I call. He doesn’t answer, but I leave a voicemail.
My day continues to go super great when I pop a tire on the freeway for the third time in as many months. So I pull to the side of the road and go about fixing the flat. I come across an awesome discovery when I notice one of the lugs is missing. It looks like I’ll be rolling the dice until I get a replacement – which will be another old tire from one of the local junk yards. I’m telling you, my Datsun is just in super-fantastic condition. I have two sets of bungie cords on my car. The first set holds the hood down firmly, and a secondary set does the same for the trunk. Since the trunk doesn’t close completely I reach inside and undo the bungee. I have a broken broom handle inside my trunk that does double duty as well; its first function is to hold the hood open when I need it to be, and the second function is what it’s doing now: holding the trunk open.
After I finish with the tire, I pull back onto the freeway, happy to be out of the frigid rain. I think about turning on the heat, but fear of being immolated keeps my fingers away from the dial.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.* (See? I keep forgetting.)
A text from Taylor says, “I’ll put in a word, but no promises.” I’m stowing my phone in a cup holder when it vibrates again. That was quick. I check it again. Taylor has sent a group message to Chester and me, wanting to know what the plan is for tonight. Before I can even send a single message, my phone vibrates, then vibrates again, and again, and again.
When Chester sends messages they’re usually one quick phrase at a time. The result is a combination of half a dozen questions and comments.
In this case, there is apparently a hockey game tonight, and he’s scored tickets. Then after, he knows of a rager* that’s going down. (For those not with the lingo, a ‘rager’ is a huge party usually starting out awesome and ending in vomit.)
Another moment passes and Chester sends a link for the details of the party. I click the link to see the when and where of said party. Now … I’ve come to the conclusion that there must be only one person in the world left doing this, but the link opens only for me to discover that Chester has just Rick-Rolled me. He is a terrible person.
14 Penalty Shots, Tequila Shots
The score becomes 1-0 in favor of the Canes with just over a minute to go in third period. The loud buzzer rings throughout the stadium, and everyone wearing a black and red jersey jumps to their feet, screaming at the tops of their lungs.
“J. Quick ain’t so quick after all!” Chester says with a mouth full of hotdog. It looks like a sloppy joe with all the chili he’d poured over it.
I laugh, more at Chester than his attempt at being clever, and so does Taylor; but we’d never tell him so. What can I say? I guess we’re both enablers.
It’s a surprise that Chester pulled this off. Normally tickets that he scores are always nosebleeds. Not that nosebleeds are terrible seats; we actually prefer to see the action from above rather than up close. But these seats are beyond the norm. Chester got a hookup from a buddy who works at a company that owns a box, and these tickets were up for grabs. The room has a great view of the rink, and we have it all to ourselves – along with a whole fridge of continually restocked beer.
Chester suddenly shifts in his seat and stuffs his greasy fingers into his pocket, withdrawing his phone. “Hahahaha! I bet this is another one, guys.” He looks at both of us, his face strongly resembling The Elf on the Shelf.
Taylor and I both roll our eyes.
Chester stands up in front of us, arms his phone for speaker, and a man’s voice emits from it. “Hi … is Emily there?”
“Oh, yeah man – she totally is. But I’m kinda slippin’ her the big nasty right now. Can I take a message?” Chester gyrates and sticks his tongue out of his mouth as he bites down on it and grunts.
I motion for Chester to move out of our way. We’re lucky and he obliges, taking his wrong number call to the corner of the box and continuing to laugh as he spins a fabricated string of rubbish to the unknown caller.
I put my burger down and look at Taylor. “So what are the chances I can get out of this identity theft problem?”
“Probably pretty good. These kinds of things are happening often now, and most of the time the effects aren’t long-lasting anymore. I would just wait before you attempt to finance something anytime in the immediate future.”
“I don’t see that happening soon,” I say and snag a fry.
“So, no deliveries for you-know-who today?”
“That’s the weird thing; The Sub Shop was closed today.”
