Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

WE WERE THIRTEEN. James and I, Em and Vic. Twelve or thirteen, and it was a school field trip. You remember field trips. Sometimes they were to the zoo or maybe an aquarium or one time to the Miami River. And we were always paired up with a buddy. I was paired up with Vic, and even though we weren’t close, I was excited about the pairing. Vic was playing junior high basketball and was already the star athlete of the seventh grade. His dark features, athletic prowess, and quick smile made him a candidate for most popular kid in the entire school.

Teachers loved his wit and intellect. Girls loved his looks, personality, and gentle nature and they weren’t even sure why. Guys found him to be easy to be around, with a self-effacing nature and a natural humor. There was nothing not to like about Vic Maitlin, except for two guys he palled around with. Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe. Mean, nasty, and full of themselves, these two guys made the school bullies look like choirboys. Vic distanced himself from their antics but hung with them just the same.

This field trip, Vic Maitlin was my buddy. He accepted the role with ease and grace and we acted like we’d been best friends since first grade.

And after the incident at the sinkhole, with Cramer and Stowe, Vic told me to keep everything to myself. He swore me to secrecy, for my entire life, and even though it was a childhood promise, it stuck with me. I never had any intention of going back on my word, and if his life hadn’t been in danger, I would have taken the secret to my grave. But Vic was in trouble, serious trouble, and it was time to repay my debt.

“ALL THE REST OF HIS STUFF is in the truck. Should we go back and-” James pointed back at the high-rise.

“Jesus.” I stared at the back end of the truck. We’d gotten so wrapped up in the finger that we’d forgotten the rest of the mail. I gazed back at the condo. We’d be back to report, and frankly I’d had enough of Rick Fuentes and his gun for one night. “Nah. It’s late and we’ve pretty much used up our half hour. We’ll bring it back when we give him our report.”

“You didn’t sound too sure about this job.”

“I’m not.” It was hard not to tell my story. “Man, we could get our asses shot off. Or fingers hacked off. This could be dangerous.”

We stood in the parking lot, gazing out at the harbor. A long, lean ship moved slowly, lights strung from towers fore and aft. Finally, James spoke up.

“Listen, amigo. We’ve made $1,500 for hauling Fuentes’s stuff. We’ll make $5,000 plus a bonus for finding his son. Hell, Skip, that’s more than half of what the van cost. Not bad for our first day in business.”

“James, you know if we don’t find Vic, Rick Fuentes is going to jump our asses. It was more of a threat than a request. Do you understand that?”

He was quiet. I slid into the truck, and he stayed outside, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. The crickets chirped in the foliage and a couple of night birds called out. From somewhere in the bay I could hear a motor boat bouncing on the water and the yapping of a young puppy.

“We’re in some deep shit, bubba.” James blew a smoke ring into the night, the lights from the condo casting shadows all around us.

“Duh! We could have given it back to Jackie or gone to the cops, but-”

“Let’s not lay blame. What’s done is done. Vic Maitlin is with a group of Cuban businessmen. Why do you think they’re cutting off his fingers?”

“Fingers? Are there multiples?”

“No. Just a thought. If we don’t find him, there may be more.”

“Let’s think about it. All we have to do is stake out the address and see if Vic is being kept there. We get a yes or no, and we’re done with it.”

“Stake out?” He chuckled, finding humor in a very tense situation. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows, Skip.”

“Give me a better solution.”

“No, you’re right. We’ll go over there tomorrow and see if there’s any activity.” He pulled the address from his pocket and scooted into the cab. Holding it to the light, he silently read. “Little Havana. I don’t know where exactly, but I recognize the street.”

“James, we’ve got twenty-four hours. I think tomorrow is a little late.”

He studied me, flicking the ashes from his cigarette out the window.

“Half an hour.”

“What?”

“The guard. He gave us half an hour. Fuentes gave us twenty-four hours. I’m not used to having people hold a stop watch to my activities,” he said.

“I’m not used to finding body parts and being threatened with a gun.”

James started the truck and pulled out. We stopped at the guardhouse, the old man nodded to us, and we continued on our way. He reached over and turned on the radio. We hadn’t taken the time to punch-set the station settings since we played CDs most of the time. A Spanish station played some brassy salsa music and he left it there, just trying to put some noise over the stone-cold silence in the cab.

Finally he spoke. “Regrets are a bitch, Skip.”

“Huh?”

“What do you regret?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You very seldom regret the things you do. You regret the things you don’t do.”

A fair statement.

“I don’t want to have regrets. I want to go out doing everything. I want to own my own business. I want to be worth a million dollars in two years. I want to make love to a hundred beautiful women and settle down with the best one. So what if it means taking chances? My old man took chances-”

“Your dad probably regretted what he did more than what he wished he’d done.” As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t. I regret the fact that I didn’t get to know my old man a lot better. But I’m not sure it’s my regret. It should be his.

“But not regrets about never having tried. He tried, Skip. He got blind sided by a partner. But, God how that man tried. He regretted never having ridden in a Cadillac. That was his regret. But my God he tried!”

“Your point is?”

“I’m trying, just like he did. But I’m going to succeed. We’re getting a nice windfall here, and if we play our cards right, this business could be a huge success. I don’t want to regret that I didn’t give it a chance.”

I gazed at him, my best friend. He motivated me. I never would have gone to college if he hadn’t pushed the restaurant idea. He was right, of course. A man should do everything during his life to avoid having regrets. I believe that, maybe because James believes it, but it seems like a mantra to live by. Live your life so that when you die there are no regrets. But then, I’m twenty-four years old and when I’m thirty-five or forty, I may laugh at what I thought when I was twenty-four. When I was sixteen, I thought I’d know a lot more at twenty-four than I do now.

“I’ve got one regret already.”

“What?”

“I didn’t call Em.” I pulled my cell phone from its plastic holster and hit speed dial.

“Jesus. You don’t want to tell her that-”

“Hello?”

“Em.”

“Are you guys done unloading? I’ve got your check. Want me to stop over?”

I looked at James and he was shaking his head, watching the oncoming headlights as they whizzed by. He had a big frown on his face.

I put my hand over the receiver for a second. “You were ready to make her a partner when you found out she could drive without a rearview mirror. In retrospect-”

“What do you want to do? Have a conference with her?”

“Not here on the phone.”

“Good.” He spoke in a loud whisper.

“I want to stop by and see her. I want to tell her what’s going on.”