| |
“So that was fun,” I say, as we get back in the minivan.
I start her up, shove the joystick in reverse, and back out of the space. I then shove the stick into drive, pound the gas and burn rubber, like Luke Skywalker escaping the exploding Death Star.
“Really, Bradley,” Joanne says as I pull out onto the road.
“Really Bradley what?” I say, shooting her a quick glance.
“I realize you and my mother have never been tight,” she says. “But spilling a full cup of tea on her? What if you burned her?”
“The cup had been sitting there for twenty minutes,” I say. “It was cooled down.”
“But you did it on purpose. I’m not kidding, you took a real chance on burning her.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “I’m really sorry, Jo. It’s just that the news was about to show that wanted poster, and I panicked. I didn’t want her to see a very good drawing of our faces while our real faces were right in front of her.”
“She watches the news all day and night because she thinks it keeps her sharp, Brad.”
“Yeah, I get that, and so far it looks like she hasn’t made any kind of connection between the poster and her family. But it dawned on me while we were sitting there that if she saw the faces and then saw our faces in real-time, she might make that connection after all.” Shooting her a second glance. “Make sense?”
I turn onto Central Avenue. It’s still busy even after rush hour.
“I think you’re being paranoid,” she says. “I mean, yeah, the drawings on the wanted poster sort of look like us, but we could always chalk that up as a sort of coincidence.”
“What are you trying to suggest, Joanne?” I say. “That we don’t follow proper precautions? We killed two gangsters and buried them in our basement. We took their money and their drugs and used it to start a money laundering and drug manufacturing business of our own. We then made ourselves very complicit in the murder of two innocent people.” I breathe a heavy sigh. “I mean, at least the Perez brothers were real assholes who sort of deserved to die.”
“That’s not for you to judge, Bradley,” my wife scolds. “What did the good Lord say? Judge not, that you be not judged.”
“Oh my God, we’re fucking murderers and drug runners and you’re quoting scripture.”
This is the part where I want to tell her I don’t recognize her. But I decide to hold my tongue. It’s also the moment I realize the road leading directly to the Postal Distribution Center where I used to work will shortly be coming up on my right-hand side. It dawns on me that the FBI Wanted poster will more than likely be posted there on the bulletin board just as you enter into the general public post office portion of the facility. Lots of people know my face in that place, almost as well as Joanne knows my face.
“I just think you’re being paranoid, Brad,” she goes on. “Maybe, in the end, you’re not cut out for this kind of life. As for me, I actually think it suits me. That I might have even been wasting my life for the past thirty years.”
A third quick glance at my wife.
“Well ain’t that just a kick in the balls,” I sing in my best imitation Dean Martin.
I’m trying to be funny. But it ain’t funny in the least. She sets her hand on my thigh, gives it a pinch.
“Oh, I don’t mean I’ve wasted my life with you, Bradley, honey,” she says. “It’s just that, there’s a side of me I didn’t know existed until now.”
“The killer side,” I say. It’s a question.
“No, not that. Of course, not that. As much as the Perez brothers probably deserved what they got, like you say, I’m not at all happy with myself for what happened to Mark and his wife.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” I say. “ ‘Cause for a second there I thought I was married to Charlie Manson.”
“You’re not being fair, Bradley,” she says, removing her hand. “What I’m talking about is the excitement of moving the product and seeing the money pour in and laundering it through our very own legitimate business.” She grins. “It’s, well, thrilling.”
“And the killing part of all this?”
“What do they call it during times of war? Collateral damage?”
One final quick glance at her.
“Killing is killing, no matter what you call it, Jo.”
“But it goes with the job, Brad,” she says, her voice sterner now. Like she’s had it up to her neck with this conversation. “If you’re not comfortable with it, maybe you should think of getting out now before you get in so deep, there’s no chance of getting out.”
“I think we’ve reached the point of no return already, Jo.”
I see the sign then for New Karner Road, the roadway that accesses the postal distribution center. I hook an abrupt right without using my directional.
The lot is empty since it’s well after working hours.
“What are you doing, Bradley?” Joanne says. “Brad Junior will be at the house in forty-five minutes after his shift and we still have to stop at the Price Chopper Supermarket.”
“This will only take a minute, and there’s a Price Chopper on Central Avenue we can hit up.”
“You don’t work here anymore, Bradley,” she says. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Something I need to do inside the general public post office.”
“How are you going to get in? They’re closed.”
I pat the keys hanging from my belt loop by a carabiner—the keys I left on the keyring when I removed the other useless ones from the Extendakey.
“The boss forgot to ask me for my keys to the building,” I say.
“And let me guess,” she says. “You never bothered to voluntarily return them to the federal government.”
Pulling up to the curb outside the PO, I throw the transmission into park.
“We were already into this drug and money laundering thing,” I say. “I guess I figured I might need the keys one day.” Opening the door and slipping out. “I guess that day has come.”
“Come for what, Bradley?” she says. “You’re more cryptic than an ancient hieroglyph.”
“It’s a post office,” I say. “It has wanted posters tacked to the bulletin board.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” she says. “Are we going to drive to every post office in Albany County?”
“I know you think I’m paranoid,” I say. “And I know we have plausible deniability on our side. But people know me very well here. They know my face almost as well as you do. Maybe better. I would just feel better if I removed this one poster. That’s all, Jo.”
She looks at her watch.
“If it will make you sleep better,” she says. “Go ahead. But hurry up, please. I don’t want to keep Brad Junior waiting. He’s been up for almost forty-eight hours in the Emergency Room. Oh, plus Sean wants to stop by really quick to get a look at our new basement renovation. I guess he wants to give his mancave a facelift.”
