YEAR
OFF By
Michael McGlade
“This
guy’s clipped more cake-eaters than cancer.” Six
men in the booth and all of them staring now at
Mike – the cake-eater, apparently.
He
didn’t know what to say, hadn’t a clue what they were talking about for
the
past hour, he’d been inducted into their group to pay for drinks. He
hadn’t
been able to think of an excuse to get away. “Call
him Le Gros,” the fat man said about his more
portly partner. “And not just ’cause he’s a whale.” Le
Gros said, “Screw you guys!” Chuckling
now, double chins flapping, the empty beer
bottles on the table chattering excitedly. Then
silence. All six of them now staring at Mike.
The bar was practically empty, the doors barred for a lock-in, and the
time
somewhere close to dawn. “What
action you got goin on, cake-eater?” Mike’s
words stuttered out like a hiccup. “You
just jackin?” They
laughed at him. “Jackin?”
Mike said. “Carjacking?” His
palms itched. He wished he was in the other
booth with his friend Josh, who’d somehow talked them into this bar. “Youse
know how to steals cars?” “Like
that Gone
in 60 Seconds film?” Mike
said, “It’s not like that in real life, not
like the movies.” All
stared at him. “How
exactly youse steal a car, huh?” He
dry-gulped, his beer empty long ago and no money
to pay for another … didn’t like to think what they’d do to him after
finding
out. “Youse
hot-wire it?” Le Gros said. “A seven series
BMW, you twist the wires, get the starter motor going?” “That
doesn’t work.” They stared. “Cars today are
more computer than machine.” It was true: he saw it in a documentary.
“They’re
impossible to hot wire,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter. All you
need to do
is jam a screwdriver in the keyhole and twist. Almost always works.”
Exactly
what the Discovery Channel
documentary said. “This
kid might be legit, after all,” Le Gros said.
“You get us another drink, cake-eater, might not need to break your
arms.” “Okay,”
Mike said. “Back in a jiffy.” Scuttling
out of the booth, they laughed at him. He
crossed to the opposite side where Josh had a booth with a wrinkly
old-timer.
Everybody here was ancient, always looks that way when you’ve just
turned
eighteen. He sidled next to Josh. “Those
guys are psychos,” Mike hissed. “What have
you got me into here?” “Don’t
be a wet Tampax.” The
table contained a half-dozen untouched whiskeys,
and the old-timer was sleeping upright, somehow, head drooped onto his
chest. “What’s
with the Mummy Returns?” “Because
he looks like a corpse? Funny guy.” “Let’s
get out of here. They’re looking more drinks
and I’m broke. I’ve no more money.” “Money,
uh?” the old-timer slurred, sitting forward
now. “I gots lots of money.” Josh
said, “What’s that, Vinnie?” Like
he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Bopped
two tizzun today.” He reached for a whiskey
and missed the glass completely. “Had this huge case of money on ‘em.” “Let’s
go,” Mike said. “Buy
you kids a drink, you want. Celebrate
retirement. Won’t need to ever work again.” “Not
when you pay taxes on those winnings,” Josh
said. “No
taxes, not ever,” he said, head sagging to his
chest. “Got it nice and safe in my place. And nobody knows.”
* *
*
Josh
and Mike exited the courtyard around back of
the bar, having shimmied through the restroom window, and now made
their way up
Mulberry Street to the corner of Grand. All the stores had Italian
names.
Welcome to Little Italy. “What
the hell was that?” Mike said. “Just
some mob bar.” “A
fucking mob
bar?” “Why
do you think everybody was dressed like a movie
extra from a Martin Scorsese set?” “You
abandoned me with a bunch of Henry Hills? Why
didn’t you warn me?” “Mike,
this is the first night of our year off.
