Anything. Put anything on paper. Or words on a screen. Anything to show progress. Anything to let me know today something productive happened. Something that came from nothing. Just letting my fingers bang away. Letters on a keyboard. Letting them bang away. Easier if I had a subject. Had a point. An direction. Some character I was trying to develop. Nope. Nothing.

America The Story of Us

The History Channel presents America The Story of Us a twelve hour six-night event reliving some of the indispensable events that helped shape America. Elaborate and innovative, The Story of Us presents the first comprehensive re-telling of the history of the United States on TV in over forty years. The six-night series traces key moments in America’s struggle to balance the harnessing of advancement and technology with the advancement of human progress. Journal entries written by early American settlers from Jamestown and Plymouth through the expansion west coupled with commentary from some of today’s most respected academics, intellectuals, and artists provide context for America’s evolution. To modernize the series, The History Channel has incorporated computer generated models and dramatic reenactments of key moments in time that encapsulate the United States over the last four hundred years. The six-episode series America, the Story of Us airs Sunday nights at 8pm on the History Channel.

One Armed Bandit

“And for the many blessings you have given me, Amen.” I touch my hand to my heart, kiss the palm of my hand, and dig into my dinner brought to me by Marie Calendars. Chicken Parmesan. For the first little while after cooking for myself, I was a Banquet dinner kind of guy but Banquet decided to switch up their meal choices and put pudding with pizza and the brownie in with the chicken nuggets. After several emails with nothing but a form response, I took the change as a slight dig at me and began shopping for my meals elsewhere. Marie Calendar was not my first choice. The price tag gave me food sticker shock. But the first time I took a bite of the turkey medallion meal with mashed potatoes and a side of green beans, I was hooked. Of course, any meal is better when not interrupted by someone knocking on my door but with a new meth supplier in my apartment complex, it is inevitable that some of his customers come to my apartment number 313 instead of his apartment number 131. I sure don’t support that kind of thing but I also like to stay out of other people’s affairs as much as I can so I never complain. Just redirect.
“The apartment you are looking for is 131 not 313,” I hold the knob ready to shut out the world again.
“It’s me stupid. Don’t make me stand out here.”
Surprisingly, instead of a lost customer, the knock is from my recently ex-wife, Brionna. She shoves her way past me and drags a boy in behind her by his hand. Guess I have visitors.
“What brings you by?” I ask casually trying not to let my lack of excitement of the visit seep through.
“Have you got the money yet?” Brionna demands.
The money she inquires about is a little life insurance policy she has been waiting a year to collect on. A policy for her own “death”.
“No body…” my comment drifts off not feeling the need to reiterate the desire of the insurance company to have a body before they pay off a policy for the deceased. I take a seat in my old brown dumpster recliner. My visitors sit down on the Nguyen’s couch I rescued from the dumpster after they moved out hastily in the middle of the night.
“Fine,” Brionna says and pokes the boy. He pulls off his jacket and removes a backpack from underneath.
“I’m sorry, we didn’t meet.” I stand and extend my hand. “My name is Chris.”
The boy ignores me as unzips the bag. A big plastic heap of something hides inside. It must be something of mine Brionna broke or just got tired of having around. The outer shell is a giant Ziploc bag. The second layer is at least a fifty-foot roll of Saran Wrap followed by a fifty-foot roll of foil. As the layers are removed, I have less and less idea what this is. Once the boy finishes unwrapping the last layers of paper towels, I regret ever being curious.
“That’s one fifth of my body,” Brionna announces in regards to the severed arm sitting in the middle of my cardboard box coffee table, “that should be enough to count for a body of proof.” The two snicker together. Their time with the arm gives them the advantage of not worrying about vomiting all over the floor at the site. “Go bury it in woods where I “disappeared” at and then go back a week or two later and “find” it.”
“Money money money, money!” The boy speaks. And dances. I can’t hold it in anymore. I hustle to the kitchen and utilize my sink and garbage disposal. I’m sure pieces of my last three meals wasn’t the original design idea for the garbage disposal but sometimes inventions carry unseen advantages at the time of inception.

After thirty minutes of intense debate, I finally get through to Brionna that me finding the arm would bring up lots of additional questions from the insurance company (and the cops) so we should ride it out and letting someone else stumble upon the arm. We could also be in a race against the infection sure to arise from a self-mutilation but for now, we will hope someone stumbles upon the arm fast. Once we are on the same page on problem number one, it is time to tackle number two. How should we approach the lack of wear and tear on an arm that is suppose to be out in the elements for close to a year? Brionna and I have bupkus. Her boy is all ideas.
“Cook it.”
So after my houseguests depart, I do. Stick the limb in the oven and let it broil for a while. The logic seems sound until ten minutes after the cookie sheet hits the oven. The smell. Even my Pakistani neighbors cooking with curry can’t stop the stingy of melting flesh on the nasal passages. Well, I’ve already passed go on this. Might as well let things play out. I’m going to church.

Wednesday night service is a looser affair than Sunday’s festivities. Most perception based church goers had only time in the week for one day to devote an hour or two to praising God so the crowd is usually die hards and lonely old people looking for the way home. This evening, Pastor Carr has picked out a few verses of Old Rugged Cross for the congregation to chime in on.
“So I’ll cherish that old rugged cross….” Most times, I can hold my attention through most any hell, fire, and brimstone stories but my brain couldn’t concentrate when every inhale I take, the dish in the oven seeps back into my nose. I use the next fist pounding on the podium rant to sneak out the back door. Over at the den of inequity (the smokers corner), Jimbo, one of our local detectives, puffs away. Brionna always said how friendly he was getting to know him while smoking but I don’t think any law enforcement personnel would be friendly while they cuffed her one hand behind her back and stuffed Brionna in the back of a squad car.
“How you holding up,” Jimbo calls out.
“Just fine,” I reply and scamper to my car. I’m terrified I’ll be seeing that face again. Right before he hauls me off to jail.

Opening my door induces another round of vomiting. Guess that means the arm is ready. I try a new approach to wrapping the limb back up. Not accounting for the heat cancels out any preplanning. The arm soaks in the Saran Wrap into all of the pores. Immediate removal only gets about half of the plastic off. At least the forecast calls for rain. Before I try and wrap the package up again, I let it cool for a bit in the fridge and begin to light anything I can to change the consistency of noxious gases in the air. My cheap candles are no match. A cigarette Brionna’s boy left gives a brief respite but I can’t keep it going without coughing and with each deep coughing fit, I feel the need to puke again. Even lighting some hair I pull from my bathtub drain is no match.
Cooling down the arm has taken a little of the sting out. At least long enough for me to wrap it in the leftover foil from its original packing. I sprinkle some Arm and Hammer in the Ziploc bag and toss the limb in and pray the smell doesn’t taint my car before I can get this thing in the ground.

