On the Hit List by Timothy Dalton
Heading to the bathroom, I brush my fangs, and then apply a liberal amount of gel to my hair. Now I am almost ready to head out the door. I snag my phone on the way out, and, in a moment of still-present frustration, set an alarm on Chester’s phone* to wake him up (but not before hiding it in a rather smelly sock under a large pile of his dirty laundry).
A thoughtful man holds the door for me* as I enter the police station. (This gesture causes me to remind myself that I, too, should do more random acts of kindness.)
Mole McSprouty Hairs is on duty again. Perfect. She’s still in that same pissy mood and treats everyone in the room with little regard.* (This moment makes me forget the mental reminder I just made.)
Finally it’s my turn in line and I’m up close and personal with Nelson.* (This is the name I came up with for the desk sergeant’s mole; I’m not very creative sometimes.)
“I’m here to make a statement with Detective Kline, please.”
“Alright, he should be at his desk. Go for it.”
“Thanks, Nelson.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean –” I look at her name tag. “Officer Stein.”
She gives me a wary look but goes right back to the line behind me.
I’m knocking on the closed door of Detective Kline’s office, but no one answers. Forgetting my manners and my location, I try to open the door. It’s locked and I look really dumb for trying.
I catch another detective as he walks by. “Excuse me, but is Detective Kline in today?”
He takes his eyes off the documents in his hands to look at me. “Nope. He’s on vacation.” And he begins to turn away.
“Wait. I really need to see him. Yesterday he told me to come in this morning and give a statement.”
“Yeah, well, Kline is kind of an oddball. Maybe he just forgot to tell you he’s on vacation this week when you were on the phone.”
“I didn’t say I talked to him on the phone. And what do you mean this week? He was working yesterday.” I can feel the impatience coming out in my words and I have to apologize for my tone instantly. “Listen, I’m sorry, but he shot and killed my boss yesterday and I gave him the drugs that –”
“Whoa, hold on. He shot your boss?” The detective’s brow furrows.
“Yeah, and he told me to come in and give my statement today.”
“I’m processing someone right now, but give me a moment and I’ll be right with you.”
A ‘moment’ turns into an hour and forty-five minutes, and in my book that is a long-ass moment. Finally, he comes back and I recount the events of yesterday. The detective I met in the hallway earlier turns out to have a name. Richard. Detective Richard Reed.* (Kinda like a reverse Mr. Fantastic for any comic book readers out there.)
Along with Reed, an attractive female detective is in the room with us. I barely register her name, but she looks really good in her slacks and top. A little luck is being tossed my way after all. But it’s squashed pretty quickly when I feel the sexual tension in the air between her and Detective Reed. They have to be dating; it’s pretty obvious.
I check the time; not because I have somewhere to be – because I don’t. With Nesbo dead, I am newly unemployed and I already know this is going to look terrible on my résumé. I just want to know how long this conversation has been going on – which, by the way things are starting to seem, feels more like an interrogation than giving a formal statement.
“Look,” I say, “How many times do I have to repeat this: I don’t know what he did with the drugs. I just gave them to him and he told me to return today.”
Reed still looks skeptical. “And that didn’t seem fishy to you?”
“How should I know? I’ve never had my employer shot.”
Just then another officer walks in and whispers something in Reed’s ear, then gives me a quick stare before leaving.
“Yeah, about that,” Reed says. “Turns out Sam Nesbo’s body didn’t show up at any of the city’s morgues last night.”
“I don’t know what to tell you then.” I get this really bad feeling just then, in the bottom reaches of my colon, that Detective Kline is dirty. He buried Nesbo in some cornfield and took off with the drugs.
We all sit silently for a span of immeasurable time.
“Okay, I’m gonna throw something out there,” I say. “Could it be possible that Kline is crooked? And what would he do with all that cocaine?”
“Probably sell it,” Hotty McHotty Detective says.
