Soulpuncher

Look, you know, not many people get run over by a train first thing Monday morning and aren’t put in a sour mood over it. Oh, I’d be ripshit pissed over it on a normal day, but it gave me enough time to jog my memory and clear my head, which wasn’t bad considering my jacket got caught in the tracks and when the train came, I screamed every remaining bit of my dignity out while I laid on the ground watching it zip overhead. The yard attendant was hollering over the roar of the engine and cut a damned hole right through my new trench coat and called me all sorts of unsavory things just because I was walking along the tracks to get my thinking on.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The chaotic chugging and clanking of the massive engine drowned out his voice. 

“Eh?” I rubbed my head and shrugged. “Didn’t know a man couldn’t think in peace ’round here no more.”

“You coulda been killed, you asshole!” 

“Didn’t have to clip my coat, you prick.” I dusted myself off and inspected the damage. I’d live. “This was a present from my uncle, you know.”

“Was he as much of a dumbass as you are, then?” The worker pulled me towards the fence, borderline dragging me while I stumbled around like my feet were encased in lead. A pack of cigs tumbled from my shirt pocket and I fell over grasping for them, almost bringing him down with me.

“Hold on ya baby gorilla,” I said.

This guy wasn’t even that big, just a normal, everyday brute, nowhere near the ones I used to know. Still, he grunted while I picked up my smokes and tucked them into my jacket pocket while Brady laughed from somewhere I couldn’t see. My train savior/ejector grabbed me by the nape of my jacket like I was a puppy and he was the big mama in charge, attempting to drag my formerly ripped, now flabby frame along while my limbs moved like a marionette. I tried to remind myself I had a case I was working, even if I was shaken up by the whole train thing.

“Wait a minute, before ya toss me out here, buddy.”

“What?” The look on his face was one of exhaustion. He wanted me gone, and I didn’t want to be there, that’s for sure. 

“Here, I’m on an important case and just need to know.” I rifled around in my other pocket, my hand poking into it while my jacket flapped around. At the time, it seemed like the most logical, badass purchase I could make if I was gonna be a detective. Those old detectives from the movies wore overcoats, even if it was hot as hell here and I stuck out like a sore thumb. Speaking of, my thumb probed the pocket until it jammed its way through, the pocket having been cut when the asshole cut me “free” from the tracks. “Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!”

“Man, I got a job to do. Do I need to really toss you on your ass or what?”

“No, wait, maybe I can find it.” I dropped to my hands and knees and looked around in a panic for the newspaper clipping when the train attendant tapped me on the shoulder and dangled a  folded up, dark newsprint photo of a gilded suitcase over my head.

“This what you’re doing?” There was clear disgust in his tone. “You’re the fourth guy to come through here looking for this thing the Longo family lost. It ain’t here. Get it through your thick skulls.”

“Yeah, well, I bet the other guys weren’t pros like me.” I picked myself up and dusted the dirt off my knees. “When you got trouble, you call Jackie Sp—”

“Wait a minute! Hold on a second.” It washed over his face and my complexion turned pastier. At least that’s how I’m imagining it. “Jackie Spumoni? The Soul—”

“Yeah, yeah, Soulpuncher.” I moved into a lackadaisical fighting stance and gave him a nice shadowbox 1-2 and watched the kid’s face go from annoyance to admiration, before it hit him that Jackie Spumoni was walking around the rail yards on an 89-degree day wearing a now-tattered up trench coat looking for a lost doohickey from the local rag, put out by some pillar of the community who couldn’t keep track of his damned fancy shit.

“No shit, huh?” The kid whistled. “Ain’t seen the thing, honest. If I did, I would’ve turned it in myself for that reward. That’s some good money.”

“Figured as much. Feels like the clock’s ticking on this one.”

“There’s a ton of you guys looking. The thing’ll turn up, but not here. Actually, hey, can I get a photo of us? You know, for my pops. He always loved watching your fights. Never got why you retired.”

“You shitting me?” I chuckled uneasily. Talking about this shit never made me feel very good, more like some kinda aberration of nature. “I punched a man in the head and the damned thing popped right off. What did ya expect me to do? Rip his head off and suck his brains out?”

“Um, well, no…” The kid kicked around some dirt with the toe of his boot and I realized I was being an asshole. “It’s just…”

“Then they made me come back for another fight with the stupid ‘Soulpuncher’ name and it happened again and… Fine, just get yer phone out already, will ya?” I said. “Let’s take this photo for old pop.”

