Days Gone By Chapter 2—Pink Slipped
Novel Excerpt by Abram Dress
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Norfolk, Virginia
June 15th, 2019, Evening
That broiling Virginia sun had long since set when Devin pulled the old Chevy into the driveway of his parents’ house. His house, he supposed, though it would never really feel that way. Peeling paint, crooked gutters, and cracked windows offered him a pathetic welcome home.
A pink piece of paper lay on the seat next to him. He picked it up and stared at it until his vision blurred. Chuck had handed many people those slips as the cannery’s shift change whistles blew. He had smiled as he handed one to Devin. “Keep your head down, boy. I’m sure someone else will hire you for some other shit work.”
The old pickup’s engine faltered and gagged to a halt. He was fifteen when he and his dad rebuilt that truck. He knew every piece of Bondo and duct tape that held it together and could fix any problem that popped up in its familiar innards. When had he stopped caring enough to keep it running?
Stupid question.
He crumpled up the pink slip and tossed it on the floor.
“Shit job anyway.” True. But how else could he pay for the services of Hendricks Investigations. That damn PI was the only way he was going to find out anything about… About what? If he was honest with himself, he already had all the answers that mattered. He’d seen what happened to Lisa, and that hadn’t been a hallucination, no matter what the court-appointed psychiatrist had said.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. A minute had passed, or less or more, when he heard Lisa. At first it was just the little giggle she used to let loose when they were watching some comedy show together and she forgot she was almost a teenager. Then a whisper that seemed to echo off the interior of the truck. “I miss you, butt-head. I wish you hadn’t let me die.”
Antipsychotics. More than one doctor had told him he needed to be on them. This was not long after he made the mistake of telling the cops the truth about what had happened to Lisa and all the things that had led up to that. Rebecca had tried to convince him not to talk. “Nothing good will come of it, Dev. They can’t help, but if we work together, we can get her back.”
Rebecca had always been so goddamn optimistic.
But the voice. That made him wish he’d gone the antipsychotic route. She talked to him when he was alone, in the dark, hopeless. When he was lost. But he could make the voice go away easily enough.
He slammed his head against the steering wheel. Once, thunk. Twice, thunk. Thrice, beep.
All better.
The head injury that had never truly healed shot ice picks through his brain, but her voice went away. The dark tunnels and stars flitting about the periphery of his vision were just a pleasant side-effect. He stretched his neck, hard to the right, hard to the left. He leaned back and took a few deep breaths, then achingly stepped out of the truck, slowly falling towards the front door of the house.
The door was ajar and through the opening he saw his living room, torn apart.
“Damn it.” He didn’t think clearly when the headache was raging, but he also couldn’t think clearly enough to realize that. “This might as well happen.”
Devin stumbled into the house, flipped on the light to the living room.
The first thing he noticed was the destruction and chaos. Shattered furniture, holes in walls—not the ransack of a search, but destruction for destruction’s sake.
The second, and more urgent, thing Devin noticed was a muscular man in black sweats seated in Devin’s favorite recliner, the one his dad used to sit in while reading stories to him and Lisa. The crisp, flat brim of the man’s Washington Redskins cap shaded deep brown eyes that had seen a lot of violence. And the man wasn’t alone. Two other men dressed similarly, with muscular frames, black sweatpants, and rolled up ski masks, accompanied the seated man.
“Hola, Cole.”
“Hey, Eddie. Who are your buddies?”
One beefy man stood behind Eddie. He tapped the palm of a huge hand with the baseball bat he held in the other. The other man stood near the front door. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and grinned. He didn’t appear to be armed. Devin expected the fists hiding in those pockets were weapons enough.
“Aw, just a couple of old friends. You might remember them from a few months ago. You see, Mister Nickels heard some…” Eddie twisted in the chair and looked at the man behind him. “Eh, Lucas, what was the word Mister Nickels used?”
The big man, Lucas, frowned. “Disheartening, Eddie.”