“So you guys had a real life Heisenberg* working for you?” (That’s a Breaking Bad reference, for those who haven’t watched it. I think it’s a must on anyone’s list. Great acting, interesting plot, and superb dialogue most of the time. And not to sound racist, but for nearly five years it seemed that show was all white people talked about.) “Better call Saul,”* I say aloud. (I kinda wish I was able to make that call, because I need a rock-solid shady defense lawyer at this point.)
“I’d cut the jokes, kid. We’re taking this very seriously,” Reed says, popping his knuckles as he speaks. Not to intimidate, mind you; more of a nervous habit, it seems.
“So can I be on my way then? I’ve told you everything.”
“Except the exact location of this Tony guy.”
The last thing I want is to get into this mess further. But for fear of obstructing justice – a charge I’ve seen brought up many times on Law & Order SVU – I give them the address and hope that by doing this I have permanently washed my hands of the whole ordeal.
Another hour goes by (plus or minus seven minutes), and I finish giving my verbal statement. During this time Kline’s house is searched (with a warrant, I assume), and he appears to be in the wind for now. I’m walking out of the police department, contemplating whether to take up smoking, when my cell phone rings. An unidentifiable number pops up on the display. Should I? Yep. Why not? Just in case I might find out I own an island in the Caymans.
“Hello?”* (Keeping the professional thing alive when answering unknown numbers is a habit hard to break.)
“This is Reed.”
For a silly instant I think Reed might be the first name of someone I know from class, rather than a last name, but then I recognize the voice. “Yes, Detective?” I thought I was done talking with this guy for the day.
“You might want to take care of yourself.”
I think he’s still speaking, but I cut him off. “Are you threatening me now?”
“Let me finish. The unit we dispatched to Tony’s house discovered that the place has been abandoned.”
My phone drops to the pavement, the screen shatters into spider webs, and I wonder if the insurance I carry on my cell plan covers the damages.
“Are you serious? Did you check the right house?”* (You didn’t really think I dropped my cell phone, did you? Wow, you are gullible! However, at this moment I am pretty scared, and my hand is probably crushing the iPhone’s inner circuitry. I’m not sure if that sort of damage is covered, though.)
“Unless you gave us the wrong address,” Reed fires back.
I know I gave them the right address. I have it memorized, and I wasn’t mistaken when I wrote it down for them earlier.
Now, I know Tony doesn’t know where I live, and I’m positive Nesbo wouldn’t have given him my address, but still – this is the mafia. It’s only a matter of time before Tony finds me.
Why would he be after me, you might be thinking? There are two reasons, but only one that I know about at this moment.* (I find out the other in two days, but I’ll get to that later.) The bag of drugs I handed over to Kline … well, those are his. And he’s going to want them back. Nesbo being dead is not good for me. If he can’t find Nesbo, he’s going to want to find him. Right about now, the last person that he knows had the drugs was me … and he might be thinking I know where Sam is. What I also know is that I don’t really know where Nesbo might be buried. And as of right now, the rest of the local police department and I absolutely d
“I think I might need protection. Tony may try to come after me.”
“That can’t be proved, though. Just sit tight and call if anything happens.”
Oh my God. I really hate my life right now. I have a momentary thought that Chester was right all along, and I should never have gone to the cops. So much for ‘To Serve and Protect’; more like: ‘To Serve and Protect Their Interests’. And right now, I’m not one of their interests.
Reed’s card is in my wallet, and I can’t help but think how the last detective I’d called worked out so swimmingly. But still I answer with, “Sure thing.”
I have an urgent stop to make at Smoothie Fusion. It’s days like this when the only thing that makes everything just a little brighter is a freckled lemonade. I will admit, it is my one guilty pleasure. Nobody else knows about it, and I aim to keep it that way. A freckled lemonade smoothie is a mash-up of pink lemonade, frozen yogurt, and fresh blueberries. This combination is magical. And this is exactly what I need at the moment. Not a beer, whiskey, or strong spirits. Not even a Steven Seagal movie will suffice.
