Breaker (11 page)

I'm up earlier than I can ever remember being up, hoping to avoid any crowds at the bank. Three cups of coffee, six scrambled eggs with onions, bacon, ham, sausage, peppers, and cheese, and I feel like a walrus as I waddle north up the street. They open at 9
A.M.
, and I want to be there at 9:01 if I can. Get it over and done with, and move on with my day.

No response from Stephanie, and it's starting to gnaw at me. I'll stop by there after the bank.

As I approach Bank of America, I see the large sign outside, switching back and forth from the temperature to the time—
32°, 9:00, 32°, 9:00, 32°, 9:01
—and I step up to the door, a loud click popping in my ears as the lock is undone, a woman behind the glass looking up at me, letting out a little yelp. Blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, a blue blazer and skirt, her eyes wide. I hold up the envelope.

“It's okay, I got this in the mail.”

She steps back, pulling the door open.

“Sorry, you startled me. Didn't see you there.”

“Kind of hard to miss,” I say.

“You betcha.” She smiles. “Come on in, I'm Sandy. Can I help you with that?”

Gray tile runs across the floor, a mahogany desk up front at an angle, several men in blue and gray suits walking around, eyes to me, a guard standing at the front door scowling in my direction, a guard over by the vault scowling in my direction, as Sandy leads me to her desk.

“I hope so.”

She sits down and I take the chair across from her, black leather that creaks under my weight.

“My mother, who passed away several years ago, she has a safe deposit box. I just got this in the mail.”

Sandy opens the letter, scans it quickly with her eyes, one finger running across the page, her lips moving as she reads.

“Do you have an ID, Mr. Nelson?”

“I do.”

I hand her my state ID, as I don't have a driver's license.

“Do you bank here, Mr. Nelson?”

“Ray. Call me Ray, please. ‘Mr. Nelson' makes me think of my father.”

“Okay, Ray.”

“No, I do not. Can I still see what's in the box?”

“Oh sure,” she says. “But if you want to keep it, then we'd have to open an account, and you know, you get a discount on the price if you bank with us, all of that,” she trails off.

“Thanks. For now, I just want to see what's in there.”

“No problem,” she says. “Let me take you to our viewing room, and I'll get the box for you.”

I follow her to the back of the bank, heads turning as we go.

“Right in here, Mr. Nelson, I mean, Ray,” she says, opening a heavy metal door and motioning me inside. It's all metal, the whole place, the drawers and walls, and it makes me uneasy. I feel like I'm in a steampunk aquarium, or onstage, under a microscope maybe.

“I'll be right in,” she says and steps toward an open vault to my right.

I take off my gloves and hat and set them on the table. She returns in a few moments with a long, slender metal box and sets it on the table. She turns the key and opens it, but doesn't lift the lid.

“I'll give you some privacy, Ray. If you need me, I'll be at my desk, just right over there,” she says, pointing out the open door over to her left.

I nod my head.

“Thanks, Sandy,” I say.

She steps out, closing the door behind her, and I flip up the lid.

Inside, mostly I see paper. I pull out the first sheet and it's an old birth certificate, and stapled to it is a death certificate. The name on it reads
James Allen Nelson,
and it's dated a few years before I was born. Before Stephanie was born. It seems I had an older brother. On the death certificate under cause of death it lists SIDS—sudden infant death syndrome. I sit back in the chair. He was only a few months old when he died.

I set it aside, and reach back into the box. More paper, but this time it's newspaper clippings, several of them stapled together. The dates go back over thirty years and have a variety of headlines. These are from the
Chicago Tribune,
the
Sun-Times,
and the
Chicago Reader.

“Daycare Owner Acquitted of All Charges.”

“SIDS to Blame for Multiple Losses on North Side.”

“Local Businesswoman Closes Daycare After Trial.”

These are all about my mother, her photo in each of the articles. My brother, James, is mentioned in the clippings. My mother talks about how sorry she is, that she isn't sure what happened, and that she's heartbroken.

I'd never heard about any of this, and Stephanie never mentioned it either.

I reach back into the box and find a few more clippings, more recent than my mother's articles, with a different set of headlines altogether.

“White Van Terrorizes Wicker Park.”

“Children Gone Missing Return Unharmed.”

“Local Man Arrested, Charged with Rape and Murder.”

“Charges Dropped—No Bodies Found, Testimony Recanted.”

My father's name is all over the articles. His white van, which he used to deliver newspapers part-time for extra money, had been seen in the area and confiscated after his arrest. Several girls and boys who disappeared suddenly showed up, with no memory of what had happened, no physical marks or damage found on them. My father was arrested, but with no bodies found, despite his depressed and frantic state, and with the children unable to identify him or remember anything that happened, he was let go. I look at the date on the final article.

Three days later, he was gone.

I haven't seen him since.

Penciled across the last article, in my mother's handwriting, is the following:

NEVER AGAIN
.

I am stunned. What the hell is wrong with my family, my bloodline?

