Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (46 page)
Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." Online
Authors: Bad-Boy Storyteller
Suddenly, he, like looking directly into a camera lens, turns to Joshua within the dream and says something. It’s something Joshua knows to be of great importance; however, he cannot understand the boy’s utterances.
Then the imagery shifts—days turn to months and years. Joshua speed-dreams, seeing little Frankie attending school, where he makes many friends, particularly with the girls in his class, and is adapting well to his new environment by getting good grades, becoming a valued member of the Clemsen family, as well as proving himself a role model for Billy and Bobby-Sue.
And now at the age of twelve or so, his voice begins to change—a voice that’s full of energy and optimism. And no one would ever believe he had a speaking problem before. Nowadays the only trouble is that no one can shut him up. He speaks out about everything from politics to social issues to Jesus. He tells of his aspirations and love for life, counsels his siblings, and quotes scripture. Some think he’ll be a great preacher someday. And little Frankie believes this as well. He also believes he will see the woman in his mind someday.
Joshua stirs to the sounds of Kimberly rummaging loudly through her purse. He sits up, rubbing his face.
“Who’s little Frankie?”
“What?”
“The name you keep saying in your sleep, little Frankie—who is he?”
Joshua doesn’t answer. He gets up; his stomach feels sick—needing more of the smoke from the tinfoil. He has some and shares it with Kimberly. Tranquility once again surrounds him. He lies back with his eyes closed and, in a malleable voice, says, “Maybe I’ll tell you about him someday…But for now, I just want to go home.”
She thinks about it for a second, then replies with a concession. “Sure…We can leave now if you want, but on one condition…When we get home, we need to clean up some and quit drinking all the time.” She slaps him on the shoulder.
Joshua just nods and lies back, enjoying the heroin now coursing through his body, when she adds, “I’ll call and make the arrangements at the airport…You need to get ready to play your part.” There’s no response. “Are you listening to me? Joshua, are you listening to me?”
“Yes. What? Yeah, you said I need to play my part…my part in what?”
“What we talked about…or don’t you remember? Our plan to make a scene at the airport on our way out…Remember, we want everyone to know we were here getting high, and then we are going to cause a disruption in the terminal?”
Two and a half hours later, at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, the young, high, drunk, missed, and apparently distraught couple makes a spectacle of cursing and belligerence—a performance played well enough to make headlines throughout the world.
There’s something about the “trouble in paradise story” everyone gravitates to.
.
A
t the Seattle Police Department, the next morning, Detective Michelle Robertson puts down her morning paper, complete with aligned photographs of what the editor refers to as the “Siconolfi-Amsterdam-Connection.” Rumors are they were caught trying to board the plane carrying a large amount of illegal drugs. But it is all of little concern to her now, as she stares at her cell phone resting on her desk. What should I do? Should I warn him? God, why is he such an asshole?
Grudgingly she pushes send, somewhat hoping he won’t answer. Four rings, five, six—
“Hello.”
She can clearly hear a hung-over and beaten voice on the other end—wherever that may be. “Did you know that your name came up in today’s morning briefing?”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, and I’m to pick you up on assault charges if I see you. What did you do?”
“I…I was working out some problems.”
“And how’s that working out for you? I’ll tell you how it’s working out,” she yells over the line. “It’s gotten you some felony charges—that’s how!” Then she hears a distinct noise. “Are you…did you…just snort something?” He doesn’t answer. “Brad, are you doing drugs? Tell me.”
“Did I ever tell you I really miss you?” Now it’s Michelle that doesn’t answer, only sighs on the other end. “Well, I do…I miss you a lot, Michelle…and…And I want my life back.” She can hear the desperation in his voice. “Can you help me?” he begs.
She breathes hard into the phone, rendering her frustration. There’s a moment of silence. They can feel each other over the airwaves. “I’ll talk to Captain and see if we can take down the guy you beat half to death. He went to the hospital you know. He had broken teeth, a broken nose, and needed many stitches for his eye socket.”
“He was a street punk!”
