of a goatee and mustache, but it looks like it doesn’t know if it’s coming or going. This morning I pegged him for maybe nineteen or twenty, but the more I look at him, I can see that he might actually be older than that. Maybe even thirty. The older you get, the tougher it is to judge a young person’s age.
“What do you know about home improvement?” I say.
He grins.
“I know what they tell me to know,” he says.
“You know what you mix concrete with?” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders.
“I were you, dude,” he says, “I’d just YouTube it.”
“With sweat,” I say.
He scrunches his brow and shoots me a wide-eyed look, like I just farted.
“What?”
“It’s what my father used to say,” I say. “He worked construction.”
Then his eyes light up. “Oh, I get it. You mix concrete with sweat because it’s hard work.”
I make a pretend pistol with my right hand and shoot him with it.
“Bingo,” I say.
“I’ll have to remember that one, dude,” he says. Then, “Ummm, how you gonna pay for this? You’re not gonna try that plastic again.”
I feel a slow burn begin at the tips of my toes and that travels all the way to my brain. Reaching into my pocket, I slowly pull out the wad of greenbacks.
“You take cash?” I ask.
“Wow,” he says. “I hardly ever see that stuff.”
I recall the AutoZone man saying the same thing.
“You might have to actually make change,” I say. “You up to the task?”
He gives me a deadpan look.
“Don’t get snippy,” he says. “I have my GED.”
“Oh, thank God,” I say. “You’re definitely going places.”
He smirks and comes around the register to scan the three bags with his hand-held pistol-like scanner. Going back around to the register he tells me how much I owe. I hand him a General Grant. He opens the drawer, collects my change, hands it to me.
“You did that all on your own?” I ask.
“The machine calculates it for me,” he says. Then, planting a fake smile on his face. “You need help out to your vehicle, sir?”
“I can manage,” I say. “I’m not that old...yet.”
Grabbing my receipt, I push the cart out of the Garden Center and into the parking lot. By the time I get to my minivan, I feel like my lower back is about to explode.
“Maybe I am that old,” I whisper to myself.
Opening the hatchback, I load the three heavy bags into the back and close the door. Just the thought of having to carry the bags with me into the house and down the basement steps fills me with dread. Who knew that being a criminal is such hard work? Driving out of the lot, I head back in the direction of my home, making sure to abide by the speed limit.
I’ve got one good eye on the road and the other in the rearview when I see him pull out. The Albany PD blue and white comes up on me fast just like he did twice before in the same day. Just like the first two times, my heart jumps up into my throat. Only this time, instead of being frightened, I’m downright pissed off. Mostly, pissed at myself for not taking another route back to my house.
Hitting my directional, I pull over onto the soft shoulder, come to a full stop and throw the transmission into park. Instead of turning the engine off, I decide to let it idle. Glancing into the side-view mirror, I see the same cop get out of the cruiser and approach me yet again. Officer Danish.
I roll down the window.
“Nice to see you again, Officer Danish,” I say. “This has got to be a record or something close to it. Three times in a single day.”
He purses his lips and presses his tongue against his cheek.
“Thought you were going to get that brake light fixed.”
You have got to be kidding me...
“I most certainly did get it fixed,” I insist.
Reaching into my shirt pocket, I pull out one of two receipts. I hand him the one from the AutoZone. He glances at it for a while.
Then, handing me back the receipt. “You install the lamp yourself?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Why don’t you get out and we’ll take a look at it together.”
I feel my insides drop. I just wanna get home, fill that floor in and forget this day ever happened.
“Sure thing,” I say opening the door and sliding out.
Together we go around the minivan.
“You got a screwdriver?” he asks.
Exhaling a frustrated breath, I go back to the driver’s side, open the door, reach into the center console and retrieve my screwdriver. Heading back to the brake light I proceed once more to remove the cracked plastic shield. I go to remove the brand new bulb but he shoves his hand in there first.
“Allow me,” he says.
“By all means, Officer.”
He pulls the bulb out, gives it a good look and shakes it beside his ear as if he expects its filament to rattle inside the thin glass.
“Seems like a perfectly good bulb to me,” he says. “Maybe you just installed it wrong.”
He places the business end of the bulb back into the socket and twists it clockwise. I hear it snap in place. It’s a sound I didn’t hear when I attempted to install the bulb earlier.
“Try that,” he says.
Without his telling me to do so, I go back around the van, and slip back behind the wheel. I toe tap the brakes.
“How’s that?” I say out the door.
“Works now,” he says.
I get back out and join him at the hatchback. I proceed to screw the plastic shield back on.
“You know I could get you for that cracked brake light shield too,” he says. “But I guess I’ve given you enough grief for one day. I don’t want you to think I’m picking on you.”
“Gee,” I say. “Thanks.”