Once the arm is buried, all that’s left is to wait. And stress. Surely, there was no way this insane idea could work. I wish Brionna could have come to me before she chopped her arm off. Maybe if they pick me up first, I can fall on the sword long enough for Brionna to enjoy some of the money on the run. Probably a better gift than I ever bought her when we were together.
I spend most days after at the church. Cleaning. Organizing. Repenting. I visit the church seven times interim. Three Sundays, three Wednesdays, and one Thursday for the Methodist men’s dinner. On the third Wednesday, Pastor Carr lets me pick out the verses for service. He is also by my side on Sunday night when I get the call that the arm has been found. I spend the next fourteen hours trying to give him the shake.
I follow Jimbo down a dingy dark hallway underneath the police station. It is Monday. Fourteen hours since I got the arm call. The gap in time isn’t because I’m trying to dodge the arm. I certainly don’t want to see it again but I also want to get this over as quickly as possible. The money or my time in jail. My slow response correlates with getting rid of Pastor Carr. I’ll have a hard enough time seeming surprised alone. I don’t need God’s intermediary over my shoulder. I only manage to ditch him when he hears that old man Watkins died this morning. The pastor must make an appearance but he tells me he will be back soon.
“I know this isn’t easy for you,” Jimbo says but I still need to know what isn’t easy? Not thinking when I first got the call, I assumed “we found the arm” meant that I was to come down and verify the identification like a John Doe body. Now that I am here, in this basement, things are starting to feel like “we found the arm” meant we know everything and are hoping you come to us so we don’t have to hunt you down.
My heart is racing by the time the hallway ends. Some of the speed might also have to do with the distance from the front desk back here. The tunnel dumps into a room that looks to be a washed out storage area. One fluorescent lights illuminates the front area. A baby face in uniform sits behind a desk.
“Nicholas,” Jimbo barks before we make it inside the door. The officer looks up, glances back at his computer, then jumps to attention.
“Yes sir,” he says. Only after does he notice that his pants hold the form of a triangle right underneath his belt.
“Jesus Nicholas, sit back down.” Jimbo continues on past the front desk. I don’t think I can get back to where I started even if I wanted to run so I keep following Jimbo on my death march. To the inevitability of the end. Layers and layers of boxes line the shelves on all sides. The arrest records that traverse through the local generations. Statistics that will soon include me. We keep pushing farther into the dark. Things are beginning to feel like a secret military “answer” room. I hope no one thinks they are going to have to torture me to get answers.
“Where’s this lead to?”
“Shit,” Jimbo stops and puts his hand to his heart, apparently startled from my presence. “I thought you stayed up front at the desk.”
I shrug. “I’m sorry.” I turn back around into the shadows. Jimbo puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me back towards him.
“You’ll never make it out alone. We’re almost there anyhow.”
A slit of light finally spills over into the darkness from a room at the back. To my surprise, the room looks a lot like the break room.
“This is our break room,” Jimbo tells me.
“Nice,” I mumble now completely confused about this whole thing. Apparently, I’m here to be some lunchtime entertainment for Jimbo. He rummages around the fridge for lunch. From the back, Jimbo pulls out a giant red Reebok shoebox and motions me to the table. That’s some kind of appetite.
“Unfortunately, we had to separate things into two boxes. We thought for sure Larry’s big ass foot was going to be somewhat the same size but it was more about the flexibility or lack thereof.”
My mind lurches back into recognition as to why I am here when Jimbo opens the box. Exposes a severed arm. Brionna’s arm. The arm she used to wear a beautiful little black bracelet I bought her one Christmas from Zales.
“Ah shit man, I don’t know if we have any tissues down here.” My brain’s still piecing things together so it takes me a moment to realize Jimbo is talking about a tissue to stop the flow of tears down my face. Once I feel the tears, I realize my nose has taken off on it’s own as well. The whole thing has left my face one giant slippery slide and I can do nothing but use my hands to cover my face.

I am able to get out of the station without any additional lies (my tears kept any conversation at arm’s length) but by the time I hit the car I know I have to end this charade. As many lessons as I’ve learned over the years being married to Brionna, I still forget the most basic. Never let her plan anything. It’s doomed to fail before liftoff. And that’s just concerning dinner choices. An outcome of jail time should have swayed me before but since it didn’t, it’s weighing on me now. I’ll just go back inside and tell them everything. Throw myself on the mercy. I open my car door before I consider that I do owe Brionna at least a heads up in case she wants to join me in absolving our discretions. Or get out of town as quickly as possible.

I take a leisurely drive to a gas station off of Audelia to use one of the few public payphones left. As long as it’s cheaper than a throwaway cell phone, I’ll stick with the pay phone. I just hope I am finished with situations needing to worry about phone tracing. Only with Brionna. After my cryptic voicemail, I grab a Double Decker taco and a bean burrito with no sauce or onion and head back to my apartment. I’m halfway through the taco by the time I put my keys in the door. It’s a good thing too. I only have time to use the bathroom and one more bit of taco before Brionna bangs at my door.
“What the fuck are you saying?” she squeals at me as she pushes through. Her lap dog scurries in behind.
“I just think that if we turn ourselves in now…”
“Did you listen to any of my plan at all?”
“Well,” I hesitate to finish. The fire burning in Brionna’s eyes sucks all the words out of my mouth.
“You’ve already passed the point of no return when you buried the arm. Hell, even before that when you took the arm from me in the first place.
“I don’t remember having a choice,” I interject.
“Do you think that they are just going to let you roam free after that?”
“I’m very aware of the consequences,” I advise Brionna. The conversation stalls while we stare at each other for a few moments. Waiting to see who will blink.
“Okay Troy, go get our things. We’re moving in.” Troy heads for the door.
“Wait,” Troy stops, “What?”
“Troy, get our things.” This time, Brionna’s volume wins the face-off. Troy disappears out the door.
“Why would you stay here? This is the first place they are going to come for evidence when I turn myself in.”
“That’s why we will stay here to make sure you don’t. After the money comes through, do whatever you want to help clear your conscious. We’ll be long gone.”
The plan on how to keep me here isn’t laid out for me but I’m sure Troy’s size and youth against my feeble structure would put me at a distinct disadvantage for leverage. Once Troy returns with a random assortment of garbage and grocery bags filled with things and covers up the floor in the living room, I’m reminded why the apartment limits this place to one tenant on the lease. This place is not designed for multiple-occupancy.

Maybe with all of us in one place, the cops will at least take it lineate on us. Not have the pent up aggression for searching all over town. I lay claim to the bedroom before the couple gets any ideas and tries to soil my mattress. They can do what they want to the Nguyen’s couch. And, I’m close to the bathroom. The perfect location to help with my ever-increasing nausea spells.