“Oh, you’re so tough, aren’t you?” Cools says nothing. “And you’re right; he is a street punk. His name is Ramon Jaurez, and he’s a gang member. And if you can promise me…promise me, Brad, that you’re going to stop this rampage of yours, I…I will think about picking him up and have him drop his charges against you for me dropping whatever charges I get on him.”
“I love you, Michelle…I fucking love your sweet ass.”
“Don’t give me your bullshit, Brad! Promise me this bullshit is going to stop.”
There’s a pause as he considers the commitment. Then he replies, “I promise.”
“Okay…good. Also answer me this: have you been following the Siconolfis?” Again he doesn’t answer. “Brad, have you? Because I’m sure you’ve heard they returned last night from Europe.”
Click.
.
A
couple of days whirl by in deep slumber as they come off the heroin and alcohol. Joshua wakes in the late afternoon but doesn’t get out of bed. Instead he watches Kimberly sleep for a few quiet minutes. He likes that her hair is starting to grow back nicely. And he loves her immensely. Still there’s the nagging thought that she’s a liability. I want to trust her, but can I? Can I trust her to never say a word about what we’ve done and do what we need to do?
She begins to wake. He just stares at her, grinning, and says, “I want to tell you something. I want to tell you who little Frankie is.”
“Is that the name you were saying in your sleep?” she asks curiously.
He then tells her everything—sharing also that he believes the good nature of the boy somehow balances his inner wickedness.
“That is beautiful, Joshua. But I love your inner wickedness. And why didn’t you ever tell me about this before?”
“I don’t know. I thought you’d think it was silly.”
She holds him lovingly. “I don’t think it’s silly at all. And actually I just realized something about you.” She searches his eyes. “And that is what a wonderful father you would make.” His reaction is unresponsive. Kimberly presses forward, revealing her desires. “You know I said I wanted to open a French restaurant, but what I really want is a little Frankie…a little Joshua. And I would be a good mommy, and the world would love our child. We could get off the drugs and start acting normal.”
Then Joshua adds to her excitement, saying, “Yeah, I can see it now: little Joshes and Kimmys running around here playing. We could guide them and teach them.”
“So do you think it’s a good idea then?” she asks anxiously.
“Yes, it’s a great idea! It’s such a great idea in fact, I’m going to call some reporters right now and tell them the news!”
“I love you so much,” she shouts, jumping out of bed and dancing about the room.
They make love. And later they’re spotted shopping about the malls. Kimberly is absolutely beaming, like a woman who has all of life’s problems solved. And she loves being seen publicly, totally in love, spending the day with her husband shopping for new maternity clothes. Before they left, they’d decided not to call and report their impulsive decision to have a baby; rather, they will let the media figure it out on their own.
Joshua plays his part flawlessly, given that he’s not nearly as excited about the plan as he pretends to be. There’s a voice of wisdom that speaks to him, whispering what he must do.
.
T
he next and final evening, reporters and the paparazzi leap from there vans as Joshua unexpectedly comes into view at his front door. He stands still, casually waiting for them to assemble around him; then he feeds them a prepared speech. “Antisocial!” He lets the word dangle in the breeze. “Antisocial is a conspiracy slogan from the psychological-propaganda machine, intended to make us all drones!”
“Are you and Kimberly having a baby?”
“Was this all a scam?”
“We want to talk to Kimberly!”
Ignoring their questions he steps back through the doorway, silencing the crowd by shutting the door. Then a few minutes later, the red Lotus revs its engine, squeals out of the garage, and speeds away. Alone Joshua does some late-night shopping from one store to the next until once again he sees the black Mustang. Earlier this morning he had a loyal fan that works at the DMV run a check. And sure enough, one Bradley Cools owns the same car.
He drives around until after one in the morning, when he pulls out onto an abandoned dock. It’s dark and cloudy, with only a faint glow of moonlight shimmering on the waters. He exits the car and walks to the edge of the pier—passing a little, red light—and leans over the rickety railing, listening to the peaceful sounds of the waves splashing the pier. And there he waits.
.
C
ocaine travels at one hundred seventy miles per hour through a straw and into the nostril of ex-detective Cools, who then bellows, “It’s time to get it on!”