The kid came in real close and I held my knuckles towards his jaw, being real careful not to make contact, not that I was superstitious or nothing. People just get spooked by that stuff is all. The whole “Soulpuncher” thing and heads popping off. At least I don’t think his head’d pop off, but it’s not something I’ve been eager to test out. He made a goofy smile like he was about to lose his head and I did my best to not knock it off for real and add it to my list of problems I’d had ever since I popped Brady’s ugly head off.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t find shit here, either, hotshot?” Brady said when I sank down into the car. He lay nestled in the passenger seat on top of his padded bag in all of his neck up glory. Not many people could piss me off like Brady McTavish could. In fact, that night Brady had been talking about my sister like she was some kinda freak, insulting her weight and not much pissed me off like someone picking on Sissy for no good reason. Pretty sure that’s considered irony since they got hitched and all. Love at first sight. She even nursed his loose head back to health. She probably saved me a ton of money from this litigious little bastard and I should be more grateful, but then again, I wouldn’t be carting him around like some kinda charity case, neither.

He’d stood across from me, all piss and vinegar at his ripe young age, while I was the wily vet. I was on the way down. He was on the way up with his matted red chest hair, puffy mop of hair and that meticulously-manscaped beard of his with a little braid all tied together by a golden bead. After he pooh-poohed the idea that some people had thyroid issues they couldn’t control, it was like that stupid bead of his glinted the right way off the ring lights inside of that caged dodecagon we were rumbling around in and my fist couldn’t miss. Sure, I was ripshit pissed when I connected with that punch, but never thought I could take a fucker’s head off or nothing. Yet pop, there it was and time stood still while that bead swung around his head like an orbiting moon, leaving his body to topple over in a heap.

“Hello! Earth to Jackie!” When he got animated like that, his little bead danced around. I was hoping he’d get so ticked off he’d roll down into the wheel well again and I could pretend I couldn’t reach him. None of that luck was going down today. “Where’s the goods?”

“The thing ain’t here, Brady,” I said. “Told ya as much.”

“What’d you do, then? Go for a nice little stroll out there on the train tracks while our ticket to the high life is still out there and some other asshole could find it?”

“Something like that,” I admitted. “We’ll find it, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry he says, the same fucker who bungled basic PI work tracking down Mr. Johnson when he was dicking down that broad.” Brady was glaring up at me but I pretended not to notice or care. That job turned into a fucking mess, but I told Brady I don’t climb trees no more, so of course I fell out and onto the hood of Johnson’s Miata. 

“I don’t do trees anymore, asshole.”

The old beater of a car’s engine roared to life while we drove back towards town, stopping along the way at a little diner. Brady had his gripes about that, even, considering his food intake slowed way down after I popped his damned head off, but I still needed a top off every now and then and the bastard here never stopped eating even without a digestive track of any sort. Where it went, I didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to find out anytime soon. For all I cared, Brady could fuck off in the car. I’d crack a window for him like the dog he was, and maybe get some peace and quiet without being run over by a train. Inside, we settled into a booth in the corner. Brady insisted on coming in, so he was stashed in the duffel bag next to me, unzipped so we could talk, but not enough to freak out the locals. 

The waitress was older than sin, but wore a weary smile that gave me the impression she’d seen some shit in her day, and took my order of two coffees (I said I didn’t like to wait for top offs), a stack of flapjacks, some bacon, a few eggs and a grapefruit juice. To keep the blood flowing. After she took off, Brady whistled from inside his hodgepodge hibernaculum and laughed.

“What’s so funny to you?” I asked, doing my best to keep my voice down.

“No wonder you’re such a blubbery bastard now,” he said.

“Oh fuck off and let me eat in peace. You know, the eggs and some of the bacon for your non-existent ass.”

“Any more leads on the Longo family’s goods?”

“You know there’s nothing,” I said. “Gimme time to think, okay?”

“Speakin’ of Longo, maybe I shoulda done like Big Pete Longo did and sue your ass and the league’s ass into next fucking week, instead of whatever this shit is. You ever think about how weird it’ll be if we find this shit and return it to his old man? Like getting your own money right back.”

“Yeah, well, what’s done is done.” Of course it was something I’d thought about. Big Pete was eager victim number two, and maybe a part of me was trying to make good on something eating away at me by helping his family out. Or maybe I did want some of that money I’d forked over to them back. Cosmic kismet or whatever it was. I grunted and took a sip of my dishwater-disguised-as-coffee, almost choking on it. “But you doing this ain’t on me. You chose this life, bucko.”