Two days of sitting here on the bed, eating Banquet meals Troy picked up at the store, and wondering if the phone company has shut my phone off. I pick the receiver up each time the clock hits the twelve just to test the line. Each time I get a dial tone. Even when the phone does ring, like now, I have no doubt that it’s someone trying to collect money from me.
"Yes," I say, waiting to hear what money I owe to whom this time.
"Mister Christopher O'Rourke?"
"Uh huh."
"Good afternoon. This is Phil Stevens from the insurance office." I stiffen up. Inevitability has arrived. I begin to pack up my things. See what I need to put into storage while I’m away. "Just wanted to let you know your check is ready to pick up whenever you are ready. Stop by the office and we’ll get you all squared away. Again, we are very sorry again for your loss."
I sit the phone down leaving Phil to hold or to hang up. I’m sure the insurance company has trained him how to handle certain situations. Thirty seconds before disconnecting just in case the bereaved has any additional questions before picking up the payment for their dead loved one.
But this isn't death. This money is for someone alive and well (minus an arm) in the next room. This whole thing has been abhorrent since inception but I’ve just let it go on. At least this money will certainly get them out of my hair and then I must do some real repenting from my old self. I need to remember I am Brionna’s ex-husband.
I head out into the living room to share the news but the bedroom door is more difficult to open than normal. Seeing through the crack I can make between the doorframe, a pile of clothes is the door-blocking culprit. I give a few more shovees before the shirts decide to slide under the door and the pants just move back. The sun illuminates the living room. More sun than I have seen in days. I raise my left hand to try and shade my eyes from the sun. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of Troy as he lunges at me. His shoulder stays implanted into my ribs as we fall back into the kitchen floor. Troy uses my midsection to dampen the force of his fall. My breath disappears.
"We told you no one is leaving here til this thing is settled," he balls his fist up. I curl up managing to catch the punch on my arm. I try to tell him the phone call was THE phone call but all I can do is suck air in. Nothing comes out. I use the dishwasher to pull myself upright. Grasp my chest. Nancy comes over to join the party.
"Why do you make us do this?" she asks while trying to kick me in the chest. My arms gather enough strength to grab her foot on the way up. Stop the attack and take her down to the ground with me.
"Shit," the boyfriend says and kneels down beside Nancy. She wheezes. Sounds like me just a few moments ago. "What the fuck?" The boyfriend asks as he stands back up and kicks at me. I duck my shoulder down. Take the brunt of the kick the same place his punch hit me. The lack of pain from the combination is surprising. If Troy’s lucky, he may have left a little mark.
"I got the call." I blurt out to try to end the violence. "When the phone rang just now, that was the call."
"What?" Nancy squeals as she rolls to her knees. Her head hangs low. Her chest compressing and extracting trying to regain what was lost on the fall plus the realization of the inevitable. The boyfriend steadies Nancy by the arm as they both work to get her to stand. Nancy takes a few more deep breaths then begins flailing her arms at me.
"Troy, grab your keys. Time to go for a ride."
"Wait," I say, "Who do you think is going?"
Nancy watches me slowly get to my feet. "We are going to get my money."
"Well first of all," I brush off the stray food crumbs that attached to my shirt from the floor as I struggle to my feet, "you know you can't go."
"Troy's got a whole blanket system set up in the back of our car that I hide under anytime we think things are getting sketchy." Nancy extends her left arm out for Troy. He finds the keys and scoots back to Nancy and cuddles up into her arm. "He's always the best at taking car of me."
"No offense," I tell Troy, "but I think this might not be the situation for a blanket system." I pivot myself towards Nancy to make sure she knows where my attention is. "All I have to do is pick up the check, cash it, and hand it to you. That's it. Then you two are gone off to do whatever you want to do with more money than you ever could make."
"I took classes to be a medical professional," Troy informs me. He might have been a decent nurse if he would have stayed with it. Even now, Brionna’s arm doesn’t look that bad.
"Look, I want you out of here as soon as possible. I think we both know that. But I don't want any unnecessary risks right before this is over that sends us all to jail. Am I right?" Both stare at me. I attempt to exude trust and reliability.
"Fine." Nancy mutters.
"Will you get me some Taco Bell?" Troy asks. I take his order and slowly make my way to the door. Just in case this is a setup. I only stop moving in slow motion once I'm out the door and down the stairs.
The insurance company apologizes again for my loss when they give me the check. Fifty thousand dollars. Wow. The trip to the bank was just as easy. Ten five thousand dollar cashier checks printed and handed over. Now to disperse.
The church is active with people coming to have spaghetti for a fundraiser of the Boy Scouts. I ask around to a few people before one of the scouts point me in the direction of Pastor Carr.
"Morning pastor," I say and wait in the doorway to be invited in.
"Chris," the pastor says with a smile and stands to welcome me. "How are you doing today?"
"Just great." We shake hands and sit down across from each other at his desk.
"What brings you down today?"
"Well, a couple of things. First, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate all the support the church has given to me in this, my most trying point in my life. I wouldn't have made it through this whole ordeal without it."
"That's what the church family is here for."
"And I hope that I can find another place just like this one as soon as I get settled."
"Are you going somewhere," the pastor asks, intrigued.
"I am."
"Son, is there something that God has placed on your heart that you need to talk about?"
I get the feeling Pastor Carr wants in on the gossip. "Just need to get out of here. The memories and all." He nods then rests his chin on his fore fingers. "Before I go..." I reach in my pocket and sit one of the checks down. "No special requests. Wherever it is needed most."
I get out of my chair while the pastor inspects the check. We shake hands. He keeps the puzzled look on his face even as I walk out of the office.
I pass out a few more checks to the children’s shelter and the rehab clinic among others. No one asks any questions. They accept my spreading the wealth as a lucky break for them and immediately try to figure out where to spend.
My last stop is the police station. Parts of me are still saying to turn myself in. Take responsibility for my part. But jail isn’t my desire. I can repay my debt just fine outside a cage.
“Is Jimbo in?” I ask the secretary through the glass window at the front of the precinct.
“Out on a double.”
“A what?”
“Double murder sir. Is there something another officer can help you with?”
“Oh I’m sorry,” I stall trying to figure out my plan. “My name is Chris Spillman and I just wanted to say thank you to the detective.”
“Spillman,” the lady says and spins her back to me. “Spillman…Spillman,” she mumbles to herself. She grabs a giant red Reebok shoebox and another, a smaller Nike box, and steps outside her area to the waiting room. She hands the boxes over.
“I’m so sorry mister Spillman. So sorry for your loss.”
I leave a message with the secretary to have Jimbo visit me at my place whenever he got a chance. Somehow, I don’t think Brionna or Troy will have gone anywhere since they have no money and nowhere left to go. I pick a dot on the map. A place labeled but not too big. The closet highway is I-10 so I jump on the entrance ramp and take off.

The multitude of animal heads mounted on the wall of Nick's Taxidermy is typical of a taxidermy store. At least, I will forever assume so since this is my first and hopefully last visit inside.
"Can I help ya?" the man in the overalls behind the counter asks.
"I need to see if you can help me out."
"Whatever you need stuffed, I'm your man. A buffalo from the hunt. Maybe if you hit a deer on the side of the road and you want to always remember who was boss that day."
"Uh huh," I say pulling the box out of my bag. "What about this?"
I sit the box on the counter and let the man take a peek. Maybe he has heard of my story in the news so I will not have to do as much explaining.
"Is this an arm?" the man almost squeals his question as he slams the box closed.
"I could tell you that it is from a weird type of mammal I shot in Borneo."
"Nope," he tries to hand the box back to me, "that's an arm and we don't do arms here. Just heads." He pauses. "Well, I mean animal heads. Not the head of the person that came off of."
I sit the box back down on the counter and place two of the checks on top. He gave the checks a once over and twice more. He said that he would need to get a nice mahogany box to keep it in.
"No matter how much I work on this thing, you are going to want it inside a box to preserve it."
I put an extra hundred on the counter and told him to call me when it was done. I’ve got to get some household items for my new place. Toilet paper. Dishes. Silverware. That kind of thing. If they carry them, I also need a hanging shelf for my bedroom that will hold a non-descript mahogany box across from my bed to see. Each and every morning that I’m here.

Third Striker

"If you want to stop, I'll stop." My rookie ride along had been dropping hints like my three year old for the last half hour about being hungry.
"We can if you want to but I really don't have much money."
"Son, be a police officer. Stand up, show em your badge, and remind them who is out there serving and protecting fine restaurants like Juan’s eatery."