I climb over the passenger seat, get myself situated, and insert the straw. That first pull initiates an instant calm throughout my body. Even my car seems possessed with positive emotion and comes to life on the first crank. I feel like a million bucks theoretically, since in literal terms I’m more than a million in debt because of that whole house-in-my-name situation. I shift my car into drive and the airbag deploys, showering me in the colorful delicious manna from heaven.
I’m in shock by what just transpired and feel absolutely defeated. On the plus side, I think I’m getting an ulcer.
18 When the Mafia Comes Knocking
When I open the door to our dorm, Chester looks like he’s taken a giant dump in his pants.
“Bro, we are in trouble, man. Some dude came asking for you.”
I’m hoping it was just a friendly guy from campus letting me know I was able to get into a Poly Science study group, but from the looks of Chester it seems doubtful.
“Well, what did he say?” I ask.
“He said he wanted Tony’s money or next time something was gonna get broken. Shit man, shit! I’m sorry I spent the money.”
I’m sure he didn’t leave a calling card, but I ask anyway. “How am I supposed to pay him back?”
“That fucker said he’d be back tomorrow.”
“It’s fine. Where’s Taylor?”
“He ain’t back yet. Should be any minute. Jesus, what are we gonna do? I don’t wanna die young. I still haven’t seen The Avengers 2 yet.”
Really? That’s what is on his list of ‘to dos’ before he dies? “Look, it isn’t that much cash. I can empty my savings account, and maybe Taylor can spot me the rest. Or at least get me close. If anything, we might need to sell some stuff.”
I’m reaching under my bed to pull out my shoebox filled with money when I hear the door open and shut. As nervous as I am, I jump and nearly give myself a cerebral hematoma when I crack my head against the side of the bed.
“Dudes, I’m starving. Should we order in some Yang Chow or head out to the Ale House?” Taylor says, ripping off his tie and shrugging out of a blazer.
“How much cash do you have on you?” Chester aims his question at Taylor.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll cover you tonight. As always.”
“It’s not that, kid,” Chester says. “Some guy came around today looking for Tony’s money.”
“Seriously?”
Chester bobs his head up and down.
Taylor looks at me. “How much more do we need? Wait – what is that on your shirt?”
I’m confused for a moment and look down to see the evidence of precious freckled lemonade on my Motivational Zombie t-shirt. “Oh, some guy ran into me and spilled his faggy drink on me.” I change the subject back to the matter at hand as I count the missing cash. “And … I need another nine hundred and seventy bucks. Hold on. I thought you only took eight hundred the other day?”
“Well I did, but today I ended up buying Madden 25 and I pre-ordered The Witcher 3 and The Crew.”
Sweet baby Jesus, kill me now. If my life isn’t already in shambles it is currently leaning toward a darker path than it already was. At this very moment, I strongly consider removing Chester from life if I make it through this catastrophe.* (Please don’t forget: I could be seconds away from death as I’m recounting this tale, or moments away from being rescued, or escaping my current quandary.)
After doing the final calculations, we’re only $233 shy, so some creative thinking occurs. Since we can’t get the cash back from the GameStop where Chester made his reservations, we have to settle on getting cash value for trade-ins, which is remarkably lower than the in-store credit we were offered.
Taylor is not pleased to have Call of Duty: Ghosts, Battlefield 4, and Injustice: Gods Among Us removed from his collection, but he vows to purchase them again. The other games, he’s not too concerned about.
I count the cash we got from the trade-ins, and disappointment washes over me so hard I feel a pressing need for a double dose of Cymbalta. Forty-two dollars for a dozen games … now that’s ridiculous. But selling them on eBay would have taken way too long.
“Guys, we are screwed. But we really only have one solution. We need almost two hundred more, and none of us wants to tell our parents that we need extra cash – or the reasons behind it.”