I reach back inside the box to see if there's anything else, and my hand touches something cold and metallic, heavy in my grip. It's a gun, I can tell that much. I pull it out and hold it in my lap, out of sight. It's silver with a black grip, what I think is a Ruger—the name stenciled on the barrel. I tilt it and see there are bullets in the cylinder, looks like five, so I slip it into my coat pocket and sit back in the chair.

What the hell?

There is a rap at the door, on the hazy translucent window, and I can see Sandy's shadow standing there. She cracks the door open an inch and whispers into the room.

“You okay? Can I get you anything?”

“Maybe a large envelope? I have some paperwork here I'd like to take with me, birth certificates, newspaper clippings….”

She holds up her hand into the space to silence me, her head still behind the door.

“No need to tell me what's in the box, Mr. Nelson. Ray. That's all private. I'll get you an envelope.”

I hear Brad Pitt screaming, “What's in the box?”

Will this be my undoing, or was that already determined years ago, when I was created, and birthed into this stinking world? A scowl settles over my face, and Sandy returns, rapping on the door and opening it.

“Will this do?” she asks, sticking her arm into the room.

“Yes, perfect,” I say, standing up and taking it from her. I place the articles inside, with the birth certificate, and close it up.

“I'm good to go,” I say, pulling the door open all the way. “Nothing left in the box. You can close the account, please.”

“Excellent, Ray. Is there anything else I can do for you today? How about getting that account set up? We offer a wide range of services here at Bank of America. Checking accounts, savings accounts, we have CDs at very competitive rates….”

“Thank you, Sandy, but I think my long-term banking needs aren't really a high priority right now.”

I walk to the door, Sandy following me.

“I understand, Ray, but there's always—”

“
Listen,
Sandy…” I say, my voice louder than I meant. The employees turn to look at me, and here is that moment I was waiting for. But what's different? The guard at the front door still squints in my direction, one hand on the butt of his gun; that hasn't changed. The guard standing just outside the vault has his eyes on me as well. A woman writing a deposit slip, she looks up mid-sentence, probably going to screw up her addition doing that, column A not matching up with column B—that's to be expected. A father at the teller window pulls his daughter closer to him, frowning—a handful of checks to be deposited, the girl sticking her thumb in her mouth. What's different? The gun in my coat pocket, that's what's different, the weight settling in, pulling me down, my heart thudding behind it, and suddenly I'm sure that everyone knows who I am, what I am, and the danger I present.

Sandy's mouth is open, but nothing is coming out, her face starting to flush.

“I'm sorry,” I say, stepping toward her, as she takes a step back, her face contorting, tightening up, unsure. “Not all of the news in the safe deposit box was good news.”

I hold my hands out, open, palms up, showing her I'm not a risk here, not any danger to her, or her customers.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, forcing myself to smile.

“I apologize. Thank you for your time and for helping today, I really appreciate it.”

I extend my arm with my hand out, to shake hers, and her face softens, stepping into the handshake.

“You're welcome, Mr. Nelson.”

No longer Ray.

Outside, and the sound of the world finally returns, cars flying by, honking, radios playing, a slight drizzle in the air, and as I turn back toward the bank, all filled with light, Sandy is standing there with her arms crossed, watching me. The man is depositing his checks now, his daughter laughing, sucking on a lollipop the teller gave her, the guards sitting back down, getting drowsy perhaps. I touch my hand to my forehead, a casual salute in her direction, but she doesn't move—no smile, her face hard and cold again. Maybe she saw through all of the niceties, understands who she just did business with a few moments ago, a chill running up her spine. I have no designs on her—that is not how my violence works. In another life, another time, maybe we could have been friends, lovers even—but not in this one—no. She sees the train hurtling down the track, out of control, and she's glad that she just stepped off, one stop earlier—she won't be there when it jumps the rails. Maybe later tonight over a glass of red wine, alone in her apartment, she'll realize that she did business with a monster, and survived. Or maybe she won't give me a second thought, my image, my presence, slipping from her memory the moment she turns around.

Or maybe there will be newspaper clippings for her to read soon, pointing at the pictures, telling her friends that she knew this guy, she met him.

He touched me, and I shook his hand.

Whistling past the graveyard, is that how the saying goes?

I spend the rest of the day in the dark, sitting in my apartment, having pored over the newspaper clippings again and again and again. I am angry. I am confused. I let the day slip away because I am trembling with a rage that threatens to boil over, secrets and crimes, truth and lies, none of it making sense, all of it making sense. I will the day to be over, and when it has not ended fast enough, I crawl into bed, slip under the covers, and sleep for twelve hours. The fight is coming—looming, you could say, and I want to channel this frustration into what's next.

I hear Natalie knock, and I do not answer. I might as well be submerged underwater. I am buried, left for dead, and sadly, I wonder if my sister is out there in the world feeling the same things. Does she know? Is she numb? Is she as damaged as I am? Or worse.

No calls back from her, no text messages, the phone left on the coffee table, as I go comatose once again.