Wanted it to be an adventure.” “That’s
messed up, Josh. Only those guys thought I
was some sort of carjacker…” Josh
said, “That guy, Vinnie, you think he was
telling the truth about the money?” Mike
walked faster, almost running now. “I
ran out on Lucky Luciano’s bar bill. I’m a dead
man. We need to get out of here.” He
glanced over his shoulder. Josh had a leather
wallet, an old time thing looking like it had be carved straight from
the cow. “You
didn’t. Tell me you didn’t. That’s not some
mobster’s wallet?” Josh
read the driving license. “Vinnie’s real name
is Vincent Hunter,” he said. “Lives just a couple blocks over.” “We’re
screwed. You screwed us, Josh.” Mike dashed
onto the empty street, glancing both ways, praying for a taxi to get
him to the
hostel. “I
knew you’d chicken out.” “Don’t
do that. This isn’t a game.” “Year
off,” he said by way of explanation. “We’ve a
whole year before going to college.” He jangled the wallet in Mike’s
face.
“We’re absolutely going to do this.” “Do
what exactly?” “Go
to Vinnie’s house to steal his money.” *
* * They
stood opposite the property on Elizabeth
Street. Mike
said, “Let’s get out of here.” “Why?
We’re just standing. Nothing illegal about
that.” “No,
the illegal bit is what happens next.” “Cool
it. I’m just looking is all.” There
was a large black door with drape-less windows
either side, and dead pot plants on the second-floor fire escape. “Kinda
exciting, isn’t it. Stealing stolen loot from
a mobster, uh?” “We’ve
a flight to catch in a couple hours…” Mike
glanced around the empty street. “Feels like we’re being watched.” “Nobody
knows we’re here.” “Everybody
in that mob bar saw us. They know you
were talking to Vinnie all evening.” “Enough
already.” “We’ve
a whole year travelling around, why push it
tonight?” “A
year of boring crap, you going to be like this,”
Josh said. “How much money you got on you?” Mike
chewed his bottom lip. “This
is dumb,” he said. “You really think you’re
cut out to be a doctor, acting like this?” “You’re
certainly anal enough to be a lawyer.” Both
of them friends since kindergarten, and had
deferred their first year at Harvard to travel around South America. Mike
said, “Why would he keep the money in his own
house?” “You
heard him.” “But
his own
house. That’s just dumb.” “Nobody
expects gangsters to be rocket scientists.” “Why
would he tell you the location?” “Must’ve
thought we were made guys, us being in the
bar and all.” “What’d
you tell him about us?” “Nothing.”
Batted it back much too quickly. “No
details of where we’re from, nothing?” “Just
said we were hitchhiking across the States, in
New York for a couple days, leaving today. Which is true. The leaving
part,
that is. I guess Vinnie felt the need to brag.” Josh
crossed the street and stood in front of the
large black door. “This
is a felony,” Mike said. “You know what they
do to fresh fish like us in jail? They get sodomized. I’m not getting
buggered
for a nighttime burglary.” “It’s
dawn now.” “Not
the point I’m making—” “Don’t
have a panic attack.” “I’m
going to study law at Harvard. I can’t
burglarize someone’s house. We could get twenty years for this.” “Quit
blowing smoke up your skirt.” “Felony
robbery is five years in state prison. No
probation. No slap on the wrist. Just state prison. Doesn’t matter we
have no
criminal record and I do community service at an old people’s home.”
Mike raked
sweat off his forehead. “After we’re convicted of robbery in the First
Degree,
it’s the judge’s choice to sentence anywhere up to twenty-five years.
It’s one
of the most serious crimes in the book in New York State.” “This
isn’t robbery. It’s burglary.” “Residential
burglary is treated as a violent felony
offence. Anywhere from three-and-a-half to fifteen years.” “Shit,
you really do know your stuff. You’ll make a
decent lawyer—” “I’m
not going in there.” “Seeing
as we’re here, can’t we at least have a peak
in the window?” Josh
leaned into the pane and cupped his fingers
around his eyes to get a better look. Mike did the same on the other
widow.
There was no furniture inside. Bare wood floors. Paint blistering off
the
walls. “It’s
vacant,” Mike said. “Completely empty.
