No Quarter - Part 6
January 10th, 2010
The trucks are right on time. Giant boxes hulk down the ramp, and Jamie jumps in to help the movers lift a leather couch wrapped in plastic. Carla holds the doors open for them.
“Where you want the table?” The head delivery guy goes by Snake Eyes, and he doesn’t have time for this.
“Um, anywhere.”
The bulk of the furniture ends up scattered aimlessly about the expanses of his open floorplan. All 4,500 square feet swallow his new furniture whole. Jamie isn’t prepared to fill this vast landscape with end tables and light fixtures. Maybe he should have called Bradley’s interior designer.
His five-by-seven-foot Lichtenstein print comes through the door, and the movers amble through his living room, predicting where it will go. The oversized print is the size of a Polaroid next to his granite fireplace. Jamie will figure out where to hang it later. Right now, he needs some picture wire and molly screws.
On his way to the car, Jamie tries to remember the last time he drove. Will he remember how? He recalls it was his first week here. Forgetting which cul-de-sac was his, he parked over at the North Quarter. In his defense, they all look exactly the same, in accordance with community standards.
A golf cart paces with him and the driver offers him a ride. He turns it down, then recognizes the driver as José, who remembers him vaguely.
He passes the double-tiered fountain that marks the center of Berkshire. It’s dedicated to someone else with a painfully WASPy name: Thurgood Berkshire, according to the plaque. Quarters glisten at the bottom, punctuating the mosaic pattern. Such small tiles. This must have taken forever. What do the people here have to wish for that would warrant a whole quarter? Do they even use change? He resists the urge to dive for them. That’s what they used to do at the fountain in Love Park. There’s probably ninety dollars-worth down there. He gets a closer look.
He’s suddenly submerged. A hot hand clenches the back of his neck. It’s how he’d imagine a gorilla’s hand would feel. Leathery skin from ages-old callouses scratch his freckles. A bony knee pins down the small of Jamie’s back.
He’s out of the water, then back, face first. His teeth slam into the mosaic, disturbing the quarters. A few float up and make their way into his mouth. His tongue swells and forces the coins against the back of his throat. They inch down his esophagus sideways as the hand jostles Jamie’s head.
The hand rips him out of the water again, but before he can catch a breath, his face plummets back to the bottom, splitting the skin on his brow bone. Red clouds the water, and he becomes acutely aware of the fact that his assailant is trying to knock him unconscious. Water sucks up into his nose, and his nasal passages ache. Jamie’s hands scrape on the concrete ledge, down to the small tiles. He pushes up with all his might.
“What are you doing?” He turns his head just enough to recognize the face of the person just before he plunges his head once more. “Javier! It’s Jamie!”
The assailant stops a moment. Jamie manages to get out a few panicked words. “It’s Jamie. From the Don Quixote!” Back down to the bottom. “We played pool. You were terrible!”
Slightly less pressure now. The knee is off his back. “Cinco de Mayo! Tequila! ¿Tu recuerdes?
Javier remembers, but doesn’t let go. He maintains the grip, and Jamie’s face hovers a few inches above the water. “Why are you doing this?” He speaks loudly and clearly as possible.
“I have to.”
“Who’s making you do this? ¿Quien?”
“Miss Isabella.” ”How much is she paying you.” Jamie’s nose taps the surface, brushing the smooth skin of the water tension.
“$1,000.” ”I’ll pay you $2,000 to stop.” He considers the offer. “Javier. Is she watching us right now?”
“No.”
***
Jamie and Javier ride in José’s golf cart. Jamie holds a rolled-up undershirt to his eyebrow to stop the bleeding. There’s a dull thumping from the cut that pulsates to his temples. The cart rattles over a cobblestone path. Both men stare straight ahead.
“You’re a bad hit man.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“If you were going to drown me, you should have just held my head under the water the whole time.” ”I know. Next time.” ”So what’s going to happen to you now that I’m not dead?”
Javier shrugs and shrinks down. He cranes his neck to the side, looking out the window at nothing. “What will to happen to you?” ”You tell me.” The pause is a little too long.
