Part 16 (1/2)

I say, ”How did you get in here?”

”I checked the welcome mat and there were keys duct-taped underneath.”

Keys? I never left any keys. I don't even have spares. Ellen wouldn't do that either. Yeah, she's the de facto mayor of Southie, friends with everyone, but she's also a pragmatist. She knows better than to leave keys under a welcome mat on one of the busiest corners of South Boston. All of which means Jennifer is lying and also means I'm screwed, as I'm sure other unexpected guests are likely to arrive shortly.

Jennifer holds up a ring of two keys on a Lithuanian-flag key chain.

s.h.i.+t. Those are Ellen's keys. I say, ”How did you know I was here?”

”Why are you interrogating me?”

”I'm only asking simple questions, and here you go trying to rush everything to the interrogation level.”

She says, ”I was parked outside of your apartment and saw you. I waited a few minutes and let myself in, then I sat outside your door listening. I came in when I heard them yelling.”

I fold up and break down the projector as she talks. I don't rewind the film but, instead, slip the take-up reel into my coat pocket, next to the other film. I wrap up the cord and slide the projector into its case, latch the latches twice for luck. I say, ”Why are you here?” and walk past her to the screen.

”I needed to see if you were telling me the truth on the phone. I had to know.”

The screen recoils quickly and slides into its box nice and easy. I say, ”And now that you know, what are you going to do?”

Jennifer walks past the table and sits on the couch. ”How about answering my question?”

”What question was that? I tend to lose track of things, you know?”

”What do you think happened after? After the movie? What did they do?”

My turn to play the strong silent type. I lean on the screen, thinking about giving an answer, my theory on everything, life, death, the ever-expanding doomed universe. Then there's a short bang downstairs. Not loud enough to wake up neighbors, a newspaper hitting the door.

Jennifer whispers, ”What was that?”

”It ain't no newspaper,” I say. ”Expecting company, Jennifer? It's awful rude to invite your friends over without asking me.”

”I didn't tell anyone where I was going or what I was doing.” She gets up off the couch, calm as a kiddie pool, and tiptoes into my bedroom. She gestures and I lean in close to hear. She whispers, ”See if you can find out who that woman was and what they did with her after. You know, do your job. And if things get hairy, I'll come out and save you.” Jennifer shuts the door.

No way. I'm going to pull her out of the room and use her as a human s.h.i.+eld should the need arise. I turn the k.n.o.b but it's locked. Didn't know it had a lock.

If things get hairy. I'm already hairy and so are the things. Yeah, another G.o.dd.a.m.n setup, but a bizarre one that makes no sense. Doesn't matter. Prioritize. I need to hide the equipment, or at least bury it in junk so it doesn't look like I'd just watched the film for the first time. I lay the screen behind the couch, unzip a cus.h.i.+on and stuff the film inside, then go to work with the projector and case, putting it under the kitchen table, incorporating it into one of the makes.h.i.+ft legs. I move the candles to the center of the table.

Maybe my priorities are all out of whack. I give thought to the back exit and the fire escape off the kitchen, but the front door to my apartment is currently under a.s.sault. I'm not much of a runner or climber, and I'd need one h.e.l.l of a head start. I could call the police, but they'd be the DA's police, and even if they weren't, they wouldn't get here in time. No sense in prolonging this. I walk over to the front windows and pull down the blankets. I lean against the wall between the windows, light a cigarette, s.h.i.+ne the tops of my Doc Martens on the backs of my calves, adjust my hat, pretend I have style.

The door flies open and crashes into the wall. The k.n.o.b sinks into the plaster. The insurance bill just got a little bigger. As inevitable as the tides, the two goons are in my doorway.

I say, ”That ain't the secret knock, so I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave.”

Redhead says, ”Candles. How romantic.”

Yeah, even with the added ambience of streetlamps and a.s.sorted background neon, the light quality isn't great, but it's enough to see a h.e.l.l of a s.h.i.+ner under his right eye, scratches on his face, and the gun in his hand. He holds it like he's King Kong clutching a Fay Wray imposter and can't wait to squeeze.

Can't focus on the gun. It gets my panic juices flowing. This time with the goons, it feels different already, like how the air smells different before a thunderstorm, before all the action. My legs get a jump on the jellification process.

Baldy says, ”Romancing yourself there, r.e.t.a.r.d? You're f.u.c.kin' ugly enough that your right hand would reject you.”