I close the door knowing my wife’s nagging is somewhat justified. But listen, I will sleep better knowing the wanted poster with our likeness printed on it, is gone from this place.
Slipping the key into the lock, I open the door, then head directly for the alarm enunciator panel mounted to the wall. I punch in the code that should shut down the alarm. When the red light switches over to green, I feel the relief wash over me. I don’t hesitate to make my way to the counter that contains the attached pens for filling out address forms. Mounted directly above it, is the bulletin board.
Sure enough, the brand-new FBI Wanted poster is prominently displayed, mine and Joanne’s faces plainly visible for my ex-coworkers and Johnny Q Public to observe. Reaching up, I rip the poster off the tacks and begin folding it up into quarters so it will fit in my pocket.
Footsteps on the linoleum covered floor directly behind me. Heart shoots up into my throat. I turn fast.
“What the fuck are you doing here, old man?”
It’s Martin, the guy I walloped back in the late summer. He’s positioned behind the counter close to the spot where my friend Carol usually stands, directly beside the Scotch-taped photos of her grandchildren.
Shoving the poster into my jeans pocket. “Taking care of a little unfinished business, Martin.”
“That’s federal property,” he says, picking something up off the counter and gripping it in his hand. It looks like a knife, but it’s a letter opener. Carol’s personal letter opener. “And you’re trespassing on federal property too,” he goes on.
The short, stocky man’s face is tight, his brown eyes bulging out of their sockets. I can see a big purple vein protruding out of his high forehead. He’s still wearing his mailman uniform. The button-down shirt is wrinkled badly, and the tails are untucked. His face is covered in a salt and pepper five o’clock shadow, and his receding hair could use a comb. He also seems enraged, like having me alone like this, after hours, has been his dream ever since I hit him in front of his buddies and Carol.
He comes around the desk, that letter opener gripped in his hand like it’s a knife.
I swallow something cold and dry.
“Working late tonight, Martin?” I ask. “Last I heard the postal service doesn’t pay for overtime.”
The door is only a few feet away from me. I could just make a run for it and bolt out the door. But he gets the same idea too and he makes a beeline for the door, locks the deadbolt. When he turns back to face me, he exhales long and hard. That’s when I smell the liquor on his breath.
“Oh, so that’s it,” I say. “You hang out after work to drink all alone. Maybe you’re sleeping here. What happened, Martin? Your wife kick you out?”
“Leave her out of this,” he says. “This ain’t got nothing to do with my wife.”
I’ve got my hands raised up in semi-surrender position. If only I had that gun Sean promised me. If only I had my wife’s gun. I gaze up into the corner. I wonder if the CCTV is still running after hours, or if they shut it off at the end of the day as a money saving measure. The Postal Department is a multi-billion dollar per year taxpayer money suck. The government is always looking for ways to save a penny here and a nickel there.
“I knew it,” he says, a sly grin forming on his face. “You’re the guy in that wanted poster. You and your wife. I fucking knew it, and I said so to Carol, to the boss, to everybody. The face could only belong to you. No wonder you took an early retirement. You killed a couple of drug runners, buried them somewhere, took their money, their drugs, and now you’re getting filthy rich.” He giggles. “So how close am I to the truth, old man?”
I stare into his eyes. They’re glassy and mean. If I had a gun right now, it’s possible I’d shoot him. Maybe that makes me as bad as Sean. As bad a Joanne. As bad as Juan Perez and his dead little brothers. To be honest, I don’t care how bad it makes me. I want him dead, and I want him dead now.
“I’m not old,” I say.
“What?” he says, with a crooked expression.
“I’m middle-aged,” I say. “I’m not old yet.”
“I...don’t...fucking...care,” he says. “What I do care about is you going to prison. That’s why I’m going to call the cops right now, and they are going to take you to jail. How’s that grab you, old man?”
“You wouldn’t dare, Marty,” I say, in a mock, sing songy voice.
“Just watch me, bitch.”
He reaches over the counter with his free hand, while keeping his eyes and the letter opener aimed at me. He picks up the landline receiver, tucks it under his cheek and chin. I can see that he’s looking at the dial pad out the corner of his eye, and that’s he’s got his index finger on the 9 digit. He presses the digit, then shifts his finger to number 1. I cannot allow him to dial the full 911. The cops come now, Joanne and I are finished. Done. Off to prison for the rest of our lives.
Decisions. Either allow him to go through with calling the cops. Or do something else instead. I choose the latter. I bullrush him, head-first, nailing him square in the face. He drops the phone and hits the floor like a sack of rags and bones, both his nostrils leaking blood.
“You broke my nose, old man!” he screams.
The letter opener falls out of his hands. He’s reaching for it with one hand, while trying to gouge my left eye out with the other. I scream, make a fist and roundhouse him in the temple.
He removes his hand from my face, but he manages to grab hold of the letter opener at the exact same time I do. We’re wrestling for control of the letter opener, the sharp business end of it hovering in mid-air between both our sternums. It’s coming down to a matter of strength. If this were the old, out of shape Brad Jones, the blade might already be plunged through my heart. But this is the new me. The stronger me. The weightlifter me. The monster me.
Gradually, achingly, the blade is shifting towards his chest. He’s screaming now, the sweat pouring off his forehead, the smell of his booze breath invading my nostrils like gas from a gas chamber. His eyes are bulging out of their sockets, the blood flowing from his nose, streams of thick, blood-stained drool flowing out of his mouth, down his chin and onto his baby blue mailman shirt.
“I am...going to kill you...old man,” he spits.
It’s this final old man comment that does it. It gives me the quick jolt of extra strength I need to shove the letter opener blade downward so that I thrust it in Martin’s chest, at the very same moment a round hole appears in his forehead and his brains spatter against the counter.