Of course, I probably should have given the rookie a chance instead of taking him to a place where most of the guys have long ago worked out a fair exchange.
"Four fourteen," are the numbers that ring up on the register and out of Mario’s mouth. Mario is one of the more useful workers Juan has working here. And he didn’t even need to use the calculator on the counter to figure out the conversion of there fifty percent off discount.
"Son, do you not see this badge here with my name on it. Billingsly. And this uniform I'm wearing isn't for a Halloween party." The rookie knows how to work his best David Caruso convincing someone of the “truth”.
"Right?"
"And son?" the rookie looks at me. I turn my attention to a table of friendly blonds in the corner. I want to see how the situation unfolds.
“Four fourteen, how did you come up with that number?”
“Fifty percent off what you ordered. Nick, you didn’t give him the heads up when he came in?”
I give the girls a wink and turn back to the situation.
“What?” I play the dumb card. Seems this is enough for the rookie or he knows he has my attention and wants to show how he handles a situation. Either way, the rookie unsnaps his holster. "And I carry one of these." His fingers begin to latch onto the handle like Billy the Kid getting ready for an encounter.
"Jesus son," I put my hand over his. It takes a few seconds, but the rookie snaps out of TV show mode and back to reality.
“Sorry, I just thought that a little show of force might be necessary."
"For your dinner?" I’m instantly aroused by the new opportunity to teach a life lesson but Debbie at dispatch throws cold water on the proceedings, "Go for Adam 52." I wander over towards the door to hear the bad news better.
"What is your location Adam 52? We have a burglary in progress. Or a suicide. Not sure. Neighbors called it in. Franklin and Audelia.”
"We are right around the corner. Be in route momentarily dispatch. Copy."
Upon returning to the counter, I find the rookie hunched over counting a stack of nickels and dimes. Mostly pennies. Looking at Mario lets me know that at some point, the rookie had informed him that this would be how he is paying for his dinner this evening.
“Put it away,” I tap the rookie on the shoulder, “we got a call.”
The rookie turns to me, blue puppy dog eyes on display, “we can wait until the food’s ready right?”
“How long?” I ask rookie as if he will be cooking the food himself.
“Not long, right Mario?” The rookie looks to Mario for assistance only now realizing he was mistaken on the friendliness of their relationship.
“Long time. Probably twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
“For a burger and fries?”
“Wait,” I interject, “I didn’t know you guys made burgers.”
Mario leans over the counter and points to the bottom right corner of the menu mounted behind him. “Kids menu.”
I wish I could say the announcement of this information would give the kid a little perspective on his dinner choices but he just kept right on staring at me, hoping I will be his food savior.
“Suck it up Billingsly, collect your little stacks of metal, and let’s go.” I check my watch on the way out the door, “I’m pulling out in ninety seconds.” Before the door slams shut, I hear a clattering of change on the linoleum.

“How many times have I seen you this month?” I somehow doubt the subject in question for the burglary, Donnie Walsh, can do that kind of math but certainly not while dangling from a window.
“Three.”
“A miracle. That’s right. A little incident here, a mishap here and I have to drive my car over and find you and inevitably you are going to have some kind of story,”
“Nick man, you got to help me.” The panic in Donnie’s voice was palatable.
“Donnie, you’re hanging out a second story window. The ground can’t be more than eight feet below where your Converse are.”
“I’m scared of heights and dogs,” and in sync with the shout out, the families dog lets out a few barks. Donnie panics, and lets go off the ledge, screaming like a ten year old with a broken collar bone caused by a mishap on one of dad’s “do not touch” items. “My finger.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” I grab Donnie by the arm to pull him to his feet. He fights, insisting that he is excruciating pain from the missing digit on his left finger. “Your finger.”
“Yea man,” Donnie sucks in some air, lips quivering, eyes gushing. “That’s what I told you.”
“Well shit Donnie, that’s no good.”
“You got to get up there and get my finger back and get me to a hospital.”
“Your finger? Shit, that dog’s already jostled that thing around like a tennis ball for a few seconds then gnawed it to the bone. Nine will be your new digit count. No question.”
“Don’t say that,” Donnie’s desperation is beginning to really shine through.
“Look, you lost your finger. That’s the way it is going to be so let’s move on. See where we can go from here.” I wave the rookie over, knowing this is going to be a two-man job. “Do you remember the last time we spoke? The last time I reminded you that you had two and a half strikes and if I had to be called out on you again cause you are doing some dumb shit cause you let the house when you were high.”
“Nah man, I mean yea I remember, but I aint doing any drugs.”
“Your telling me that you thought of this half brained scheme sitting on the couch, straight and sober? That nothing led to you trying to climb through these peoples window while they are away?”
“I came in through the door. I had to climb out the window when that FUCKING DOG came tearing after me.” Donnie realized that venting his frustrations had backed him into a truth corner he couldn’t possibly get himself out of.
“Ooh, that’s too bad then Donnie,” the rookie wanders up, pockets jingling. “We have a breaking an entering suspect here that was two strikes previous to us arriving on scene.” The rookie gives Donnie a wink letting him know we got a keeper, “however, this gentleman has lost a finger in the proceedings to the families pet which probably is in need of medical attention. What time is it Billingsly?”
“11:30.”
“And what time do we get off Billingsly?”
“Midnight.”
I hope rookie sees where I’m going. “And Billingsly, do you know what kind of paperwork is involved in a transport to a hospital of a suspect and then transferring him into the system?” Billingsly goes quiet. He has not had the experience of filling out paperwork involving a trip to the emergency room. “A long time. But if we just went our separate ways, no paperwork would have to be filled out and one nine fingered man would have a new lease on life to not fuck away.”
“That’s not right Nick. If I go up there, missing a finger or not, its still going to take me ten hours to get seen. If you drop me off, it’s much less. I can get my own ride home.”
“But if we are seen with you at the emergency room and you are missing a finger, we don’t get plead the fifth and wander away.” Donnie looks puzzled. “They would ask questions, we would have to answer. Paperwork follows questions.” Donnie gets it. “So I’m happy to take you to the hospital, get you first class help, and then see you off to prison for your third strike and lose your freedom or your finger could be all you lose. Your choice.”
Donnie hesitates. His face still shows the pain from the origin of the gushes of blood. “Billingsly, now is the time to show your aspects of police duty that you know.” Billingsly unlatches his gun holster. I begin to back away.
“I haven’t eaten in two days. Can you at least get me a cheeseburger or something before you leave my ass out here to bleed out?”
I toss Donnie a dirty towel from the floorboard of the cruiser; “you wont bleed to death out of your finger.” Donnie is slow to stand but I give him a push into the back seat and he stumbles right on in. “Don’t bleed on the seat.” I shut Donnie in. The rookie is all smiles. He gets to try again to eat.

"You're back already?" Mario leans over the counter, watching the door behind me. "I don’t hear your partner jingling behind you.”
"He'll be in your drive thru momentarily."
"Shit."
I approach the counter. Hand over a twenty. "Let him count out his change then tell him you decided to give it to him for free this time."
Mario’s demeanor softens. "Thanks Nick. You want me to give him your change when I'm done fucking with him?"
"It’s all yours."
"Appreciate it."
A small price to pay to avoid having my food spit in if mistaken for the rookies. Though, with the food here some times, any kind of extra ingredient would be beneficial. Being in the car most days, a restaurant can offer more than just food and free drinks. A clean bathroom can bring as much traveler traffic as decent food. I’m pretty sure Julio trades a homeless man a place to wash up and some food any time he comes and makes the bathroom shine. Why should I check if Julio has a W-2 on the guy?
Today, however, the smell of the bathroom lets me know the homeless man has moved on anyhow. Even in a public bathroom, it seems a reasonable request for people to flush the toilet when they are done. Handles can be pulled with hands or with a flick of the foot. No germs have to be spread. What’s infinitely more germ spreading is leaving a pile of shit twisted into a glob on the bottom of the toilet which could be washed away by the magic of the flushing toilet. My nose tells me that my bladder is fine to hold my piss until we get back to the station.