Eddie turned back to Devin. “Some disheartening news. I like Lucas. He remembers the details. I even gave him my bat. You remember that bat, ese?”
Devin remembered that bat, but pretended it didn’t bother him. “What news was that?” But he knew. He saw the piece of mail in Eddie’s hands. The latest bill from Hendricks Investigations.
“You knew the cops wouldn’t help. You knew you were supposed to back the fuck off.”
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Look Eddie, none of this is tying back to Sammy. I’m just trying to–”
“Trying to what, ese? Bring the little bitch back to life?” Eddie stood. As though rehearsed, he and his thugs stepped towards Devin. “You fucking loco? She’s dead, and you're causing trouble for my boss with your fucking snooping around.”
Devin didn’t really hear any words after “little bitch.” He put up his fists and shifted his stance the way Armani had taught him. “Get the fuck out of my house, Eddie.”
The rest happened fast.
Lucas stepped forward, swinging the baseball bat low to take out a knee. Devin half-stepped into a front kick to push Lucas off guard, accidentally catching the bat with the sole of his work boot. The bat spun out of Lucas’ hand, but the big man continued forward, crowding Devin back toward the door. Devin glanced over his shoulder, hoping to catch whatever threat was coming from the other thug. He caught it. Right in the jaw.
Devin collapsed.
The beating was quick, but thorough. Devin moved in and out of consciousness. Lisa occasionally chatted at him. “Cover your head, big brother. Don’t want to join me too soon!” “Oh, that hurt.” “That kick made you fart!” Her already infantile sense of humor had turned dark after Dad died. He supposed it hadn’t lightened up since her own death.
Lisa’s words blended together with dialogue between Eddie and his thugs. “Just kill him?” “No. Boss wants him beat up bad, but alive.” “Why the fuck?” “You wanna ask him yourself?” “Fuck no.”
He noticed that Eddie’s shoes were pretty worn out, probably from kicking people so much.
He caught a glance of a cat food bowl hiding way back under the couch. How long had that been there?
The way the bat felt when it hit his triceps was almost bouncy.
At some point, the creation of fresh pain stopped. He was curled up on the floor. The combination of adrenaline, concussion, and each fresh taste of blood left Devin in an abyssal euphoric state in which he could barely feel the damage. Lights, fireflies, angels, and patronuses floated around him. An analytical part of his brain took a tally, keeping him from focusing on the details of the agony. Broken ribs… check. Fresh concussion… check. Is that a broken wrist? No, probably just sprained. Ouch! Maybe broken. Damn.
“If we have to come back again, it’s gonna be a lot worse.” Eddie’s voice floated down from on high like words from some sick asshole’s version of heaven. Devin’s concussed brain told him to chuckle at the thought. His split lips told him not to. “If we hear you talking to investigators, other cops, the feds, fucking Miss Cleo, then we’re gonna hurt you. You dig?”
Devin’s words clawed their way past cracked ribs and goose-stepped over his bloody lips. “I dig.”
When Devin woke up again some time later, Eddie and his thugs were gone. He sat up, cradling his left wrist against his burning ribs. Every breath was an inferno. Every movement a crucifixion. Call 911? He chuckled to himself with midnight humor. Why? For the cops on Sammy’s payroll? For the ambulance to the emergency room that would bankrupt him? He looked around his house, vision spinning.
Destroyed.
Hopeless.
Devin stumbled outside into the sultry night. He looked around at the houses, the porch lights purposefully turned off, the for-sale signs, the plywood over windows, the discarded cars. He looked at his old Chevy, the windows smashed, all four tires slashed.
“The beating wasn’t enough, Eddie?” he sighed through swollen lips.
A gust of wind siphoned through the cab of the truck, pulling the pink crumpled slip of paper up into the air. It fell at Devin’s feet and he stared at it for a minute, or less or more.
What was left for him to do?
“I need a drink.” He wandered out into the night, no idea where he was going, but also, somehow, knowing the way to get there.
–CONTINUE READING Chapter 3–Bygone Days
Copyright 2024 Abram Dress