CHAPTER 12: ZEKE
Some people pull on a loose thread. They yank and tug, but obviously the thread doesn’t break. It just gets longer. The smarter ones get a clue and cut it, but the smartest ones like me snip it right off the bat, then go about my business. Not that a bat would ever have a thread. You know what I mean.
So I sailed through the Internal Affairs interview. One of them really had it out for me. Dude kept throwing me accusations, but I’d knock ‘em out like I was Mike Tyson. He was one persistent son of a bitch, but the board could only reach one conclusion once they convened to review my case. I mean, the facts of the case. I mean, the facts I gave them.
It wore me out, though. It’s not easy to defend your character when the assault is strong and relentless. Plus I was hungover. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep it off after the interview. I had things to do. Couldn’t let a dangly thread snag and make a big mess.
So back to the racetrack. I call Kevin at the pay phone and then try my luck. It was rough. I must’ve lost ten bets for every winner. But you know, if it weren’t for those ten losses, I never would’ve won at all. Gotta play to win, like they say.
I went about burning through enough money to choke a few of the horses, then tried to get drunk. It didn’t work. A bad day at the track all around. At least I got to sit in the open air which was good for my hangover. See? Bright side to everything. Gavin used to say there’s a cloud for every silver lining, but that’s funnier than it is true.
I heard Kevin before I saw him. Like a horse, he was going “clip clop.” I turned and waved, pretending I had no idea how much effort and pain each step was costing him. And on his day off, too. Poor Kevin. Man, I’m a dick sometimes. I told myself I was exercising caution in taking a seat in the bleachers out in no man’s land, far from the crowd. But really, unconsciously, I wanted Kevin to suffer a little. Or a lot. Our deal had caused me a world of grief and he was far too happy-go-lucky.
I asked if he was gonna place a bet. He was panting but he got out that he was broke. And all the money I made for him? His daughter’s medical bills slipped my mind. Still, how can anyone resist the chance to multiply what’s in their pocket, even if it’s five bucks? Cowards. That’s who. Worse, he said he was tempted. Said the thump of the horse hooves beating on the racetrack got his blood going. He said it was as hard getting to the track as it was being there. He should’ve changed his name to Bitch.
He asks me to hurry up and tell him why I called, but first I need to find out what’s going to happen to my ticket, my betting slip. I call it a ticket. Just paper, right? No. It’s the difference between paying the rent and getting evicted, a ticket to either wealth or misery. It’s trash. It’s never just a plain old, neutral slip of paper.
Well, turned out to be trash. Fifth fucking place, which was the best placing I’d had all day. But I’m not mad. I don’t tear up the ticket. I let it go and it floats to the floor. Goodbye.
That done, I started in on Kevin. I went easy at first, asking what he heard about the shooting. Not much. I told him I had met with IA. He wasn’t surprised. Then I asked what he was going to tell IA. That grabbed his attention. He was like, “Why would IA talk to me?” and I had to explain the importance of phone bills, how phone bills have put away more guys than any other piece of evidence. More paper, right? He pointed out that we hadn’t spoken in two weeks, like that made any difference.
In retrospect, I wish I had played it as safe with the phone as Marcus did. But if I didn’t think of it, Bradshaw should’ve. But he dropped the ball and there had to be a record somewhere. Besides, we might’ve been seen together. So IA might want to talk him. What would he say?
I don’t think he can decide if I’m serious or not. He wears what I would call a suspicious grin. But either way, he plays along. He guesses he’d tell IA we were friends. Fine, unless they ask any follow up questions to verify his claim. If so, they’d find out Kevin knows abso-fucking-lutely nothing about me and the unraveling would begin. Try again, chief. He’s empty.
Maybe I put him on the spot. Honestly, it takes me a good minute to come up with: “Gavin Quinn has problems with the insurance company and so I, so Zeke Ravella told me to contact Gavin so they could make a join complaint.” Perfect. Heartwarming. Noble. Kevin agrees.
“Now can I go?”
Oh, I’m just getting warmed up. Did he hip his wife to our deal with Marcus? He says no. Actually, he says no and I say, “Not even your wife?” and he said, “Especially not my wife.” I believe him. I never met her but I think I know the type. Nutcracker. He says one time she had noticed the extra money, but he made up some shit about winning it at the track. I figure in a long, roundabout way, he sort of did, but he doesn’t see it that way. He says he lied and he hates lying.
That’s when I panic. No. Not panic. But the “I hate lying” thing gets to me. What sort of kindergarten bullshit is that? Even in the Bible it says, “Thou shalt not bear false witness.” Doesn’t say, “Don’t lie.” It says, “If you don’t see someone doing something, don’t tell the authorities you did.” It’s sad how people misinterpret the Bible and then form a code based on their misinterpretation.