The rookie has pulled the squad car into the worst possible position in the parking lot to see any surroundings. And he remains the drive seat. Looking ready to take the car around the track a few laps.
“You lost?” The rookie looks at me through the window, looking bewildered. He finally rolls down the window. “Get the fuck out of my seat dummy.”
“Oh sorry,” he tells me then tries to scurry over the center console, through the computer, and into the passenger seat like a child climbing out of their fathers lap after their first attempt at driving. I open the door, and yank him out of the car. “Walk around.”
As I wait for Billingsly to get himself untangled and back out of the car, I watch a little black kid racing through the parking lot inside. I bet he’s done some running from us in his day. That’s too fast to be speed not induced by fear. My legs crumple together as a I try to climb in. “You couldn’t just leave the seat where it was to pull through the drive thru?”
“Your body is much longer than mine.”
I jiggle the handle until the seat releases and rockets backwards, jamming up against the back seat. The sudden halt sloshes my bladder around. My need to pee has reached critical levels. “I’ll be back.”

I keep my walk slow but methodical avoiding anything that might jostle my insides. I’m quite sure that even the slightest nudge might send a river down my leg. The dining room is desolate. “Mario, has there been any girls in here in the last little while?” I peek around to the front counter to see why no one answers my question but seems everyone has gone on a smoke break at the same time. The smell from the men’s side has begun to funnel its way down the hall so I go for broke and bang on the women’s door.
“Police officer, is there anyone in there?” No response. Even still, if I open this door and someone is inside, no amount of explanation could suffice as to why a police officer was playing peeping Tom. That reason alone would normally give me pause but walking around for the rest of the night smelling like piss doesn’t seem like an alternative.

Even if I wanted to be speedy about pissing in the girl’s room, I couldn’t manage with my work belt bogging me down like a cement block on a rats leg. If I have to stay at this job much longer, I might have to develop an in uniform catheter to avoid any messes I might have while removing my uniform to piss. Holding my gun belt in my left hand, cock in the right, I spread out my hips as wide as they will go to avoid my pants falling all the way to the floor and let it go. And what a great feeling it is.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Why did they make car backfires the same noise as a gunshot? I never can tell the difference.

Once my uniform is reapplied and I open the door of Julio’s, I’m able to see this was no Buick backfiring. Two young black men yank at the back door trying to get my suspect out of the car. The door finally pops open and Danny tumbles out onto the concrete.
“Police, what the fuck are you two doing?” One of the teens notices me as I announce my presence and sends off a shot to let me know he cares. I draw my gun and fire back. If nothing else, the shot spooks the boys. They jump across the street and jump the fence into an apartment complex. I reholster my pistol and rush to the scene. I realize immediately why the kids left my suspect behind. He was dead before they pulled him out of the backseat; caught in their crossfire. I come around the squad car from behind to avoid the camera tracking my movements before I’m sure what to do. I open the passenger door. Billingsly tumbles out much the same way Donnie did. I check his pulse and find they are now both in the same way. Dead.
“Shots fired, shots fired at Julio’s on Pico and Audelia. Officer down.”
I sit walk back to the driver’s side, behind the car again, and begin to takes notes. I’m sure that one of the kids ran like the punk I saw running inside when I walked to the car the first time. From what I could tell, neither could have been beyond their teenage years. My stomach growls as I take notes. I dig in the brown bag for my burger, leave the fries marinating in Billingsly’s blood. It’s going to be a long night of questions that will lead to a longer night of paperwork and I’m going to need to have my strength up. Probably should eat whatever rookie ordered too. I’ll need the extra fuel.

Tracy died on Monday. The family gathered on Tuesday. Everyone had been out of work sometime in the last six months taking care of Tracy so even when they all pooled their money together, along with whatever money they had from Derrick after buying the headstone, they were just under a hundred.
“At least dad already bought our plots,” Natasha, the youngest, had not perfected the finer points of etiquette yet. She was still weeding her way through tenth grade the second time. The plots were real; however, as Johnny purchased the plots on his way out of town to Vegas. Seems he knew that no one would pony up a penny to bury him if things went south and if not, well, anyone would really care why.
“Said it was suppose to rain Thursday night,” someone chimed in so the plan was set for Friday morning to go as family to dig Tracy’s grave. Til then, everyone took shifts filling Tracy’s box with ice cubes, keeping the body as cold and non-putrid as possible.
Derrick arrived Friday morning, early. Moans and disgusted disappoints filled the room.
“Why’d you even bother?” Derrick didn’t notice anyone else, just Tracy’s body, shriveled, glowing yellow in a bed of cold water. Derrick tried to lay hands on Tracy but the smell was too overwhelming. After a brief stint in the fresh air, Derrick returned.
“Why is Tracy decomposing in the living room?”
“Figured we replay those Indians back for all that curry they use.” The room came to live with laughter. Derrick didn’t laugh. He had not grown delusional from the days spent with the family in enclosed quarters.
“I sent you plenty of money for a funeral home. They couldn’t all be full.”
“We got a headstone.” The room clamored to show off their perfect choice of a headstone. Nikki pulled the picture from underneath her sleeping spot on the couch and handed it over. Derrick did not look impressed.
“How are we putting him in the ground?”
Everyone took separate cars to the gravesite. Parting ways as fast as possible was the theme of the decision. With the few extra bucks left over after Tracy’s headstone, the family sent Allen to get some digging tools. He and Nikki had met after he got out of jail for a three-year spell. The family figured he had at least plotted to break out at some point, with all that extra time and all, so it reasoned that he would have some kind of idea how to put holes into solid objects. Derrick surveyed the utensils. The pickaxe and shovel were solid choices but the auger seemed a little unuseful.
“I’ll get things loosened up for you,” Derrick tossed a rock in Allen’s general direction to get his attention, “and you start shoveling it out.”
“No way man,” Allen leaned back into his hand into his lower back.
“I didn’t know you were expecting.” Allen looked confused. Derrick only gave him one chance to put the puzzle pieces together; he would not repeat. Derrick was stuck with Cory. He was Tracy’s friend. No one had heard him say anything in days. “Fuck then kid, come on.”
Derrick pounded the ground with the pickaxe for a while, got out of the way, then Cory stepped in. For a little kid, he had resilience in spades. He only cried when he caught a glimpse of Tracy sitting in the bed of Derrick’s truck. By mid day, the family was tired from watching the grave being dug. They took Cory and set up for a picnic.
“Don’t worry, I’ll just keep working so we can get this done.” Derrick felt it necessary to say even though the family had wandered away a while ago, it made the situation at least a bit more tolerable. Derrick knew everyone else had given their lives up trying to take care of Tracy after he got cancer. Digging the grave was the least Derrick could do. At least that’s what everyone said right before lunch. No one cared to ask where Derrick had been and why he had been a ghost since last Christmas. God forbid he got a job and was going to community college. Thinking about it got Derrick going, he was going so hard the dirt began to break apart on its own. These motherfuckers didn’t know how hard he to work to get above their shitty legacy. They could rotate off working at Golden Chick or Jack in the Box and pay for their two-bedroom house that held ten. Derrick needed space, at least to see if he could be his own man. Derrick knew Tracy understood and knew that if he didn’t get him in the ground soon, all that good will would be gone. Who the hell wants to sit in ice cubes for a week after they die?
“Are you sure its deep enough?” The family had gotten out of the a/c’d car to see how Derrick was going.
“Do you want to measure it?” Derrick was on cup two of water. He had not realized how out of shape he was until he dug a five-foot deep grave for his baby brother. “Can you at least handle getting him into the hole? I’ve got to get something to eat.”
“Of course,” the family joined in unison, “we left the food under the tree for you.”
So Derrick headed up to the tree for a rest. Of course, by the time he had finally made it up the embankment, the sun had changed positions and put the food directly into the sun’s path and taken the tree’s shade away. Derrick looked into the cooler. At least the only thing the sun was warming up with some left over chips and a couple of pickles. Derrick grabbed what he could and leaned against the tree. He regretted his eye line almost instantly. It was too easy to clearly see the family trying to get Tracy out of the truck without touching his box. They finally deduced the best technique was to drive the truck in reverse at a decent clip and then slam on the brakes. The casket airborne. Somehow, it made it in the hole. So did the trucks back tires.
The next half hour was spent getting the truck out. Derrick used his body as a shield for Tracy. It almost cost him his life twice when Cory mistook drive for reverse and planted the truck deeper into the hole. The family decided the truck escapade was enough.
“If you need us to do anything, just give us a holler.” The family dispersed at once. Cory hung around with Derrick after, neither saying a word. Derrick filled back in the hole. Cory stared at the mound growing. Derrick patted Cory on the shoulder.
“Guess that’s over,” Cory packed up to leave, “here.” Cory handed Derrick a letter. Derrick read the signature first, Tracy. Then, he read the letter, standing on top of Tracy’s grave.