There was something he wasn’t wrong about, though. We weren’t any closer to finding the thing which, as best we could tell, was some sorta gilded baby carrier suitcase thing we weren’t exactly flush with work at the moment. Word about my tumble from the treetops onto a Miata got around, not that my name wasn’t already dragged through the mud, and the gag of hiring an old dog like me to track down your demented grandpa or cheating hubby stopped being fun to these people. All around us, the diner buzzed with life. The look  was urban decay, pushed up against the fringes where the city met the freeways and industrial zones. Everything was faded blue and dinged up chrome; a  few old-timers sitting up at the counter slouched over and recounting stories I only heard through mumbles and eruptions of laughter. 

An old, busted up creeper van pulled up and a few kids who looked like good old boy troublemakers hopped out. Three of ’em picked the booth between us and the door, while a fourth one messed around inside the van. Something shiny caught my eye from the back of the van that set off an alarm in my head, although I didn’t know why. There was something off about these guys and I needed to get a better look at their van.

“Gonna go drain the snake, if you know what I mean,” I said. “You stay here and be quiet, McTavish.”

“What’s going on out there? I can’t see shit.”

“Just stay put, for fuck’s sake.”

The poor waitress was doing her best to get through explaining the day’s specials while the kids interrupted and acted like a bunch of jackals as I snaked my way towards the bathrooms. Most of these old places were built all the same way, with the bathrooms at the end of the tube-shaped dining area, one restroom on each side, with an emergency exit in the middle. This one was no different, although the door’s emergency alarm looked like it’d seen better days. I looked back to make sure no one was paying any mind to me and ran my finger along the cable towards the alarm box. This one was older than it looked, and the metal box popped right off. It looked like someone had been to work at it prior, the leads were already disconnected, not that they were in great shape to begin with. I pressed the box back into place and shoved my shoulder into the door, nudging it open, and got temporarily blinded by the sun hanging high in the cloudless sky.

There were commotions coming from inside, the jackasses up to no good, but it was a good enough cover for me to slip out and see if I could jimmy the lock on the van and feed whatever this sneaking suspicion was about what they were hiding. The steel siding was cool to the touch while the sun glinted off of my car, right smack dab next to the target van. I sidled up alongside the car and worked my way around it in a crouch, knees cracking and my jacket snagging on the dented up fender of my car. After a few big tugs, I almost tumbled over, hand smacking down against the loose pavement to keep myself upright. My heart pounded in my chest and sweat beaded on my forehead. Not moving my eyes from the commotion inside, I pressed my back up against the side of the van and tested the handle. Being so old and rusted, it groaned when I tugged it, making my eyes shoot open and carefully letting it go. My pocket chirped and I smacked back against the side of the van, bumping my fool head with a thud before  diving forward into the gravel hopefully just in time to not get noticed.

Sissy was calling me, and the ringer went off like a fire alarm to make sure everyone in the tri-state area knew I was sneaking around. I clicked ignore and picked myself up, sauntering towards the van again and keeping tabs on the window. None of them seemed to notice the clumsy ballet display I’d put on out here, which was good. My hand shook while I reached for the door again, steadfast, with nerves of steel like when I was a prizefighter, knowing what I was capable of and I could open a door, no sweat. Then the damned phone rang again. I flattened myself around the front of the van, away from their view, and picked it up.

“Goddamnit, Sissy,” I muttered through my teeth. “I’m busy here!”

“Brady called me and told me you bailed on him! Left him in a bag in some diner somewhere?” She sounded annoyed, as always.

“We’re on a job, Sissy! Tell your good-for-nothing husband I need him to lie low until I come back.”

“He thinks you’re trying to ditch him again,” she said. “He’s only doing this ‘cuz I asked him to.”

“For fuck’s sake, tell that simpering bastard to eat his eggs and hold on to his chin bead.”

“That’s the other thing, he said the food’s there and he can’t reach it, and wants you to—”

That was enough of that, my day was messed up enough without letting my sister browbeat me about her deadbeat dome of a husband. Not that I’m much better. I was the deluded asshole thinking I was hot on the trail of a precious doodad at some diner in the back of some punk kid’s beater of a van. This whole thing was a waste of time.I needed to drum up some real business, an actual job;not some wild goose chase some asshole put in the paper. The banged up pack of smokes was still shifting around in my pocket, and it took a few tries before I could snag one free from it and sauntered past the van towards the diner’s front door. Who was I fooling, anyway?

