Screwed

Pull the trigger.

My finger hovers over the trigger and I try to make my brain send the command, but nothing happens.

Tell yourself again how there’s no other way.

With Mike gone my problems disappear.

Oh, yeah? What about Mike’s number two, Calvin? You think he won’t come looking?

At least I’ll buy myself some time.

You are shooting a guy in the head in order to buy some time?

It will take Calvin a while to gets his ducks in a row.

I refer you to my last point re shooting a guy in the head.

Mike would do it to me.

You are not Mike. Do you wanna be Mike?

No. I don’t.

I do not want to be Mike but I have no choice.

I feel blood throb in my forehead and my eyes water. Why will my finger not do what it’s told?

Mike is right there, seemingly close enough to touch. If I pull the trigger, a hundred things have to happen in the right order for the bullet in this gun to end up in Mike’s brain. The odds against all these things occurring in the right order must be pretty good. My pulling the trigger is barely even the cause of that effect. The actual cause goes way back. Generations. To the forces that brought Mike and I here today.

But do you wanna be Mike?

That’s the clincher. I was never going to shoot Mike even if I thought I might.

“Balls,” I whisper.

You said it, brother, says Sharpie.

I say balls because there is no plan B.

I hear the muted tinkles of ladies’ laughter and champagne flutes and swing the scope across to the second room.

There is a party going on.

Ladies are getting injected in the face.

Prius.

Zeb, you prick. What the hell were you thinking?

When Zeb volunteered to take Sofia with him on his rounds, he neglected to mention that one of the stops on the route was Irish Mike Madden’s house. Mrs. Madden must have a dozen of her lady friends in there, all sipping champagne and dancing around until it is their turn to sit in a reclined La-Z-Boy and have Zeb or his beautiful assistant inject a shot of Botox into their foreheads. Both Zeb and Sofia are swilling down booze too, which I am pretty sure is not best practice, medically speaking.

One of the ladies slides into the chair, and Sofia straddles her, closes one eye and, urged on by the whoops of the other ladies, sticks the syringe into a wrinkle on the lady’s forehead.

This is insane. Lunacy. How are we supposed to survive when Zeb continues to fuck up faster than I can fix things?

My phone vibrates and I check to find a text from the man himself.

You will never guess where I am.

I text him back.

I know where you are. I’m looking at you. Get the hell out.

I watch him read the text and grin. He looks into the blackness of the garden and flips me the bird.

A minute later I get: Chill. Mike will never think to look for Sofia here. As far as he knows she is my nurse.

This is all about Zeb showing me what a tactical genius he is. In Zeb’s mind it is more fun to parade Sofia into Mike’s house for him to have the opportunity to not recognize than it is for him to put her somewhere Mike will never look in the first place.

I am so angry with him for putting Sofia at risk that I misspell arsehole, luckily my phone recognizes the word by now and helps me out:

Arsehole. Arsehole. Arsehole. Stuff is about to happen. Why do you think I am in the garden? Leave now!

I watch his face drop as he reads the text.

Yeah, that’s right, shit-for-brains. As far as you know this is serious.

I am gonna catch it later when Mike turns out to be un-shot.

Flashes of movement from the office window catch my eye and I swivel the scope back to Mike’s office. Mr. Nose Beard, Manny Booker, is ushering a coupla guys into the office.

I find it hard to believe what I’m seeing.

Krieger and Fortz.

What is their connection to Mike?

It doesn’t matter. I got all my rotten eggs in one basket here. I gotta improvise, replan on the hoof.

Various scenarios run through my head, but I know there is no way to take three guys with a rifle from out here even if I was cold-blooded enough to go through with my original plan, which apparently I am not. Shot one takes out the window and if you’re lucky the prime target, maybe you get one more off in that second of frozen panic, but that’s all she wrote. The other guys have dived for cover before you can refocus.

What I gotta do is leave Mike for the moment and follow Krieger and Fortz when they leave. Find out where they’re crashing, phone it in to Ronnie and then call Zeb to make sure he has stashed Sofia somewhere safe.

I break down the rifle and bag it, then train the scope on Fortz to try and figure out what’s going on here.

Fortz talks for a while and Mike does his best Don Corleone wise-nodding bit. At the end of the spiel, Fortz hands over a fat envelope with bills poking out the top, which Mike smoothly sweeps into his drawer, and I know what this meeting’s about.

Fortz needs me found as a matter of urgency and Mike has the resources to do the finding, plus he wants me found himself. My life is being traded for dollars and not for the first time this week. I don’t know why I even bother getting surprised anymore.

Still, it is a fat envelope of cash, which is gratifying in a weird kind of way, If I have to be hunted down like a rabid dog at least I’m a priority to someone.

I gotta stop playing Tarzan and get myself back to the car before Krieger and Fortz take off. Shouldn’t be too difficult; I bet those two ain’t so sprightly since that little whupping I laid on them. Just thinking about those golden moments is enough to make me smile.

Still, now is not the time for nostalgia. I have grievous bodily harm to plan.

I swing outta the tree and land on something that yields under my weight and whimpers. I hear a couple of rib-splintering snaps, and my boots come away sticky.

Balls.

I knew Mike had a dog.

I stoop low and hug the line of shrubbery leading toward the party window. The only reason someone would cut a dog open is so they can go about their business in peace.

There’s another shooter in the garden.

I gotta warn Sofia.

I gotta come out in the open for maybe six feet between the foliage and the side of the house. Six feet takes maybe half a second but nevertheless the shooter slots a bullet into that slot. The bullet takes me between the shoulder blades, swatting me with its sheer velocity. I overshoot the party window thunk onto the office glass, not six feet from the three men who want me dead, and the impact sets off a light sensor and I get lit up like Times Square on New Year’s eve.

I slide comically down the window leaving contact streaks that are going to take the maid a ladder, three rags and several hours to polish out.

Hello, Fuckapalooza.

Mike lifts his head expecting to see a big dumb dog who’s walked into the window again, but instead sees yours truly, the man who has become his nemesis.

Or as Zeb put it: You are the fucking monkey that stuck his wrench into Mike’s machine.

Which as far as I can make out is an amalgam of three sayings: the one about the monkey, the wrench in the works thing and the ghost in the machine one.

Why am I thinking about this now? Prioritize, idiot.

There’s no point. I’ve been shot high in the back. There’s no walking away from this one.

And you want this to be your final mental exercise? Dissecting Zeb’s turn of phrases?

What was the monkey one?

Mike stares quizzically at me, not sure what to make of this apparition, but I could give a shit about his puzzlement ’cause I’m dying.

Or am I?

Okay, I’m flattened onto this window like a Garfield toy. But I’ve felt worse and survived.