Dear Derrick,

You were my brother. You left the family. I died without you. You will never find forgiveness.

Love,
Tracy

Derrick dug back into the hole far enough to leave Tracy’s letter with him in the ground.

Film Update and Financial Information

We are closing in on our shoot date, June 19th. Everything is going in a positive direction and I think this day of shooting will set the tone for the rest of the production. As we get closer, we have realized that we are going to need additional money for some props that are vital to the film so we have put together a package to offer to raise some additional money.

Any donator that gives 10 dollars and up from now until June 18th will get receive a special edition dvd of "Afterlife" that we will be putting together. It will include a dvd of the short film, a nice dvd case and cover, and the research material that was utilized to create the ideas for this film. From the Egyptian underworld to Greek mythology, we will be putting together a little guide book to be a companion to the dvd so people can learn more about what the film is saying.

So, to review, if you donate between now and June 18th, you will receive a Producer credit in the film along with the special edition dvd. If you would like to give a lesser amount, we would be happy to accept it as well. Dollar bills or pennies, it all helps.

Thanks again for the support and look forward to everyone seeing some new footage soon,

Coughmen Productions

Payments to:
Paypal: mattpizana1@tx.rr.com
In person
Email to get a mailing address

Old Shed at the Cemetary

I would rather work a hundred insurance fraud cases than to have to tell a family I found their loved one dead in a grave. Hell, when I first started being a PI, I wouldn’t even take a case that looked like it might end up in a pool of blood. Now, I’m a whore for a good payout. I treat my clients like sporting events; look at things only through wins and loses.
I park on a narrow residential street in front of a tiny green house, one that I have been to dozens of times before but always under better circumstances. When I would pick Jessie up for work, I would park right here, honk, and wait for him. Waiting in the car allowed me to watch numerous cars get side swiped, rear view mirrors torn off by people who could not manage to maneuver down the skinny road. I even got to experience my Cutlass getting hit once or twice. The drivers always seemed disappointed when I climbed out of my car forcing them to be accountable for the crash they caused.
I walk up the drive, pause before knocking on the front door. I begin to pray no one is home allowing me to write a note on the back of this picture of Jessie’s grave (as if a grave photo needs explanation) and tape the picture to the door. I pat my pockets to see if I have a pen, but before I can find a writing utensil, the door opens.
“Hola,” Irma, the little Mexican mother of the house, says opening the inside door leaving me to talk through the bars of the second.
"Hola Miss Puente, is Maria home?" I keep my words short and enunciated, hoping to avoid repeating my question. Without responding, Irma shuts the door. Guess this neighborhood has trained her how to keep salesmen and Jehovah witnesses out. I turn my head back to the Cutlass, jamb the picture back into my pocket and watch my breath disperse into the cold. A Honda motors down the road inches from my car; the tail pipe and driver fill the air with smoke. I never have understood dealing with the elements to inhale poison; I opt to stay inside from June to April enjoying my central heat and air. I watch the Honda round the corner, clip the back end of a Mitsubishi while taking a left, and then disappear onto another road. I dip my head into my hands shaking off the terrible thoughts of other humans I have had recently, the Honda driver the most recent edition.
"Marion," Maria says, opening the cage door letting me inside. "Mom, why would you leave mister Shulkin out in the cold?" Irma walks through the living room, gives me the once over, grunts, and disappears into the back. "Please sit down." Maria directs me to the couch.
I sit down making sure to stay close to the front door for a quick exit. The house is mostly silent; the hum from a heater stuck in the corner of the room disperses only a little white noise. The silence makes me feel like a child waiting outside the principal’s office for punishment.
"So were you able to tell Jessie?" Maria asks leaning back in an old brown recliner, years past its useful date, the arms barely hanging on.
"Unfortunately, I didn't tell Jessie because I didn’t get to talk to Jessie," my breath still visible, the house only a few degrees warmer than the frigid temperatures outside and I’m too far away from the heater for it to make a difference.
"He must still be scared. Maybe he moved somewhere else." Maria lets down the recliner and stands. "It's okay mister Shulkin,” Maria sits down on the couch beside me. “If he doesn’t want to be found, no one will find him.” She pats me on the leg, consoling me. I take a deep breath, hoping to get my story out in one long exhale.
"Look Maria," I grab her hand, "I need to show you something." I pull the picture from my pocket again, this time placing it in Maria’s hand. I let her study the photo while I try to find the words to say. "I didn't dig up the grave to see Jessie myself," I say realizing how terrible my sentence starts off. I look at Maria staring at the photo. She holds back tears as long as she can but once they come, they are quickly followed by a wailing I have not heard since I was a child in the church listening to people speak in tongues. Irma appears again from the back of the house and pulls up a metal folding chair next to Maria. She lets Maria's head fall onto her shoulder. I see an opening to leave, it seems I’m not much use here anymore but before I can make it to the door, Maria reaches her arm around me and pulls me into the circle.
“I know this had to be over them girls,” Maria sucks in some snot, “He wasn’t convicted. You know he didn’t right?” Maria wipes her nose on her sleeve and looks at me. I pat her leg. She forces a smirk unable to open her mouth in fear of it being filled with tears. “Thanks for telling me in person. It means a lot.” Maria wipes her face; makeup smears with the motion of her hand. “Do you mind if I keep this?” she shakes the grave photo at me.
“Sure of course. Please, if you need anything else, just call me.” I begin to back towards the door, Maria holds a smile while watching me but eventually, her tears fight through. She plops back down onto the couch and buries herself in Irma’s chest. I let myself out.
I was introduced to Jessie late one night at Fast Eddie’s by the bartender, Reeves. Seems Reeves grew tired of me bitching about needing extra help around the office and spread the word. I talked to Jessie for a couple of minutes to size him up. Being an assistant in my office does not require many skills except the ability to blend in anywhere and be able to roll with the punches, literally and metaphorically. By the time we got finished debating what the Cowboys needed to do to get back to the Super Bowl, Jessie was hired. Of course, if I would have known then that his allegiance belonged to the Eagles, I would have known what kind of trouble things were headed for.
Jessie was always a good worker, more dedicated than me and Elliott combined. Unfortunately, his life away from the office was always a series of mishaps and bad timing that culminated with a triple rape charge. I supported Jessie throughout, was still by his side when the judge declared a mistrial due to questionable evidence collection. Only after, when Jessie disappeared a week after his court appearance, did I realize how bad things were. Eventually, I was able to let the situation go only becoming involved again when Maria called me to find Jessie and tell him he was going to be a father.