Around the old van,  another of those punk kids was rifling around in the back. Enough time had passed because of that blasted phone call that my coast wasn’t so clear anymore. The idea there was some hidden gem in that van was another delusion. Still, I paused and walked over to the kid. He was wearing a black jean vest with the sleeves torn off and greasy black hair slicked back with shaved sides, like some sort of mohawk he couldn’t be bothered to make stand up. A cig dangled from my lips while I held my hands up and walked over like the unassuming bastard I am.

“Heeyyy there, buddy. Ya got a light?” I asked.

“Uh, what?” He looked up at me like a deer in the headlights.

“Got a light?” I flicked my thumb and tried to get a solid look at whatever he was messing around with. There was a golden glint, alright, although I couldn’t make out what it was under the balled up blue tarp. Instead, I stood there like some sort of asshole, flicking my thumb around while this kid stared at me.

“Fuck outta here, old man,” he said. “Fuck off.”

“Alright, fine.” I held my hands up and walked backwards, intentionally bumping into the van door, cracking it open just enough to see if there was some sort of container in there. That damned tarp was still in the way. 

“What part of “fuck off” don’t you get?” The kid shoved me hard, away from the van. I put on a big show, tossing my hands up like I was no threat, and walked backwards toward the diner while the kid slammed the door shut and walked me down. “I don’t have shit for you.”

“I get it, I get it,” I said. “Enjoy your meal, young man.”

“Whatever, asshole.”

Ignoring that I’d slipped out a side door, I gave up on any idea of being incognito or any sort of actual investigator and went back in through the front door, bell chiming overhead and everything, the cig still hanging unlit from my lips. I lowered my head and made it past the table of young guys to get right next to the bag. Brady shifted around and mumbled but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with his bullshit. I grabbed an entire egg from the dish and slapped it into the bag, feeding him like the dog he was.

“Hey!” Brady cried out.

“Keep it down,” I said. “You’re a goddamned severed head, remember?”

“Where’d you run off to? Change your tampon?”

“You called my sister on me because I went to take a leak in peace,” I said. “Got a wild hair and did some scouting. Thought I saw something in that van out there.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t communicate any of that.”

“Nobody asked you to be here, asshole.” I snapped a piece of bacon off in my mouth and took a big sip of the watery, dreadful coffee. Something pulled at me about that van.

An uncomfortable energy fell over the diner when the kid from the van returned and started talking real low-like with his compatriots at the next table. He nodded over towards me and I did my best to dig into my breakfast and avoid worrying too bad about some punk kids having fun at my expense. I was used to it by now, but I wasn’t about to tuck tail and leave while a perfectly good spread sat in front of me. I’d just need to eat faster.

“Get me some coffee, you lunk,” Brady grunted.

“Fine, Christ almighty.” Like some sort of babysitter, I popped a straw into the mug, took a good look around and lowered the mug to his clumsy lips. He sipped at the coffee and groaned, making a face at it. “Yeah, no shit, it ain’t very good.”

“What’s going on out there, anyway? You’re acting weirder than usual, Jackie.”

“Something’s off,” I said. “Dunno what yet.”

While I sat there, chowing down on pancakes I’d dumped entirely too much syrup on, holding my chin over the plate to not dribble all over my already messed up jacket, one of the kids popped up in the booth next to us and turned around, trying to catch my eye. I did my best to avoid making eye contact and continued eating until the kid reached his hand in and started snapping a few inches away from my face. There’s a rage bubbling up inside me, the kind that comes from knowing I could snap these kids in two without even popping their damned heads off, although I could probably do that just as easily. 

“Old man, you all there, or having a stroke?” The punk kid pushed. “Hello?”

“Can’t you see this old man’s trying to enjoy a nice meal in peace?” I didn’t look up, grabbing a strip of bacon and snapping it in front of me, popping half of it into my mouth and doing my best to look like I didn’t give a shit.

“Maybe it really is him,” the kid said back to his table.

“I ain’t nobody worth your time,” I said.

“No, no, no, that’s him,” the kid from outside said. “I know it is.”

“Whoever you think I am, I ain’t.” There’s a good chance I was made. Not as a detective or anything, but as the  washed up fighter I am. It’d been years since the last fight and the headlines about the fallout, the trials, settlements and everything else. These guys were too young to know me from my prime or really give much of a shit about me during those Soulpuncher years.

