Don Bruns: Stuff to die for

“And you could get killed looking for him. Really. You could be killed.”

“And I could get killed if I don’t.”

“Skip? There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Skip?”

“There is.”

“Want to tell me what it is?”

“Not everything. Just this. Vic Maitlin saved my life eleven years ago.”

Now it was her turn not to know what to say. Finally, “He saved your life? Vic? My God, Skip, how?”

“That’s it for now.”

“Pretty heavy stuff.”

“Yeah. And he risked his life to save mine. It’s just something I have to do, Em.”

“So there’s something else you care about.”

“Yeah, I guess. All of a sudden I have some things in my life that really matter.”

There was nothing left to say.

Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe got busted our sophomore year in high school. They got caught selling drugs to an undercover cop and were expelled a week later. The cop posed as a student and she not only caught the goon squad but two other students, a student’s parent, and a wrestling coach.

It seemed like the perfect time to tell my story, but I didn’t. After Vic pulled me out, the sinkhole incident was on my mind every day and I saw the players every day, but in my sophomore year, three years after it happened, I often thought maybe I’d dreamed the entire occurrence. Now, after Rick Fuentes threatened me with my obligation to his son, I felt I could finally let it out. But it wouldn’t come out. It had been buried too deep and too long.

I made a handful of calls the next morning, stopped at the Cap’n for lunch, and told James that Em and I were back to normal.

“There’s no normal with you guys.”

“Well, as close to normal as possible. Listen, I want to go back to the warehouse one more time.”

“I’m not that stupid, pard.”

“Well, I am.”

“You’re on your own this time, Skip.” He headed back into the kitchen to make someone a crab sandwich and I finished my po’boy and left.

He pulled up in the truck about seven fifteen, stepped into the apartment, and immediately walked to the refrigerator, pulling a beer from the inside of the door. “What time do you want to go?”

“Go?”

“Oh, fuck. You know I can’t let you drive down there by yourself. You’ll do something stupid like the last time and get yourself shot. I’d have to call your mom and try to find that worthless asshole father of yours and tell them you’ve been killed, and I’m not going to go through all that shit. What time are we leaving?”

“Nine?”

“Just the two of us?”

“I thought about that. If we need a gun, we need Angel.”

“Shit.” He pulled the keys to the truck from his pocket, took a long swallow of beer, and motioned to me. We walked out, got into the truck, and drove to Gas and Grocery. The tiny carryout was open, but Angel wasn’t there.

“What do we do now?”

I shook my head. Angel had always been there. “Stick around a couple of minutes.”

Half an hour later I went inside and asked the old lady behind the counter to leave a message for Angel.

“What the hell I look like? Voicemail?”

“No, I just thought if he happened to stop by-”

“We close at nine. You want him to get a message, you go find him.”

I walked back to the truck and shrugged my shoulders. “We’re on our own, James.”

“Been that way most of our adult lives, Skip. I think we can manage.”

We drove back to the apartment, pulled in beside the rusted-out Ranchero, and went inside. James finished the warm beer.

“This is about paying a debt, right?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Some of it is.”

“You and me, Skip, we’d do that for each other.”

“Sure.”

“But you’d do it for someone you don’t really know. You’d try to save someone because they saved you.”

“There’s other reasons.”

“You want to protect your lady and the new kid.”

I remember glaring at him. His psychoanalysis was getting a little overbearing.

“I’m right.”

“James, maybe I’m doing this because I’m afraid for my own life. If I don’t get them, they’ll get me.”

He smiled that cocksure smile of his. “Nah. You care about people, amigo. You’ve got people and situations that you really care about. It’s what makes you a strong person. It’s what I like about you, pard.”

“And you? What are you really in this for?”

He didn’t pause a second. “Because you’re in it. It’s you and me, Skip. Hell, I guess if you and what’s-her-name ever do get married, you’ll have to have a guest room for me to live in.” He grinned.

“Fuck you, James.”

“I said you’re my best friend, buddy. But I won’t go that far.”

Weleft at eight thirty. I had James swing by the carryout, but there was no sign of our black friend or his black Jeep. James hopped on I-95 and he opened it up to fifty-five miles an hour. We should have taken the Prism, but James had insisted.

“Need to open up the truck a little bit. Guy told me if you want to keep it tuned up, open it up once in a while.”

I listened to his bullshit for another couple of minutes. Finally I’d had enough. “You know, James, you couldn’t even open up that sorry rust trap pickup you had in high school! Christ, I think top speed was thirty if the damned thing started. You always sound like you know so much about cars and trucks-”

He was silent for a while. I probably should have just shut up, but I was riled. Vic Maitlin, Emily, James-they each had special meaning in my life and I could do something to help them. Protect them. But I had no idea what that something was. As it stood, I was playing David to Goliath and the only person in my corner tonight was James. Probably not the person to be pissing on.

“You’re in a tough spot, Skip. There’s a lot going on in your life. Just don’t take it out on the people who are here to help you.” Son of a bitch knew what I’d been thinking.

We were quiet the rest of the ride.

James pulled off the highway and we headed down to the river on North River Drive, past Garcia’s, downtown’s freshest seafood. The sign says so. Past the sewage plant next door to Garcia’s, and past the rust-bucket container ships with their loads of housewares, food, autos, and whatever bound for Honduras, Columbia, Belize, Puerto Rico, and other ports south. He slowed down, concentrating on something.

“You hear something?”

“What am I listening for?”

“Just listen.” He jazzed the engine and we scooted ahead for a moment.

“Hear that?”

“What?” I hate it when people do that. Tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be listening for.

“That. Right there.”

I heard it. A clunk.

“Yeah, a clunk. Why couldn’t you say, ‘Listen for a clunk’?”

James ignored me. “Shit. I’ll bet we’re low on oil.”

“Just like that, you know?”

“Had a friend who was driving home with some girl and clunk. Car threw a rod because of low oil. Had to catch a bus home.”

“We’re back to a rod again?”

“Just shut the fuck up, Skip.”

I could see our warehouse just up the street, lit up by a new floodlight in the parking lot.

He pulled over, three lots from the one with the forklift next to the building. Three lots from the parking lot where I’d run my ass off. Three lots from the warehouse where I thought I’d seen Vic Maitlin.

“What are you pulling over for?”

“Check the engine.”

“Shit, we should have driven the Prism.”