Sometimes, I just want to park in one of the handicap spots at the front of my building. I’ve held office space here for fifteen years and I think there has been a total of five-handicap people visit, period. But I suck it up and ignore those nice spots in the front opting to park in my spot instead. Of course, it is in the last parking lot this side of the road, so far out, grass is more prevalent than the parking lot concrete.
I walk through the revolving doors of the building, glance at the elevators to see if they are working. I’m sure those handicapped appreciated the front door parking but finnd rolling a wheelchair up a few flights of stairs to be slightly unbearable. Of course, our maintenance guy, Nick, is too busy at the moment to fix the problem. It seems his time is better spent standing at the receptionist desk hitting on the new girl. I begin to trudge up the stairs, hoping I replaced my backup shirt in my desk knowing this one will be drenched in sweat by the time I reach the top. At least I don’t have to worry about the sweat washing out unlike the problems I had with Misses Costa's blood. I hated to toss my Penguin polo in the trash but the blood seemed to latch on, a reminder never to have a couple that likes to stab each other in the office at the same time. Lesson learned.
I open the office door; hear Elliott banging away at his keyboard. Through experience, I've learned that usually means he wasn't doing anything before I walked in. He can never type that fast when he is trying to. "How was the morning?" I ask.
Elliott rolls his chair out of his office. "All went well." I hate that Elliott’s office is quite literally a broom closet but I vowed never to move from this office unless I died or someone was paying to move me out so the broom closet is all I have to offer. Besides, Elliott roams the streets most of the time, on and off the clock, so he doesn’t need a massive corner office to get his job done.
I sit down at my desk, sift through the stacks of papers covering the ground floor of my workspace. I feel already like I should have taken today off too, I'm never any good after coming back from a trip, but I needed to be seen today, get involved in someone's fucked up life. "What’s on the schedule?"
"I've got two choices for ya," Elliott yells at me from his office, his voice lowers as he exits and walks to me to hand me the files. "You can have the wonderful Montgomery's. Tim says he knows for sure the wife is seeing someone else. He is positive she could never actually stand going to her Sunday school group three nights a week." Elliott sits down in my visitor chair to tell me about the second one. "Or I've got a misses Angie Erhman and her wonderful stalker." Elliott opens the file for misses Erhman. "Apparently, her stalker, a mister Eric Meyers, has been stalking her for a little over two years now but it was mostly just innocent, he always kept to his side of the internet." Elliott sifts through the file placing a photo of Dalton Meyers, spread eagle, on a king sized bed, on top. The satin sheets covering the bed seem to clash with his bondage outfit; his spike chain would surely snag on the sheets and never let go. "That is Misses Erhman's bed."
I let Elliott lay out a few more details; enough to find out his strong desire to work the case. I know if I ever find out that much information before I get the first payment for a job, it means that my female client must be some kind of pretty and smell like vanilla. "Call Misses Erhman and tell her you will be the primary for the case, but if you need me," I grab Elliott's arm as he grabs the file, "don't hesitate to call." I let go. Elliott opens the file again, this time showing me a surveillance video still of Angie, her red hair falls just over her left eye. The hundred dollars I paid to have that security camera installed in here has paid for itself over the years in the quality of pervasive imagery it has collected. I just hope we never get robbed and have to actually rely on the video. The details are just terrible.
"Nothing else?" I ask, not sure how I might kill the rest of the daylight hours on a Monday.
"None that I can think."
"Okay," I say standing back up and grabbing my jacket. "Meet you when I’m done. We'll figure everything else out then."
Elliott nods, disappearing back into his office. I dig through my drawers but come up snake eyes on a shirt. I make a mental note to pick up a shirt from somewhere before I have to talk to anyone in person today.

Starting this business off, I felt like it was my job to fix the world. I took the best clients that I could get no matter how much it paid and tried to avoid any signs of trouble. I had a few friends on the force that were a great help too. I got more than a few jobs sent my way under the table; the insurance gigs were the best. But, as the world changed, so did the business. There was no room for a little outfit like mine to grab cases over the big firms, the ones with TV commercials and radio ads that trumped my word of mouth. I found taking shitheads and convicts was the only way Simon and Simon could survive. To my surprise, the business actually begin to thrive again so I brought on Elliott who was an old friend from school that kept connections in the street but lived on the white side of town. Just as long as I could convince myself that my clients were numbers without emotions, business kept growing and I hired our third employee, Jessie. After his trial, though, even scumbags thought twice about hiring us.