Nobody’s living here.” “Then
it won’t matter if we go inside.” “Breaking
and entering?” Josh
tried the door latch and it was unlocked, the
handle turning. “It’s
a sign—” “That
this is a trap.” “Firstly,
it’s an empty property,” Josh said. “Second,
we’re just here to return the wallet we found, maybe looking a reward.
We’re
the good guys.” The
door opened fully. *
* * The
air had a musty gone-off reek, like it hadn’t
circulated in an age. Each room they entered was devoid of furniture.
Weird. They
climbed the stairs and on the second floor
spilt to cover more ground. Mike took the front and at the first door
his hand
trembled. Inside, nothing. Same with the next. At the third room, he
brazenly
entered, even strolled around inside and peered out the window. An
approaching
taxi slowed. Panicking, Mike hustled into the hallway, couldn’t see
Josh, and
sprinting toward the far end, each door along the way wide open, he
came to the
only one partly ajar. In a jumbling rush, he flung the door open. Josh
was frozen, face colorless as paraffin, staring
at something behind the door, and the door itself, Mike now realized,
had
definitely crushed into something solid because it hadn’t swung all the
way to
the wall like it should have. Craning his neck, he noticed the soles of
a pair
of black wingtips and following the legs behind the door saw a man
wearing a
black suit and tie slumped unconscious on the floor, nose busted. Out
of his
hand had slipped a pistol with a silencer. The
man groaned, coming to. Mike scrambled for the
pistol, grabbed it, and backed into the center of the room alongside
Josh. No
furniture in this room except for a metal cot, the sheets crumpled. Had
the man
been sleeping fully clothed? “Let’s
get out of here, Josh.” “But
everybody in the bar saw us. This guy saw us.
We’re dead, we leave him alive, we’re dead, Mike.” “Josh,
we’re on a flight to Mexico City in a couple
hours…” Mike
let the sentence trail off. The guy on the
ground was awake and sat up. He’d heard everything, including their
names, and
now he studied their faces, seemed to be committing them to memory. “We
have to finish this,” Josh said. “Can’t leave
now.” “We
go to the cops,” Mike said. “Tell them
everything, we might get off.” The
mobster reached into his jacket pocket and drew
a pistol. Josh
grabbed the gun from Mike and shot two, three
times. Sounding like a weak cough. Mike snatched the pistol back too
late. The
mobster wheezed like an asthma sufferer, then deflated. “Chrissakes,
call an ambulance.” “No
point,” Josh said. “He’s dead.” “You
don’t know that.” “Three
times in the chest. He’s dead.” Crimson
blossomed the man’s white shirt. “We’re
screwed,” Mike spasmed. “We’re really
screwed. Why’d you shoot him, Josh?” “The
gun… Jeez, how’d we get ourselves into this
mess?” “We? WE!
You’re the one stole Vinnie’s wallet. You’re the one…” Thinking about
it now,
“All that booze on the table. You were buying him drinks all evening.
You
wanted him drunk. You knew he had money stashed somewhere, and made it
your
business to get him so wasted he’d let slip, that it?” “I
wish I was that devious, man. It just happened,
is all. I bought him drinks because he’s a mobster and I didn’t want to
upset
him.” “You
don’t think his dead partner might be a tad
upsetting?” Mike
jabbed the pistol at Josh while he spoke, and
the strained tearful grimace to his face, the way his finger curled
around the
trigger, he was about ready to lose control completely. “Don’t
do anything rash.” “Like
what, shoot someone?” “He
was armed. It’s self-defense.” Mike
paced the room, muttering to himself, and kept
glancing at Josh, finger still on the trigger. Meanwhile
Josh sicked-up on his sneakers, and bent
over now, bile stringing off his nose, a fecund vomit searing his
nostrils as
he kept his head between his knees… Then
he saw it. Under
the bed was a suitcase. Josh
fell to his knees and dragged the suitcase out.