When the shield is in place, I offer him a grin, even if it’s the last thing I feel like doing.
“Better be on my way,” I say.
But that’s when he starts pulling on the hatchback latch.
“You know this thing is still real loose.”
He pulls on it so hard, it opens. He stares at the bags of concrete and sand.
“What’s all this?” he says. “Thought you were acid washing the stone patio.”
Pulse pounds and the adrenaline soaks my brain. It’s time to think quick again.
“There a law against making some ready-mix, Officer?”
He turns to me quick, shoots me a stern, Clint Eastwood glare, like I just purposely stepped on his foot. He inserts both thumbs into his black leather utility belt.
“You giving me lip, Mr. Jones?” he says.
The way his blue eyes look not into my eyes, but instead my soul, gives me the chills.
“Not at all, Officer Danish,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “Because for a moment there, I thought you were being a bit of a wise guy.”
“Not at all,” I say. “To tell you the truth, I’d really just like to get back home to finish my project and then crack a nice ice-cold beer.”
He nods then, but keeps on staring at me, like there’s something he just doesn’t trust about me or my situation. Like he can sniff something rotten in the air, but still can’t put his finger on its source.
“Listen,” he says. “There’s been some trouble up the road from here, near the Littles Lake state campground.”
Mouth goes dry, as if I swallowed a mouthful of the powdery ready-mix.
“Oh,” I say like a question. “What kind of trouble?”
He tells me what I already know, but what I have to pretend I don’t know.
“Jeepers,” I say. “Drug cartels and Mexican gangsters right here in sleepy Albany, New York. Who would have ever thought a thing like that was possible in this day and age.”
“Well, they haven’t located the bodies,” he goes on. “Tells me that whoever did this is trying to get rid of the bodies of evidence. There were drugs involved and cash. Maybe that explains the missing bodies.”
His eyes are still peering into mine. My heart races. Why’s he telling me this stuff?
I say, “Must be whoever did the killing is gonna try and bury the bodies somewhere, or maybe toss them in the river. That’s what I would do. Toss the bodies in the river.”
“You don’t say,” he says, his brow scrunched, eyes squinted. “Or perhaps whoever killed those two gangsters is planning on dissolving their bodies in hydrochloric acid.” He giggles. “That’s how I would do it.”
He’s still looking at me, into me. But then he does something that takes me by complete surprise. He smiles. It’s a big ear to ear smile.
“I recall all that hydrochloric acid you were hauling earlier,” he goes on.
“Well,” I say, not without a nervous laugh, “I can assure you, my wife and I haven’t been killing any gangsters lately. We’re a little too old for those sorts of shenanigans I’m afraid.”
He reaches out, plants his mash hammer of a hand on my shoulder. For a split second, I feel like I might collapse under the weight and power of it. He laughs aloud.
“Relax, Mr. Jones,” he says. “You certainly don’t fit the bill for rival murderous gang members. You can go now.” He starts making his way back to his cruiser. “And don’t forget to get that latch fixed.”
I stare at his back for a moment.
“You should be a detective,” I say.
I’m not sure why I say it, because the last thing I want to do is keep the conversation going with this overly nosy cop. But like a sneeze or a belch, it just comes out.
He opens the cruiser door, turns to me.
“Funny you should say that Mr. Jones,” he says.
“It is?”
“I just found out yesterday that I passed my detective’s exam. Come Monday, no more blue uniform. No more road duty. I’ll be officially a plain clothes homicide investigator. Rumor has it, they might even assign me to the Mexican gangster case.”
Now my dry mouth is accompanied by a full-blown stomachache, like my body and mind are becoming more and more convinced Officer...no scratch that...Detective Danish knows more about Joanne’s and my role in the deaths of Hector and Julio Perez than he’s letting on about. Is it possible he saw us fleeing the scene of the accident? Or maybe one of the rubberneckers who went by reported the accident and described Jo, me, and our minivan as having been on the scene. Hell, maybe the entire APD is onto us, and we just don’t know it yet. Because what kind of cop stops the same man three times in one day just because a brake light is out?
He gets in the cruiser, slams the door closed. He kills the rooftop flashers, pulls onto the road, and speeds away. I get behind the wheel of the minivan, and for a long beat, just stare out the window onto the quiet suburban road. Today, my wife killed two Mexican gangsters. I helped her clean up the mess and dispose of the bodies. We took their money and drugs and as of this moment, she’s figuring out a way to launder the cash and sell the drugs. Excuse me...product. I’ve been stopped three times by a cop who’s about to become a homicide detective who will, in all likelihood, be attached to our case. I’ve got a blown-up bathroom, the remains of two bodies buried in the basement and a load of ready-mix in the back of the van.
“And the day isn’t even over yet,” I whisper.
Throwing the van into drive, I drive onto the road and head for home.