“Really? Yeah, that is strange. I thought that place was never closed. He’s like a vacation Nazi.”
“Maybe it was a family emergency. Or something.”
“Poss–” Taylor starts to say as a loud frenzy of angry fans booing interrupts him.
“Goooooooooooooddaaaaaaaaaammit!” Chester yells, hanging up the phone and jamming it back in his pocket, apparently having ended his torment of the misdialed caller earlier than usual.
I had completely missed what happened but now stare at the scoreboard. 1-1. The L.A. Kings have just tied the game.
“Screw Hell-A, screw Hell-A, screw Hell-A.” Chester tries to get a chant going, but he forgets we’re in box seats, and the rest of the crowd can’t hear him.
The game ends up going to sudden death.* (Not to be confused with that shitty Van Damme movie.) No one scores, which throws Chester into another tirade. Then the game goes to shootouts. On the final run for the Kings a goal is made, and The Hurricanes can’t clinch the tie.
It’s over. And now Chester is threatening to toss his food from the box out onto the ice. It’s a stupid thing to try; he’s not too good at sports and would never be able to throw it that far.
“What a waste of money!” Chester is red-faced. He’s a very sore loser.
“Relax bro. They were free tickets, remember?” I say, trying to calm him down.
“Yeah, but not the money I lost.”
“Hold on – what money you lost?” Taylor says, confused.
“I made a bet that the Canes would take it.”
I start laughing. So does Taylor. “So, what – you lost ten bucks? Twenty?” I say, still laughing.
“Nah, it was eight hundred,” Chester says, lowering his head.
I instantly stop giggling and grab Chester by the shoulder, spinning him around to face me. “When you say you made an eight hundred dollar bet, I hope you mean you cashed out your savings account or something stupid like that to make it.”
All he says is, “No.”
Taylor vocalizes my own confusion by saying, “So, where the hell did you get eight hundred bucks?”
Oh my God. I want to double over and puke. I have this sick, sneaking suspicion that I know exactly what he is going to say.
“From the box under Ellis D’s bed.”
So he hasn’t been stupid and emptied his savings account. Instead, he’s done something farther down on the end of the stupid spectrum scale. I want to slap Chester so hard, but in all honesty it would do no good. He won’t learn from it. “You fat dumb shit! Why would you touch that money? That was Tony’s dirty money!”
“Didn’t look so dirty to me,” Chester says with supreme confidence. “Come on, what was really going to happen if you spent it? Nothing. You’re just an errand boy. Plus, you should have just told the cops to arrest those guys already. Hinkley said it was a sure thing.”
“Hinkley? Who the hell is Hinkley?” I ask, not sure I truly want to know the answer. I just have this feeling … you know … ‘cause this is Chester we’re talking about.
“The table busser at Five Star.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, now looking marginally ashamed.
“What?” It’s all I can get my vocal cords to say.
“The club in downtown Raleigh,” Chester says matter-of-factly.
I shake my head in frustration. “You’re taking gambling tips from a bus boy now?” I really want to hit him, prefera
bly with something hard that won’t break easy. I also distinctly notice I’m searching for something too, but before my eyes can lock onto a suitable bludgeoning device, I’m brought back to civil reality.
“He sounded like he knew his stuff when I talked to him. He specifically said: The. Kings. Lose.” Chester’s last three words are individually drawn out to occupy their own sentence.
“I see. Geez, well if he said it that way, then yeah – you should have for sure made the bet.” I toss my hands up in the air all willy-nilly.* (Yep, I just said willy-nilly. Get over it.)
“Exactly.” Chester seems relieved I’m in agreement with him.
“That was sarcasm, you idiot.” It baffles me that he can barely pick up on it sometimes.
Chester’s head lowers. “I guess you had to be there to hear his voice. It seemed legit.”
“I wish I had been. Maybe after Worm Tongue* finished whispering terrible ideas to you, I could have squelched them before they took root.” (For those not familiar with who Worm Tongue is, I’m sorry if the movie/book reference goes over your head. Just in case you’re wondering, it’s from The Lord of the Rings series.)