“No sé.”
“Tell me, Javier.” He shows him the list of names and contact information from the group members. “What do you know about these people?”
***
In the windowless attic of the Don Quixote, the metal door stays locked with the aid of a ragged two-by-four. The drop ceiling hangs low, its rancid tiles soaked in yellow, smelling of mildew. Something on the wall looks like smeared blood. Smoke fills what little breathing room remains, and Jamie huddles around a slab of splintered plywood that serves as a table. He looks around the room a dozen faces of the disenfranchised and possibly drunk. Their Spanish is so rapid and low, Jamie misses most of it. The gash next to his eye has begun to glob into a sticky closure.
Jamie slides his milk crate closer to the knee-high table. He wants to get a good look at the staff. Their bruises and scars are darkened with age, and their gnarled hands limply hold beer cans and cigarettes. These are the employees of his former friends of the club. Manny does landscaping for Kristen and Bethany. Alvin has been building the stone surround of Clinton’s hot tub for weeks. Chloe, Sophie’s friend, is Caroline and William’s personal assistant. Javier and José quickly informed them all of what was happening. They all obliged to meet once Jamie said he’d buy a few cases of Budweiser.
“So, who here hasn’t been paid to try to kill me?” The room is silent, save the cracking of a few beer cans.
“Maybe I’ll say it like this. If your boss asked you to kill me on a certain day, please raise your hand.”
Jamie takes a head count. Eight. He just hopes the first person to try gets it done faster than Javier.
Jamie notes that Rosa, who works for Bradley, didn’t raise her hand.
There’s one person who can’t decide how to answer. “Chloe, what’s the matter?”
“William told me to, but Miss Caroline said no. She said God will take care of it soon enough.”
Maybe Jamie could take a few of Mr. Tully’s oxygen tanks and plant them in his walk-in closet. Claudia could go home early that day, as he’ll say he’s not feeling well. With one lit match, the whole place would go up. The fireworks display would light up the reflection of the infinity pool, and the members of the club would bask in the warm glow through the veranda. They’d see the chrome fixtures from his spa hurling through the air, resplendent with the rays of the setting sun. The marble on his floor would spurt up and crumble into snow and fall softly on the thousand, rolling acres. Caroline and William would grab each other’s elbows and Salsa to the syncopated beat of granite chunks tapping the earth, mingling with the imported stone around the pool. His Space Bed would surely take off into the stratosphere, unharmed, softly deflecting an orbiting satellite. They’d gasp in awe, regarding it as a shooting star.
“What you want from us, Jaime?” José uses the Spanish version of his name.
“I don’t know. Are you going to kill me?” ”Pff. No. I don’t kill.”
“Javier, did you hear that? He’s not going to kill me.”
“But I didn’t, right? I could have if I wanted to.”
Jamie scoffs. “OK, so what am I supposed to do now?” No one knows.
Rosa, by far the eldest of the group, speaks up. “This ain’t nothing. You know what they used to do in that group years ago?” Jamie doesn’t know. No one does. There’s something worse?
“They used to make us fight each other. Like dogs.” She shows the scars on her wrists and her neck. “They bet money on us. They thought it was funny.” This is news to everyone.
“I’m not sure if it’s my place to say, but why are you still here?”
“They give me a nice house.”
His stomach gurgles with carbonation and rage. “That’s the only reason you stay? Who’s idea was it?” He really doesn’t want her to tell him.
“Bradley’s.” ”Fucker.” José swears a streak in Spanish, then winces and massages his slipped disk.
“I just wish his heart would give out already.” Rosa mutters.
Jamie could number hundreds of other, more appropriate ends for Bradley besides his heart giving out. “What do you mean about his heart?” ”He has a heart problem. I don’t know what it is. He can’t drink or nothing. He used to fly his stupid plane all over the place. His doctor told him he can’t anymore. I wish he was the one who crashed.”
Except for everyone in the attic at this very moment, no one knows of Bradley’s heart condition but Dr. Osgood, who prescribes him the glyceryl trinitrate, and Rosa, who administers it daily.