Believe it or not, I blamed myself a little for not getting to know him better beforehand. Now I had to deal with the fact that a slight push from IA would make him spill like a glass of water on a two legged table. I read that cowardly cripple’s future like a short book. A pamphlet. A sentence. Yes, if I had slowed down and read his character more closely, I could’ve avoided participating in some unfortunate scenes.
I voice my concerns, as if his future’s still in doubt. I’m like, “If I was you and so close to retirement, I’d make a deal and fess up and hopefully hold on to most of my pension.”
He says there’s no way he’d do that, but his bright tone tells me I’d just given him a brilliant idea. Asshole. I call him a liar.
Another race begins. I watch my paraplegic horse piss away my hard earned dollars. The race ends and Bradshaw’s gone.
I meant to pay him a visit that night, but I passed out right after dinner. Almost during. Hope he enjoyed himself that night. I really do.
Next day, I had dinner at Sutler’s. Mostly, I wanted to find out if Adam was cool. He wasn’t. He was edgy, nervous, but also totally clueless. After dinner, he got me alone and babbled about the recent tribulation. Holy shit. Part of me can sort of get why he was sort of shaken directly after the shooting, but this was days later. He embarrassed himself with his drama queen act. I’d pat him on the back and tell him to relax, but he kept on with questions like it was IA all over again. Strange, but he asked me if I ever wanted to join IA. Where did he come up with that shit? Anyway, I finally gave him my biggest grin and told him if he didn’t shut up, I’d break his legs.
After I got out of there, I drove to a movie theater and bought a ticket to the show with the latest start time. I hit a bar and told the bartender and anyone else who would listen how much I looked forward to the movie.
Bradshaw’s neighborhood was one of those nice, leafy places where there aren’t any street lights because there’s no need because everyone’s in bed by nine. My headlights were the only sign of life for blocks. I parked a few houses away, took out the Glock I kept in the back of my jeep. I had nabbed it from a dealer a few years back. The yahoo went through all this effort to file the barrel for a silencer and it took me no effort at all to steal it away. Have you ever used a silencer before? They’re beautiful. Gunshots are loud and public, and sometimes you have to take care of something that’s no one else’s business. Silencers to the rescue.
I made like I was taking a nice stroll. But who was I acting for? The neighbors’ own affairs were their sole concerns and the world outside their lawns didn’t exist. Besides, even if they got curious or paranoid and wanted to peek out their window, the thick trees and fancy bushes would’ve complicated their spying.
A faint bluish light came from one of Kevin’s windows. He had this corny wooden s
ign in the yard. The Bradshaws. How cute. How quaint. I wanted to rip it out.
So I crawl between two bushes and peek in. There’s Kevin, plopped on the couch like a zombie, his cane next to him. My taps don’t bring him out of his stupor. I knock. It takes him a while to recognize me, then when he does, bastard’s not at all happy to. He points to the front door.
“What do you want?” and all that. He’s whispering. I whisper back I want to come in. He whispers that his wife’s asleep. I’m like, “It’ll take two seconds. Now that I know I can trust you, I want to tell you how we can make a fortune.”
His face lights up. Must’ve forgot the last word I spoke to him was, “Liar.” He asks what I have for him.
Now, come on. Even if you think I’m a bad seed, you have to admit that’s a corker. “What do you have for me?” I put a friendly hand on his shoulder and shoot him in the heart. Three times. As he tries to make sense of this, I lead him to the wall and guide him down, nice and quiet. I go for a head shot, but the gun’s empty. Anyway, it’s not necessary. Judging by the amount of blood on his shirt, a head shot would be beating a dead horse. Shooting a dead Bradshaw. If his wife came down in a half hour for a midnight snack, he’d’ve been lucky if he still had a liter of blood left in him. By the way, I’m very grateful she was asleep. I’m sure she is too.
I gave him a chance. I didn’t want to kill him, but after a while, it was inevitable. So inevitable that while I was doing it, it wasn’t like I was doing it, you know? It’s like, you drop a rock. Fine. It hits the ground like it’s designed to do, like physics demands, like the event had nothing to do with you. It had to happen. Fuck it. I’m done feeling bad.
Because I did feel bad. Later, I mean. However, that night, for the first time, I got the sense that everything was coming up Zeke. I aced the IA interview, I shut up Marcus, my mob problems were over and Kevin was never going to trip me up. I wouldn’t say I was happy, but what do you call that emotion after you cut a loose thread?