I call mister Montgomery a few times on my drive over but all I hear is Bob Seager in place of the ringtone and eventually, his voicemail. Even if we cannot eliminate the song ring tone completely, there should at least be age restrictions. I’m sure glad my family has known the Montgomery’s forever. With the number of women Tim goes through, he might keep my business afloat all by himself for the foreseeable future. As I pull up out front of the two-story fortress Jim calls home, I call again. Voicemail. I figure since I'm already over here I might as well knock on the door. I stash my car on the side of the circle drive, not in the grass but hopefully out of everyone’s way, and head to the front door. Before my hand meets the solid oak, Tim has the door open.
"Come on in," he tells me, turning immediately back inside. I close the door and follow behind closely, intent on not getting lost in this castle this time. I stay close enough behind Jim that I can only see his shoulder blades compressing together, his sweaty white t-shirt almost transparent. "Get the fuck up and at least put a shirt on," Tim growls. I step to the side to see a beautiful blond, no more than nineteen, holding her tits together, elbows in tight over her nipples. She smiles at me and walks out of the room. I turn my attention back to Tim who in turn directs me back to the girl. We both watch as the blond walks off, arms still covering her breasts, nothing covering her ass.
“Bring me a shirt,” Tim yells to the girl, “do you need one too? You look sweater than me.”
“Yea, the elevator is broken at the office so…”
Tim interrupts. “Bring me two shirts darling.” Tim walks to his mini bar and grabs a glass. "You find anything out about that bitch?" He tosses some ice into a glass, pouring a clear liquid on top. I’m sure his doctor would tell him that water would be best for him right now, old sweaty men usually need to replenish more than a viral one, especially after doing whatever was happening with the blond before I came in but in my experience, if a man has ice cubes on the ready in a room that is not the kitchen, it's rarely to keep a glass of water cold.
“Nothing yet. Where is Misses Montgomery today anyway?”
"Patty is out wherever it is that she goes during the day which is something you should probably should know anyhow. That is what I'm paying you for?"
“Sorry, I’ve just been out of town dealing with a bunch of…” the blond comes back in carrying two shirts. Tim grabs the normal shirt leaving me with a flowery Hawaiian number. The blond, still topless but wearing panties now, stares at both of us like a waiter waiting for a tip. “Did you ever think that maybe you should keep things like this out of the house until everything is complete. I mean, this would probably be a pretty good piece for Patty to screw you with.” The girl walks out of the patio door and dives into the pool.
"Not if you catch her in the act first." Elliott walks to the kitchen finishing off the last of his drink. I pursue again. Elliott opens his deep freeze and pulls out a Ziploc bag of money. He bangs it on the counter a few times rattling whatever dishes are on top. He unloads the contents on the counter and attempts to break several bills apart. "I can't wait til they fix all this financial shit." Tim opens the freezer back up, tosses the money back inside. "I'm running out of room for my food in here."
"Well, I guess I will go find out where misses,"
"Patty," Tim demands.
"I will go find out where Patty is. Let me know if you need anything from me." I fold the bills, trying to break up what ice is left encrusting them together. I glance outside, the blond submerged under water. No skin to be seen. I wait for Tim to see me out; instead, I see his naked ass run and jump in the pool, barely missing the blond with a cannonball.
The visit to the Montgomery mansion was even quicker than I though so I run by my house to take a quick nap and kill some time. I’ve still got a big night ahead of me and if I hang out at Fast Eddies for too long, my nerves will never let me finish things the way they should be done.
By the time I drag myself out of bed and to Fast Eddies, Elliott has already taken over my pool table and seems to be locked into the middle of a game with Becky, the bar whore.
"Let me just put this one in," Elliott fires off a shot, cascading balls everywhere. The six and ten balls remain on the table, the eight ball disappears. Becky wastes no time cleaning her winnings off the table. She glances up at me. I send her away.
"Is this mine?" I ask, grabbing a Dos Equis off the ledge. Elliott nods as I drink.
"How was mister Montgomery?" Elliott sets the table back up for another round.
"Fucking a blond. How was your thing?"
"I caught her just after workouts. She wears one of those workout training bra things," Elliott gives me hand motions to emphasize her large breasts.
"You already figured out her workout schedule?” I laugh, letting go the tension that has built up through the day. “And the other thing?"
"I tossed him some food." Elliott digs through his pockets, "here's the key. What cha gonna do with him?"
"Find out. He'll let me know which is which," I respond, assuredly.
"Right on. Okay, then you want to give it a run?" Elliott smacks the cue ball against the triangle; the balls settle into the empty spaces. "Probably should wait til after dark before we go back out there."
I look out the window and take a drink. "Before I go back out there." I finish off my beer and motion Reeves for another. I inspect the pool sticks hanging on the wall. There is a lot of action at the pool tables tonight and all the good sticks seemed to be pretty well picked through, the only ones left are mostly half bent or missing the felt on the tip. I bounce a few off the ground, testing, making sure I don't give Elliott too much of an advantage and end up giving him a game.
We play pool and drink for the next two hours. I go up nine games and down eight beers. When the sun disappears completely, not even emitting rays of light over the skyscrapers downtown, I put my stick up and get ready to leave.
"You said right on Livermore to get out to 48 and then exit number three?" I ask Elliott, this being a destination I have no desire getting lost going to.
"How many times have you been out there now?" Elliott responds.
" I refuse to remember how to get there. I always have a hearse to drive me."
"Fair enough. Do you want me to go out there in the morning and feed him?" Elliott’s words trail off as his head picks up a lady wearing tight Levis and a pair of red cowboy boots.
"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it." I leave Elliott at the table to stare and grab my coat from the bar. After a few misses, I decide it is best to steady myself against the bar while I try to get my arms through the holes.
"You good?" Reeves asks, helping me balance; my arms finally slip in the jacket arms.
"I'm just going home and going to bed. Do you know if Daniel coming in tonight?"
"He is but later though.” Reeves walks down the bar, collecting empty bottles. “I'll tell him you said hello."
I nod my head in agreement. "Perfect. See ya tomorrow." Reeves pats me on the shoulder then gives me a push through the crowd. I make my way through saying hello to the smattering of people in the bar I know. Opening the front door, the cold air freezes my nose instantly making me wish I was still a child and could get away with wearing a ski mask in public. My body was not made for temperatures like this.

The trip out to Wilson's Chapel is much shorter when you aren't traveling in a line of cars with their headlights on in the middle of the day. The road is still as rough; asphalt is not something the town invests much in. If the Cutlass didn't acquire any dents while I was at Jessie’s earlier, it was going to now from one of the thousands of rocks and pebbles pounding against the undercarriage of the car no matter if I drive five or fifty five. I'm so distracted trying not to throw rocks everywhere, I almost forget to turn off my headlights before turning onto the little trail that leads to the back of the cemetery. Teenagers that sneak out here at night and try to catch ghosts always think it is the noise they make that gives Daryl, the groundskeeper and closet church member, the heads up that someone has invaded the graveyard. As an adult, I realize that his house is too far away to hear much of anything that goes on but any car that comes through with their headlights on shines them directly into Daryl’s bedroom window.
I park the Cutlass next to the storage shed and kill the engine. Digging through the backseat, I find everything I might need this evening except a flashlight. I pop the trunk and dig around some more finding only a flashing road hazard light. It will have to do.
The shed emits whimpers of a man crying out for help from whoever has just driven up. I lean against the shed door steadying myself while I unlock the dead bolt. I throw the door open and hold the hazard light up high so I can make sure it falls right on Jessie's face. I can see on his cheeks that his tears have turned the dirt under his eyes to mud.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting. Didn't think I should visit while the sun was still shining. It was cold anyhow."
"What is going on Marion?" Jessie yanks at the ropes holding his arms to the wall. "What the fuck is going on?"
"I didn't get to give you your last check before you left." I laugh, crouching down to close the distance between our faces. "I need to know if you did it. I don’t want to hear anything from you but that.” I stand back up, giving some distance. Jessie stares at me for a long few moments, tears begin to stream down his cheeks. "After two days in a trunk and one in here, what did you think someone was going to ask you?"
"You were there," Jessie squeals at me through sobs, "The judge let me go."
"Doesn't mean you didn't do it." I sit down in front of Jessie; his head dips down so I can only see the top of his head, hair beginning to disappear from the middle. The conscious does terrible things to the body. I wait for a long while, staring, hoping that Jessie can come up with some good explanation on how all the evidence was wrong. I continue to see only the top of Jessie’s head. I finally get back to my feet, realizing the terrible smell that infects my nose is not from the chemicals in the shed but from Jessie's inability to go anywhere to relieve himself all day. Jessie finally raises his head when we hear an engine slowly idling, approaching the shed.
“Times up.” I pull out my phone, hold the flashing light up high to get good light on Jessie's face, and snap two pictures.
Outside, the cold air gives me some relief from the terrible stench of the shed and keeps me from throwing up and leaving all kinds of evidence behind. I walk farther away from the shed, towards the Cadillac that has arrived. An overgrown Mexican, Damon Aldridge, is already out of the car and walking towards me.
"Where is he?" Damon demands, pacing in a circle like a bull ready to charge.
"Whoa, wait," I flip through my phone, scrolling through pictures of street signs and waitresses until I find the pictures of Jessie I just snapped. I hold the light up for Damon to look.
"The fuck is this?" Damon asks, pointing to my light. I shrug. He runs to his car and grabs a flashlight from under the drivers seat, his light much brighter and more consistent than mine. Damon grabs my phone and flips back and forth between the pictures. "It was dark that night,” Damon tells me, hesitation creeping up in his voice, “I mean, I saw the guy when I pulled him off of my sister, but he ran right after."
"I showed you all the evidence the jury saw. Even if you didn't see his face, doesn't that convince you?"
Damon looks down at my phone one more time. "Alright, I got this." He pumps his chest with a few deep breaths almost coming out of his shirt like the Hulk. "You can go." Damon tells me before returning to the trunk of his car. I return to my Cutlass and try to maneuver around a big oak tree in the middle of the driveway for the cemetery. I misjudge the distance I have to go forward, my front bumper bumps the edge of the church; the entire structure shakes. I lerch into reverse and get pointed forward again making it past the church without bringing the whole thing down. On the road, the rocks and pebbles return to pounding the car.