He eases the slide back, chambering a round in his 9 mm Berretta, and slips out of his car. The weight of the loaded gun feels powerful in his hand. These are the little pieces of metal that will put an end to Joshua once and for all. Cautiously he moves up behind the Lotus; it’s empty. And now he knows where Joshua stands, as he has followed him here before. Gradually and warily he steps alongside the broken-down warehouse—the only thing blocking his view of his target.
It begins to rain, as memories of the past few months serve as a backdrop to his thoughts: top cop…Kimberly isn’t real…she deserved it…live on forever, of no evil…sometimes these things go off, punk…Sherry Hill…Amberly … car club…Vitalisep…stealing the kilo of cocaine…now I’ve got your DNA… William Siconolfi…Joshua, will you forgive me for my sins…guilty…crooked cop…has-been…lawsuit…liar…addict!
He shakes away the burning sickness in his mind to concentrate on the task at hand, edging nearer. He peeks around a building, and he can see Joshua’s unsuspecting outline. This is all too easy, he thinks to himself, creeping slowly up the dark pier. Closer and closer he makes his way until he can distinguish almost every approach around him. There is not a person for at least a mile in all directions, and he has an easy shot. He sniffs some more of the cocaine and raises his weapon. It’s time to settle our score. You took my life; now I’m taking yours! He levels an expert aim, inhaling deeply, exhaling evenly, skillfully locking in his target.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bullets rip into the night, all hitting their mark with precision. He drops to his knees, reaching for his chest, gasping for oxygen. Blood covers his hands among the smells of burned flesh and gunpowder. Confusion engulfs him as his life fades. And his eyes are fixed on a silhouette that turns; the moonlight illuminates the smile on his face, standing next to a little red light. Suddenly Kimberly emerges from the darkness, wielding a smoking gun. In midstride she shoots again.
Bang! This one blasts Cools’s kneecap into a bloody mess. He squirms in agony. “You bitch! You fucking bitch!” he screams, using the last of his conscious breaths. Then with all his might, he attempts to lift his gun and pull the trigger, but only succeeds in squeezing off one round. A stray bullet ricochets off the abandoned building two hundred yards away.
Kimberly doesn’t flinch, only approaches faster. Joshua bursts out into evil, dominating laughter, glorifying his victory, the winning of the game.
Bang! This one rips into Cools’s stomach just as Kimberly reaches him. He tries to curse her more, but only blood comes out of his mouth. His open eyes ice over.
Joshua looks up and starts howling into the night, “I know you can still hear me, you fucking loser. I want you to wait for me…Wait for me in hell…Because when I get there, we are going to play again. We are going to play forever!”
Then he notices Kimberly standing over the lifeless body. She’s in shock. He grabs her. “Okay, let’s get out of here! Kimmy, we have to go. It’s over, so let’s go. Let’s get out of here—now!”
In an instant they flee the scene, leaving Cools to the darkness. Everything returns to silence. With his last glimpse of reflection, he sees her; with his final escape of air, he utters her name…Chelsea.
.
T
he night rain falls hard, washing away most everything, except for Joshua’s adrenaline. His mind races as he drives toward home, clutching falsified receipts in his hand. They’re the key pieces of paper that will secure his alibi—placing him in a quiet lounge on the far side of the city at the time of Cools’s death. Every angle is covered.
The garage door rolls open; the driveway is lit. The speeding Lotus expertly navigates through the news vans and screeches to a stop. Immediately the garage door descends, denying any opportunity for a question or even a picture with its closing.
Once inside he waits for Kimberly, contemplating his next moves. She sneaks in the backdoor thirty minutes later, all soaking wet. He can see that she’s still worked up from the night’s games, though too excited for words. So gently he helps her out of her clothes and guides her into the shower. Anxiety mounts since there is still some unfinished business to attend to. And each of them remains fused to the plan. While she scrubs away any gunpowder residue, he strips naked, starts a fire in the fireplace, and begins burning their clothing. Once again his mind races with evaluation. The little red light from my camcorder caught it all on tape—Kimberly shooting Cools in the back. It again will exonerate me of any wrongdoing. She did it! No loose ends!