I blow some smoke, don't say anything, and try to give them smug, give them confidence. My bluff will work only if I get the att.i.tude right. And even then, it still might not work.

Redhead is a totem to violence. He wears threat like cologne. He says, ”I wouldn't be standing there f.u.c.king smiling like you know something. Smiling like you aren't never gonna feel pain again, Genevich.”

I say, ”Can't help myself, boys. I'm a happy guy. Don't mean to rub your noses in it.”

Baldy says, ”We're gonna rub your nose all over our fists and the f.u.c.kin' walls.” He cracks his knuckles, grinding bone against bone.

They walk toward me, necks retracted into their shoulders, and I can just about hear their muscles bulging against their dress s.h.i.+rts and suit coats. Dust and sparks fall out of their mouths. Oh, and the gun is still pointed at me.

Can't say I've thought my Hail Mary bluff all the way through, but I'm going with it. I open my jacket and pull out the dummy film, the black one, the one from Ellen's store. Only what I'm holding isn't the dummy film. Apparently I put that one inside the couch cus.h.i.+on. What I'm waving around in front of the goons is the take-up reel, half full with Tim's film.

Oh, boy. Need to regroup, and fast. I say, ”Have you boys seen this yet? Some of the performances are uneven, but two thumbs way up. You know, you two fellas remind me of the s.h.i.+t-talking boys that star in the movie. Same intensity and all that. I'm sure the reviews will be just as good when it gets a wide release. Twelve thousand theaters, red-carpet premiere somewhere, Golden Globes, then the Oscars, the works.”

The goons stop their advance, share a look. My cigarette is almost dead. I know the feeling well.

Redhead laughs, a car's engine dying. He says, ”You trying to tell us you made a copy?”

Baldy's head is black with stubble. I guess, with all the mishegas, he hasn't had time for a shave. He should lighten his schedule. He says, ”You haven't had time to make any copies.”

”Says you. I had it digitized. Didn't take long, boys. Didn't even cost that much. Oh, I tipped well for the rush and all. But it got done, and done quick. Even made a few hard copies for the h.e.l.l of it. You know, for the retro-vibe. The kids love all the old stuff.”

Baldy breaks from formation and takes a jab step toward me. I think he's grown bigger since he first walked into the room. His nostrils flare out, the openings as wide as exhaust pipes. I'm in big trouble. He says, ”You're f.u.c.kin' lying.”

I don't know if that's just a standard reply, maybe Baldy's default setting. The goons creep closer. My heart does laps around my chest cavity and its pace is too fast, it'll never make it to the end of the race. Appearing calm is going to be as easy as looking pretty.

I say, ”Nope. This one here is one of the copies. You don't think I'd wave the original around, do you? I figure I can make a quick buck or two by putting that puppy on eBay.”

It's their turn to talk, to give me a break, a chance to catch my breath, but my breath won't be caught. It's going too fast and hard, a dog with a broken leash sprinting after a squirrel. Black spots in my vision now. They're not buying any of this, and I'm in a barrel full of s.h.i.+t. I move back, away from the window. My legs have gone cold spaghetti on me and I almost go down, stumbling on my twisted and bent CD tower. Muscles tingle and my skin suddenly gets very heavy.

I say, ”If my video guy doesn't see me on his doorstep tomorrow morning, alone and in one piece, he uploads the video onto YouTube and drops a couple of DVDs into FedEx boxes, and the boxes have addresses, important addresses, on them, just in case you were wondering.”

The goons laugh, split up, and circle me, one goon on each side. I'll be the meat in the goon sandwich. Looks like I should've gone with a frantic fire-escape escape. There isn't always a next time.

Redhead scratches his nose with the gun barrel and says, ”You're bulls.h.i.+tting the wrong guys, Genevich. We don't believe you, and we don't really care. We're getting paid to find the film, take that film, copy or not, and then knock the snot out of you.”

Things are getting more than hairy. Things are going black and fuzzy and not just at the edges. I say, ”Don't make me drop another shed on your a.s.ses.”

Baldy lunges, his coat billowing behind him like giant bat wings. The wings beat once, twice, he hangs in the air, and I feel the wind, it's hot and humid, an exhaled breath on gla.s.s that lifts the hat off my head. Then he takes a swing, but he doesn't land the blow because I'm already falling, already going down.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

I open my eyes and everything is wrong. Cataplexy. My waking coma. The wires are all crossed, the circuit breakers flipped. I can't move and won't be able to for a while.