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“Oh shit,” I say while glancing at my wristwatch. “I almost forgot.”
Getting up, I go to the front door, peek out one of the three little glass panes embedded in the wood. For a quick second, it dawns on me the cops might be paying a visit. Maybe even Officer Danish. Maybe somebody identified us at the scene of this morning’s crime after all. Maybe they saw us collecting the dead bodies, called the police, and now the cops are onto us. Or maybe one of the rubberneckers who originally passed by Joanne seconds after she killed the Perez brothers finally went to the police and reported what they saw with their own eyes. Anything is possible. But when I see my son’s bearded face framed in the glass, his white, second-hand pickup truck parked in the driveway, I feel relieved.
Unlocking the deadbolt and the doorknob, I open the door. He doesn’t say hello. Instead he gives me a wide-eyed, almost annoyed expression.
“Since when do you lock the door during the day, Dad?” he says, stepping inside. He peers over his right shoulder. “And what in God’s name happened to the bathroom? It looks like somebody tossed a grenade inside and blew it up.”
Little does he know, he’s not far from the truth. I take hold of his arm, drag him outside.
“Dad,” he says, his eyes even wider than before. “What the hell are you doing? Why is everything so weird? Where’s Mom?”
I let go of his arm, shove my hand in my pocket, pull out the cash, and stuff it in his hand.
“Do not tell your mother about this, Bradley,” I insist.
He gazes at the cash resting in the palm of his hand almost like he feels the need to count it. He’s still dressed in his baggy blue scrubs. He stores the money in the chest pocket on his pullover. His big brown eyes are bloodshot, his beard could use a trim, and his hair is thicker and longer than usual. He could use about a full day and night of sleep.
“Why the secrecy, Dad?” he asks.
For a split second, I’m tempted to tell him the truth about this morning’s accident. But now is not the time. Then, standing at the front door, Joanne.
“Bradley Junior,” she calls out. “I thought that was you, honey. I swore I heard your voice.” She marches out the door and wraps her arms around him. “You don’t say hello to your old mother?”
He glances at me while she kisses his hairy face.
“Sorry, Mom,” he says. “Dad and I got talking. I was just about to come in.”
Then Sean appears. He walks out the open door, and his eyes go wide at the sight of my son.
“There’s the good doctor,” he bellows. “How’s life in the ER, buddy?”
“Busy, Mr. MacDonald,” Bradley says.
Sean gives him a pat on his shoulder.
“Bet you’re making the big bucks now, kid,” he says. “Sure wish my son was a doctor. Instead he had to go and be an artist.” Holding up his hands like he’s asking for a time out. “Excuse me...a visual artist. He wouldn’t have a roof over his head if I didn’t pay his rent. But I can bet you got yourself a nice little nest egg already saved up, Brad Junior buddy.”
My son gives me another look. The look says, If only Sean knew the truth about being an ER resident and the massive debt I’m in.
“Sure thing, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Well, I have to be heading home, or Patty will wonder if I fell off a cliff or a bar stool anyway.” He staggers a little when he starts making his way down the driveway, past the white pickup, towards Hope Street. “I’ll be back tomorrow Brad Senior buddy, and we can settle up our plans then. It’s gonna be one hell of an exciting ride.”
Our new partner in the death and drug trades heads out to the road, makes a left at the mailbox, and starts on his short walk home.
“What’s Mr. MacDonald talking about, Dad?” my son asks.
Joanne and I glance into one another’s eyes. We both know that if our son were to enter back into the house, he wouldn’t just get another look at the blown up bathroom. He’d see all the money and drugs laid out on the table, and then we’d have some real explaining to do. The bathroom is one thing, but what’s spread all over the dining room table is quite another.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, once more engaging the creative side of my brain for a lie my son will buy, hook, line, and heavyweight sinker. “We’re thinking about driving down to another New York Jet’s football game later this fall. You know how he loves to tailgate, Junior.”