“Man, I thought it was a good bet. I was gonna put it back after I collected my winnings.” Chester’s head is still bent toward the floor.
“That’s the problem, Chester – you didn’t win. And whatever happened to not calling the Five-O, like you said before?” I place both of my hands against my head and grip my hair as if this will pull the stress from my body.
“Bro, you watch waaaaay too many movies. Look, what’s done is done, LSD. It’s a catch 20/20 rear-sight Thursday morning quarterbacking. So how’s about that rager? Are we going or what?”
If my eyes could roll any further into the back of my skull they would have a great view of my cerebral cortex. He’s muddled so many expressions together I don’t know where to begin. And now I want nothing more than to crawl into a hole and figure a way out of this maze of insanity. This morning I thought it couldn’t have gotten much deeper, and now it’s beginning to feel inescapable.
“So, what’s the skinny?” Chester says as we walk out of the stadium.
My mind is made up. I need a drink. We’re going to this party. “Yeah, let’s go. But you are the DD tonight.”
“But –”
“Shut up, Chester. You screwed me – us – good on this, so you are gonna pay for it somehow.”
“It’s true, Chester. You should never have touched that money.” Taylor tosses him the keys. “And not a scratch on her.”
The keys clink against the ground, Chester having fumbled the easy catch. “Fine,” he says, bending over to pick them up and exposing his ass crack for the entire world to see.
We go to the rager. It sucks and so does my sleep.* (I have a dream that I’m Robocop and there’s a battle to the death with Darth Vader in a thumb wrestling competition. Vader is cheating, trying to use The Force to push down my thumb. Chuck Norris shows up too. He kills everyone … with his beard.)
15 Extra Special Delivery
The next morning I half expect The Sub Shop to be closed again. It isn’t. The placard says ‘OPEN’ plain as day – in big, black bold letters outlined in red. Whatever ailment or distraction that kept Sam from coming in yesterday has been remedied.
The door hasn’t even closed behind me and Sam is waving his hand at me to hurry my ass up and come to the back office. He’s on the phone and says to me, “Hurry ya’ ass up.”
I’m in the back in just a few seconds. Sam is talking fast to whoever’s on the other end. “Trust me, everything is fine. I’ve got new buyers in the area and they need triple the amount.”
You know that sensation you get in your head, when you feel like you’re going to pass out, and then you feel like you just became ten degrees warmer? It’s almost like your skin is electrified from an unknown current. This … is worse than that. Another run for Sam. Sounds like it’s going to be a tall order, too. I feel my hand reaching for my wallet, as reassurance that Detective Kline’s card is still inside, nestled between my last few dollars. Then I remember I had clipped it to the paperwork from the dealership.
My hand resting on my wallet does, however, remind me of my ‘brokeness’, and it’s instantly brought to the foreground. Sam concludes his call and I take this opportunity to make an important request. “Mr. Nesbo. You were closed yesterday, and I never got my payroll check. Could I get it now so I can deposit it before the banks close? I’m running on my last few singles.”
“Yeah, sure. I don’t have the payroll printed up yet. I’ve been so … busy this morning. I’ll just write one for you.”
I wish he would just pull it from the till; that would be easier. But money is money,* right? (Not always.)
Getting situated in my Datsun, I have the check Nesbo wrote me on my lap and I’m going straight to the Bank of America before I head to Tony’s. I should also mention I have six sandwiches prepped for delivery.* (If I have to tell you that by easy math calculations there’s about $480,000 in the car with me, I think you just might struggle through the rest of your life.)
After depositing the check, I drive again toward William B. Umstead Park on the opposite end of town.
Tony is gracious enough to hand me a wad of cash quadruple the usual, and I haul ass outta there.* (Once again the speedometer says 110, but I think my Datsun maxes out around 61.)