He popped the hasps, lifted the lid. Mike went to his knees alongside
him and
they both stared. Lifted a bundle of banknotes, Mike riffled through it
– all
hundreds. “Talk
about the Benjamins.” “There
must be a half million here,” Mike said.
“What do we do?” “Keep
it.” “You
just shot a guy, isn’t that bad enough?” “Precisely
what I mean.” “I
wasn’t agreeing with you. In fact, I’m so far
away from seeing eye to eye with you on this—” “What
I’m saying is this dead guy doesn’t need the
money. We killed for it. It’s ours now whether you like it or not. Now
we have
a choice, turn ourselves in, which is pretty fucking dumb, or keep the
money.” “How
exactly, Don Corleone, do we just keep it?” “Bus
station locker.” “Come
again.” “We
stash the money, maybe a locker in the bus
station, then get our flight and disappear. In a year when we’re back
in the
US, we go to the locker. All this will have died down by then.” “Died?
That a joke? There’s a murdered man here and we need to go to the
police.” “We’ll
be able to pay off our college fees,” Josh
said. “Think about it. There’s half a million here. We’re set for life.” “You’re
right, that’s all it cost – a life.” “Keep
the money, we get to graduate college debt
free,” Josh said. “I’m looking at loans of a hundred thousand. With
this
money…” Mike
snapped the suitcase lid shut. “It’s
not as if we stole the money,” Josh said.
“Vinnie did. From a drug pusher. If anything, we’re using the money for
something good. I’m going to be a doctor. You want to study law. We
don’t take
this money, Vinnie’s just going to use it for crime. We have to take
it. It’s a
public service.” Mike
chewed his bottom lip. “I’m
looking at eighty thousand in student loans,
too.” Josh
grinned. “We
get out of the city,” Mike said, “our flight’s
leaving now. Stash the money and in a year, if it’s still there in the
locker,
we keep it.” Mike
lifted the suitcase and made for the door. Josh
glanced at the pistol on the floor, grabbed it and following behind
Mike now,
as they went downstairs, the pistol was aimed at the back of Mike’s
head, the
target bobbing in and out of the gun sight with each step descended …
one accidental slip of the finger
and Josh
wouldn’t have to worry about Mike growing a conscience, turning the
money over
to the cops. At
bottom of the stairs, Mike stood frozen. Josh
came alongside him, then saw it too. Vinnie
was leaning against the outside of the
entrance, catching his breath, and now standing upright, swaying, the
door
handle turned. He was coming inside. Josh
glanced at the pistol in his hand, then Mike. The
first death was self-defense, but this time it
would be premeditated murder. “No,
Josh. Don’t.” Vinnie
lurched into the hallway, noticed the two intruders, then the suitcase.
He
reached into his jacket pocket and grabbed a pistol. Josh
had the pistol locked at his side, unmoving. Vinnie’s
gun out now and coming at them, finger on
the trigger, him swaying unsteadily on his legs. They were both dead
unless
Mike did something. He couldn’t let it end like this, not like this. A
whole
life ahead of them. But what could he do? Throw the suitcase? It
slipped from his hand, clattered to the floor
like a dead thing. Mike grabbed Josh’s hand, still gripping the pistol, and jammed his own finger on the trigger, clicking on it, firing shots, bullets pinging into the stucco and, as he brought the gun up and into line with Vinnie, watched a hole appear in the man’s chest, the white shirt stained red as Vinnie slumped to the floor. But by then Mike had already grabbed the suitcase. Michael McGlade is an Irish writer with 95+ short stories in journals such as Spinetingler, The Big Click, Plan B, and Both Barrels anthology by One Eye Press. He holds a master’s degree in English and Creative Writing from the Seamus Heaney Centre, Queen’s University, Ireland. Represented by the Blake Friedmann Literary Agency, he’s currently writing his debut novel. “The
Chunk” appeared
in omdb! in August, 2014 and “Mop Up
Afterwards” appeared in
June, 2013. Copyright © 2017 Michael McGlade. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission of the author is prohibited. OMDB! and OMDB! logos are trademarks of Over My Dead Body! |