When I come to, I'm standing in a parking lot outside the warehouse, and it's fight night. Cars fill the space, pickup trucks and SUVs and a few Mercedes and Beamers tossed in for variety. Full house, packed to capacity. I shadow the overgrown hedges bordering the lot and get to the back door, voices and music seeping out from under the frame, out the tiny windows, people overflowing from the front of the warehouse, standing in a group just around the corner, smoking cigarettes and stomping their feet in the cold.

I slip inside unnoticed and the heat and smell pushes me back. In the ring are two women in bikinis going at it, fists and grunting, a ring of men in flannel shirts pushed up against the edge of the canvas, money in their hands, screaming. They both have their heads shaved, the women, nothing to grab hold of that way, one a Latina with light brown skin sporting a black tear tattooed at her left eye, the other a slick black girl with an ugly white scar running across her forehead. The men have fists full of dollar bills, cold beers downed one after another, smashed on the concrete beneath their feet.

Interesting group tonight—I can't see
this
getting out of hand.

The crowd gathers into pockets of friends, a mob of blue in the left-hand corner, the Gangster Disciples, bandanas and jeans hanging low, smoking cigarillos, weed, tall forties and plenty of tattooed skin, a mixture of black and Hispanic. Their women are thin with long hair and big breasts and they hang on the
cholos
and laugh into the night air, doe eyes darting back and forth. Back toward the dressing rooms, what might have once been the offices of the warehouse, are men in suits, mostly white, surrounded by hired help, massive men with thick necks, shaved heads, beards—you name it, all kinds of muscle in a variety of shades. They're the money, and somewhere in there is Mr. Frank, as Eddy calls him. I don't want to meet him, don't need that handshake—I'd rather slip into obscurity once this night plays out. Off to the north side of the room, eyeballing the blue, are the Latin Kings, with bursts of yellow, lots of gold chains and do-rags, black baseball hats, scowling and looking uneasy. Mixed between these groups is a variety of thrill seekers—hipsters from down in Wicker Park, frat boys looking to get loaded, and pale chicks with blue eye shadow in need of a fix.

There will be bloodshed tonight, and not just on the canvas.

I head to the dressing room, slipping past everyone like a ghost, to get ready for the fight.

It's crowded inside, and hot. I move to the far corner, to a locker with
RAY
on it, and start to get undressed. Eddy is on me in no time.

“Ray, Ray…whattaya say?” he laughs, patting me on the shoulder. “You're looking good, you feeling good? Ready for tonight? Gonna be a wild one—five men enter, one man leaves. Thunderdome!” he chuckles.

I turn to look at him.

“Right, you don't read your emails, listen to your messages. The fight, five of you, one from each group of investors, winner takes all. Disciples, Kings, rich kid, frat boy, and you—the favorite. You're going off at one-to-three, pretty rough odds. The gangbangers, they look nasty, both of them—going off at ten-to-one. Rich boy, he's easy-peasy, trying to look all tough, but I see him going out first—up to about thirty-to-one. Not enough money in the world for him, I think. Frat boy looks hammered, some kid from up north, burly dude, but no worries—he's at fifteen-to-one.”

I nod my head as Eddy talks, stripping down to black shorts and slowly wrapping my hands. The Disciple in blue has been eying me since I walked in, a mustache and goatee, his head shaved bald, skin as black as coal, in good shape, very little fat on him. The King is a lighter shade, sweat all over his body, a low buzz cut running around his skull, some pattern carved in the side. His yellow shorts are blinding, and he's a little thick, looks slow, but mean. Rich kid looks like Vanilla Ice on crack, skinny and tough, nice wavy hair, blond and thick, with blue eyes like a husky. Frat boy is yucking it up, doing shots, hairy and pale, short like a troll, stout like a linebacker.

“Do you know the weapons?” I ask.

Eddy looks at me, then down at the concrete.

“Yeah. Might get ugly in there.”

I nod.

“Frat boy has a baseball bat, so watch your head—that's some serious reach. You get knocked out, you're done, right? Richie Rich has a pair of brass knuckles, same deal. You can take the gut punches, even the ribs, but watch your noggin.”

I take a breath.
Shit.

“Disciple has a knife, long blade, no surprise there—that's the one you want to take out first if you can. King has a lead pipe. As long as the bat, but so much worse, much more painful, with the same long reach.”

I nod.

“What did you bring?” he asks, looking me over.

I open my hands and show him. And he laughs.

“Seriously?”

In each hand is a roll of quarters, taped up so they don't split open.

“Force equals mass times acceleration. These are my greatest weapons, my fists. Now tape up my hands, around the closed fist, so they can't slip out.”

He nods his head.

“If I can get the bat, the pipe, the knife out of their hands, they're done,” I say. “The only way they're getting these out of my hands is if I'm dead.”

Eddy nods, wrapping the tape around my wrists, my fists, until I stand there with two white anvils at the end of each arm.

“Ready?” Edson asks.

“For whatever comes down the pipe,” I say.