“So what, you want me to kill him now?” Rosa has been thinking about this for a long time.
“I didn’t say that.” Jamie flashes back to the grape juice, the speeches, the healthy food, and the jogging.
“Because I’d do it. I’ve lived here long enough. I’d go back to Costa Rica. Jail would be OK.”
Jamie speaks calmly, his voice betraying his fear. “Actually, Rosa, I want you to do nothing at all.”
She nods. She knows what he means.
The staff awaits Jamie’s next instructions. “Who here knows how to crack a combination lock?” All ten hands go up.
***
They fidget with cuff links, twist cocktail rings, and reposition scarves. Michelle aimlessly taps the space bar. The group sits quietly in the round room. Two maroon, velvet seats are heavy and empty. Eyes dart around the room at 7:30 PM waiting for the headmaster to arrive and break the bad news about a fallen, former member of the group.
“I wonder if Jamie will be gracing us with his presence this evening.” Isabella smiles.
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Clinton grins, knowingly.
Drowning in a fountain. A self-inflicted gunshot wound to the sternum. A nasty spill into a trash compactor. They wring their hands like flies, waiting on bated breath to hear the dramatic conclusion to Jamie’s life story. It will be such a tragedy.
Michelle receives a phone call from Dr. Osgood. She makes the announcement to the group: Bradley’s heart burst.
“Metaphorically?”
“What’s the matter, did his koi fish leave him?”
An outrage. An absolute outrage. How could he make them wait like this? He’s dragging it out so he can make a theatrical entrance to announce the winner of the biggest jackpot in the history of Berkshire.
“I’ll conduct the proceedings this evening in his absence. Allow me to retrieve the documents. Michelle, please add that to the record. And note the time, so we can shame Bradley later for his egregious tardiness.” They laugh casually at Clinton’s best impression of Bradley. He approaches the door to the secret closet and looks puzzled.
“Does anyone know the combination?”
Michelle checks her records. Nothing. Michael spins the lock and tries a few possible number sequences. Nothing. Clinton flips over chairs and tears down a section of the wallpaper. Nothing.
***
A dozen bodies huddle quietly in Bradley’s 6-person private jet. Its interior is in disrepair from years of neglect. He’d wisely stored the keys in the secret room-a discovery they made last night as they cleaned out the safe. Javier easily cracked the lock.
Manny pulls up the yoke, navigating the aircraft skillfully through turbulence. He used to dust crops back home.
Carla, Angeline, and Sophie catch up with Marie and José. Berkshire will surely replace them by the end of the week. Rosa clutches a rosary. Christ have mercy, indeed.
It’s 7:35 PM. The group must know about Bradley by now. Jamie wonders if Isabella cried.
They fly under the radar and hit another rough patch. The smell from the cash wafts up as the bags shift by Jamie’s feet. He’ll distribute it evenly among the passengers when they get to Chicago. That should be enough to get them to wherever they decide to go from there.
Maybe he can get them all work in Aspen at his mother’s ski resort. Jamie could deal cards in Vegas. It doesn’t really matter right now. He just hopes they have enough fuel.
“So where are we now?” Jamie sits in the co-pilot’s seat. He takes a nip from his recovered bottle of scotch.
“We’re over Pittsburgh. Look at the rivers.”
Jamie considers the tiny, blue arteries below. He thinks about what it must have felt like when Bradley’s heart exploded. Did it burn? Did it happen in slow-motion, with strings of dark red muscle shooting through his ribs like shrapnel? Maybe it was it a faint stinging, perhaps mistaken for a hiccough, and then nothing.
***
The round room is ravaged, all its wallpaper ripped, its beams exposed. The frame of the secret door is splintered and shredded from clawing.
Seconds go by.
“Why don’t we call José. We can have him take the door off the hinges.”
“Isabella, really? You have to be joking. They can’t know about this room. We just have to be patient. Bradley will be here.” Bethany scolds.
The group sits back down, hands folded, starting at chunky watches. Nothing.
She whispers. “Animal.”
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