“Are we going to rob a bank?” Chester asks.
“No but we are going to rob some place.”
Chester starts laughing. “That’s funny. Wait – are you serio? I was joking, man.”
Taylor perks up. “Count me out, bro. I ain’t trying to get locked up for a B&E.”
Chester looks clueless, so Taylor obliges. “Breaking and entering.”
“I knew that. I’m not stupid, Swift,” Chester spits back, a defensive and offended tone in his voice.
Taylor and I look at each other, and then Taylor holds his hands out in supplication.
I’m still trying to figure out what Chester means by ‘Swift’ and as I jump through the mental hurdles it eventually comes to me – or at least I think I solved the enigma. He had directed his comeback at Taylor, so I think he was trying to go for a Taylor Swift joke. It’s probably the second worst joke I’ve heard all year. Chester claims first prize in that category too.
After the brain-teasing exercise, I put the full efforts of my cranium back on track. “It’s going to be fine, fellas. I know the perfect place. It’ll be a cakewalk.”
“I love cake,” Chester says, rubbing his tummy, more at an attempt to be comical than his genuine love for pastries and pie.
I ignore him for the moment and keep talking. “Also, the owner just happens to be dead so there should be no way to get caught.”
19 And Deeper It Goes …
Chester is using his muscle* with the crowbar to wedge open the delivery door. (By muscle, I mean his sizeable and girthy weight.)
None of the other businesses in the strip mall are open at this hour, but we still want to keep noise to a minimum. So using a power saw isn’t an option. I was a bit unsettled earlier when I noticed the strip of crime scene tape hanging across the front door.
We enter the building easily enough and flip on the lights for the back office but choose not to illuminate the front area. I pass by the meat slicer and go straight for the register, jimmying it open with the crowbar Chester had used earlier. The drawer pops under the pressure and shoots outward. I’m immediately taken aback at the lack of cash. It appears Detective Kline had taken other liberties after Sam’s death, which strikes me as strange. Having made off with 480 grand worth of drugs, why take the piddly amount of cash from the store? I guess he’s really just a greedy bastard. That leaves only one other place for cash that I know of: the pouch taped to the underside of the desk drawer in Sam’s office. The desk is probably locked too, so once again the trusty c
“Hey Chester, break open the desk.” I toss the crowbar at him.
Chester, knowing he’s going to miss the catch, shies away, and a loud clanging ruptures our eardrums as the crowbar crashes to the floor. Chester bends over, grabs it up, and goes to work on the desk.
A short time later it’s open, and a deeper depression sets in. The grey pouch that held the store’s petty cash is empty too. I’m more puzzled than I can imagine and now I need to take a piss. I have to clear my urinary tract and my mind. I leave the office, round the corner, and slip in Nesbo’s blood on the floor.
I land so hard on my back I almost go blind. Permanently.* (I’m not absolutely sure that can even happen, but I’m also not positive that it can’t.)
For a second I wonder why his blood is still there, then I remember Reed telling me that no one had picked up the body last night. Still, they could have at least checked out the crime scene, right? Slackers.
I cringe at the grossness of Sam’s blood on my clothes and the searing hot pain shooting from the center of my spine to the lower reaches of my rectum. I get to my feet and limp to the bathroom, the pressing need to wash the back of my shirt now greater than the need to empty my bladder.
Yanking the shirt over my head, I’m presented with an aroma very distinct and also very different from blood. Marinara sauce. And it has gone an insane amount of sour. It turns my nose the same way my urine does after eating asparagus. I know for a fact that my WF-R* High School wrestling shirt is forever ruined. (For the out-of-towners reading this: WF-R is the lazy way of saying Wake Forest-Rolesville – that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Which is exactly why we say ‘WF-R’ most of the time around here.)
What the hell? In that instant I put all the pieces – or most of them – together at once, and like solving the most elusively complex Rubik’s Cube in the world, I have done it. I found Waldo.