Play Dead

Stan’s face twisted in disgust as the foul odors of garbage and urine reached his nostrils. Dirt. Filth. Scum. Behind him, a passed-out or possibly dead drunk lay buried under the heaps of refuse. This was not a place where Stan imagined the killer hanging out. No, the person who murdered his father was used to more plush decor, a more controlled environment. Stan was the one who had spent most of his life in the gutter. He reached into his pocket and touched the switchblade. He would have the advantage on this turf.

He took another glance at his watch. Ten minutes late. Stan wished the killer would hurry up and get here so he could get the hell out of this shithole.

Stan stopped pacing, the night chill nibbling through his skin. No sense denying it—he was jittery, anxious. He wasn’t sure why. The killer was only ten minutes late. Nothing to get excited about.

“Hello, Stan.”

He spun around. “Hello.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Stan shuffled his feet. “That’s okay.” Listen to this conversation, he thought. He was exchanging pleasantries with his father’s murderer. “Do you have the money?”

Don’t take it, Stan. Run. . . .

The killer held up an airline bag. “It’s all here.”

Stan could smell the fear coming off the killer. The eyes were darting all about the alley, the eyes of a frightened doe. “Don’t like it here, do you?” Stan sneered.

“Not particularly,” the killer confessed.

Stan smiled. His own fear was slipping away as he watched the killer’s grow. “It looks like you’re actually sweating under that fancy coat. How come?”

“No reason.”

“Give me the money.”

The killer put down the bag and stepped back.

“I said give it to me,” Stan snapped.

“It’s right there. Just pick it up.”

“Give it to me now!”

The killer’s eyes continued to shift from side to side, trying to guard all angles. “Okay.”

Slowly, the killer took hold of the bag and walked toward Stan. Stan’s confidence grew. He was taking a bizarre satisfaction in barking out orders.

“Hand it to me.”

The killer did just that, stepping back quickly after Stan had the money in his hands.

“This is just your first payment,” Stan said.

“What? You said on the phone—”

“Don’t worry about what I said on the phone. I want another ten thousand next week. Do you understand me?”

“I just can’t keep giving you cash. When will it end?”

“When I say so,” Stan said coolly.

“But—”

Rage had now fully replaced Stan’s fear. “You killed my father.”

“It was an accident.”

“An accident? I was there, remember? You shot my father right through his forehead. You took my childhood away from me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Bullshit!” Without thinking, Stan stepped toward the killer. “You called him a bastard before you fired.”

“You don’t know what he did to me.”

“And I don’t care.” Stan moved closer.

The killer’s face was completely white now. Frightened eyes searched for an easy exit. “You have your money. I’d like to go now.”

“I don’t want your goddamn money,” Stan shouted.

The killer’s back was flat against the wall. “What . . . ?” Stan took another step forward. “There’s no place to run,” he said. “No one will hear you scream.”

“Please, just leave me alone. I’ll pay you anything you want. Anything.”

Stan closed the gap between them to less than a yard. “No good. Money can’t bring back my father. Money can’t give me back my childhood.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Save it,” Stan said, his fury forcing the tears out of his eyes and onto his cheeks. When was the last time he’d cried? He did not remember. But it felt right—oh, so right. For the first time in his life, everything felt right. Gloria, Boston, no booze, no gambling. Everything just felt so right. “Someone has to avenge my father’s death,” he said. “And someone has to pay for what happened to him. And to me.”

“No, listen—”

“I bet he thought that he could just toss you to the side,” Stan continued, reaching into his pocket. “I bet my old man thought you were completely harmless.”

As Stan moved in, the killer’s hand came out from underneath the long overcoat. “And he paid for it, Stan. Just like you.”

The gun fired. A bullet tore through the night air.

RICHARD explained the whole situation to Naomi. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee from the mug Peter had made her in school. “World’s Best Mom” was crookedly hand-painted on the side. Rog had made a “World’s Best Dad” mug for Richard the same year. She did not say one word while he spoke, did not interrupt even once as Richard recounted every detail. He told her about David Baskin’s first phone call from Australia, about Laura’s visits, even about the crazed psycho with the knife who had threatened the twins. He left out nothing.

Naomi’s expression did not change. She was a short woman, cute and tiny with curly dark hair and a bright, friendly smile she used to disarm any potential hostility. She sat calmly now, sipping at her coffee. Surprisingly, the twins had gone to bed a half hour ago without the usual kicking and clawing. In fact, they had actually gone to bed an hour earlier than their standard bedtime. Miraculous really. They had a soccer game tomorrow, the twins explained, and Coach Duckson had said that sleep would enhance their performance. So Roger and Peter strolled past their stunned-speechless parents and headed up to bed. Now, like most nights after Roger and Peter had been tucked away, the house was strangely quiet. Each sound was amplified, echoing throughout the still environment.

“So what do you think I should do?” Richard asked when he had finished. “Should I tell Laura what she’s up against or keep my mouth shut?”

Naomi stood and walked over to the Mr. Coffee. She poured herself a second cup. Second cup after dinner—no good. Too much caffeine. But Naomi had a feeling she would be up most of the night no matter what she did or did not drink. “So this is why you’ve been acting so weird lately?”

Richard nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”