“I know how much he loves to drink,” Brad Junior says. “He looked plastered already. He keeps that up he’ll pickle his liver. I’ve seen too many livers and kidneys wrecked because of alcohol abuse.”
“He just about drank all of dad’s beers,” Joanne adds.
Junior starts walking towards the open front door. But once more I grab his arm.
“Jesus, Dad,” he says. “What are you doing? I wanna grab a drink of water.”
“The place is a mess, kid,” I say, my eyes going from his to Joanne’s.
I can tell she’s panicked too, and that she’s trying to come up with an excuse for keeping our only son from entering the house he grew up in...a house where he is always welcome...a house we hope to leave to him someday.
“Listen, Junior,” she says, after a long, tense silence, “your dad and I have decided to start on a major project together. We’re gutting the bathrooms and the bedrooms, and finally fixing up the basement. It’s going to be absolutely beautiful. And we’d just rather you don’t see it in the condition it is right now. All the memories we have together, it will be heart-wrenching for you to see it demolished. Better that we unveil the new and improved Jones casa when it’s finally finished.”
She smiles, takes hold of our boy’s hand, and squeezes it hard. I have to hand it to her, she’s really hamming it up and doing a pretty convincing job of it.
“I just want a drink of water, Mom,” he says.
“Oh, you head on home and grab some water. It’s not far. Plus, I can see you need some sleep, Junior. You don’t start getting the proper rest you’ll be a patient in your own hospital.”
She starts dragging him to his pickup truck. Like I said, she’s doing a good job of convincing the kid that he positively cannot enter into the house.
“See you soon, Junior!” I bark.
“Okay, Dad,” he says opening the driver’s side door. “Listen, there’s something the two of you should know. We got reports this morning of what’s being called a double homicide over by Little’s Lake. That’s only about a mile from here. They say it’s the work of rival Mexican gangs fighting over Upstate territory. We would have seen the bodies on their way to the morgue, but they’re nowhere to be found. Police are telling us they’re worried a drug cartel gang war is about to erupt right here in our peaceful neighborhood.”
My pulse picks up and my mouth goes dry. If only Junior knew the truth about the situation.
“What is this world coming to?” Joanne poses.
“Maybe it’s a good idea to keep the door locked after all, Dad,” Bradley Junior says.
“Very good idea,” I say.
Just then, a car turns onto our neighborhood road. It’s a blue and white cop cruiser. It’s going slow, no bright flashers, no sirens. Just a police officer keeping tabs on a quiet neighborhood. Keeping things safe and protected. The windows are tinted, and it’s impossible to make out who’s driving. But then the cruiser stops suddenly, directly in front of the driveway, so that my son can’t possibly back his pickup out.
When the driver’s side window comes down, I see the face of a man I have come to know all too well today. It’s Officer, soon to be Detective, Danish. He peers at me, grins, and even offers up a subtle wave.
I wave back, my stomach cramping and my mouth going dry. The window goes back up and the officer drives off, further into the neighborhood.
“You know that cop?” Bradley Junior asks as he slips behind the wheel.
“Is he the one who stopped you today, honey?” Joanne poses.
“Yes,” I say, swallowing a brick. “And yes.”
My heart sinks. Because I know then, without a single doubt in my mind, that the cops, or at least one cop, suspects me of something a hell of a lot worse than a broken rear brake light, and that something will have to be done about it. But what exactly? And when?
Brad Junior shuts the car door and starts it up.
For the first time since Joanne killed the two gangsters and we took the drugs and the drug money, I realize just how deep a hole we have dug for ourselves in just one single day. That hole is only going to get deeper and deeper as time passes. Much money is going to be made, but more people are going to die. Bad people, but good people too.
“We need to be ready for it,” I whisper to myself as my son backs out of the drive.
Waving to him, I pray the violence that’s about to come for us passes him by. I pray, but I don’t hold out hope.