I already have Detective Kline’s phone number memorized, and I’m dialing it now. He answers on the second ring.
“Kline.” Short and sweet, right down to business; which is exactly what I want at the moment.
“Detective Kline, it’s me – Ellis DeAngelo. I came to your office the other day about the drug trafficking at my job.”
“Yeah, I remember. You got something?”
“I think I have the motherload.”
16 What Comes Around …
I’m pulling into the parking lot so fast, my Datsun bounces hard and I almost lose control of the vehicle. This is due more to my tires than my actual speed. After the recent fix, now each of the four tires I have on my car are slightly different sizes and all have the same wear and tear. The car is now listing to one side because of the small donut-sized spare. Also, I will point out – just to make sure you see the whole picture – that even the spare has about as much traction as my four year old sneakers, which I am also wearing. I’m a walking disaster.
The lights from The Sub Shop are off and the closed sign is visible now. Detective Kline must have shown up a few moments ago. Maybe he’s arresting Sam early.
My heart is playing a Slipknot drum solo in my chest, and I have a horrible imagining that the older detective lost the upper hand and fat Nesbo killed him with a butcher’s knife and now he’s hiding the evidence.
I pull out my phone and call Kline again but block my number this time. He answers on the third ring.
“Hello,” I hear from the other end.
Thank the Lord. My chest cavity calms, and the heavy beating relaxes to a slower – and much less life-threatening – cadence. “Are you here?” I ask.
“Yes, the door is unlocked; come on in. I have Nesbo. Bring the stuff.”
I have Nesbo. That could mean so many things. He has Nesbo in cuffs. Or he has him duct taped to his office chair. Hell, it could even mean they’re both standing or sitting having a conversation about where Nesbo’s future is going.
When I walk inside, however, I don’t expect this is the translation: Nesbo has been shot and is now lying dead on the floor.
It’s beyond my ability to keep my gaze on the body. I look at Kline, who’s standing by the soda fountain. “What happened?”
“He wouldn’t come easy, which is how most of these guys are. He attempted to fight his way out and as you can see, it didn’t work.”
Keeping my eyes averted, I walk away from the view of the body and place Tony’s packages on the counter. “So what next? Should I call the paramedics or an ambulance or somethin
g?”
“I’ll handle all this. You did a great job calling me; now this city can be put at ease knowing he’s off the street.”
“What about Tony? When do we take him down? He has the money, and I can give a statement about the transactions.”
“It’s been quite a day,” Kline says. “I’ll take care of this and send some units out to Tony’s place. Why don’t you take it easy and come to the station tomorrow morning? You can make your statement then.”
I have never been so close to a dead body in my life – except at my great-grandmother’s funeral, but that doesn’t count. It doesn’t hold a candle to what has happened here, and I’m ready to get the heck out of this place quick, fast, and in a hurry. “Sure thing. I’ll head there around nine thirty or so.”* (It’ll probably be around ten though.)
“Sounds good,” Kline says.
I’m about to turn around but I face Detective Kline and offer my hand. “Thanks so much for everything. You have no idea how much this has taken off my mind.”
My mind is a weathered haze, trying to justify the events and decide Sam deserved what came his way. Then I feel Kline grip my palm firmly and say, “Well, it’s all over now.”* (Oh, how I wish that were true.)
17 False Statement
I wake up early again at nine o’five.* (For those of you still talking crap about the lateness of my rousing, that is really early for a college kid who goes to sleep around 5 AM during spring break, so cut me some slack, you inconsiderate pricks. Plus, I have a lot on my plate right now.)
I’m drained of energy and still very much exhausted. So much so that even my left arm is still asleep from laying on it through the night. My fingers tingle as life returns to them. I throw on one of my Motivational Zombie t-shirts. It depicts a zombie whose body is gone from the waist down, crawling forward in search of another victim. The words ‘Never Give Up’ are printed in large letters underneath the image. This is #2 in the series. Most people find them disturbing. I, however, find them … well, motivational.