“It’s not him, Dax. You’re full of shit.” The kid leaning over turned back to his pal and shook his head. “If this was Soulpuncher, shit, he wouldn’t be this fat or sitting there stuffing his face. He’d be out there—”

“Doing what?” My rage bubbled over. “What would Soulpuncher be doing, huh? He’d be getting fucked over by everyone he’d ever made a dime for, betrayed and left to his own devices, tumbling outta goddamned trees onto cut rate sports cars and left to wallow in his own… ah fuck it, just leave me alone.”

“Ho-lee shiiiiit,” the kid from outside, who it turned out was Dax, said. “Told ya. That’s Soulpuncher.”

“He looks like shit,” one said.

“Show some respect,” another one laughed. “He might punch your head off.”

That made them all erupt in laughter as my face turned a justifiable shade of red. I turned and tucked Brady into the bag while he quietly protested, half-zipping it and tugging my last twenty from my pocket and slapping it down on the table. With the bag slung over my shoulder, I slid my ass up from the booth and started to leave while the table next to us grew increasingly raucous. The waitress poked her head out and looked at me. I mouthed “sorry” and she shook her head, disappearing back behind the door. 

“Whoa whoa whoa.” Dax jumped out in front of me, getting between me and the door while I gripped the bag tighter. Brady was banging around in there, and I had to slap the bag with my palm to calm him down. This was no time for the severed head brother-in-law to make an appearance. “Where you think you’re going, Soulpuncher? Can’t you tell you’ve got some fans here?”

“Yeah, we’re real big fans,” one of the kids said. 

“Sure you are,” I said. “Lemme through, okay? I gotta take off.”

“Where ya going?” one asked. 

“He’s gonna head back to his sad little apartment and jack off, I bet,” Dax said.

Another chorus of laughter came from the jackholes. I tried to push through, but Dax put his hand on my shoulder, stopping me dead in my tracks. I was already swallowing enough of this rage and trying to forget about whatever sat in that van. This was going too far and I couldn’t hold it in much longer.

“Just let me through,” I said. “Let me through and nobody gets hurt.”

“Is that a threat?” Dax laughed. They cracked up, control of themselves as they pounded the table and clutched their sides.

A tingle ran through me. Even those old men minding their own business at the counter turned to look, shaking their heads and guffawing at whatever nonsense was going on, not looking to get involved. Figures. Could’ve used some backup to keep things from going too far, but they weren’t about to be the pals I needed, nor was severed head Brady bouncing around in that bag like he was.

I pushed past Dax, heading for the door. I’m being the bigger man here, something I wish I’d done hundreds, if not thousands, of times before in my life. This was some sorta evolution. The door was just inches away when the strap of the bag tugged on my shoulder. Trying not to make a big deal about it, I gave it a tug and sure enough, someone had a hold of it.

“What’s in the bag?” Dax asked.

“I heard he carries around the heads of his victims,” one said.

“Nah,” Dax said. “That’d be cool. This guy isn’t nothing but a washed up old bum.”

“Let go of my bag,” I grumbled.

“What was that?”

“I said ‘let go of my bag,’ you asshole.” That was it. The kid let go and held his hands up, shit eating grin on his face. “See? Not too hard, even for a dumbass like you.”

“What was that?” Dax sprang forward and placed his arm between me and the even-closer-than-before door. “What was that, you old piece of shit? You think you can talk to me like that?”

“Let me out!” Brady was shouting from the bag, all muffled-like. I tried to smack him with my elbow, but he kept going.

“What was that?” the kid at the table asked. “Did you hear that?”

“It was nothing,” I said. “Mind your damned business. And you, put that hand down and let me go about my day already.”

“Make me.” Dax’s grin only widened. “What are ya gonna do? Pop my head off?”

“Funny,” I said. “Very funny. I’m just gonna be on my way now.”

“Bullshit!” Dax pounded his fist against the wall. “I’m gonna collect my own scalp here. Imagine telling everyone I fucked up old man Soulpuncher?”

“What, you want a photo or something?” I sighed, trying to defuse these tempers and hold back my own. “I can do a photo. You wanna put me in a headlock or something? Be a big tough man? Biiiiig old tough—”

Before I could finish, the kid lunged at me. I might be a washed up old man, but reflexes never faded away. I ducked my head down to the side so the blow grazed the top of my shoulder, which I drove into his gut. I followed up with a right hand to the ribs that stumbled the kid back then brought my fist up in an arc towards his face. But I couldn’t bring myself to connect. Something inside of me screaming to never do that again. The kid took this as a weakness and landed a punch flush on my jaw. 

“What’s going on?” Brady is yammering. “Let me out!”

“Fuck off,” I grunted, stumbled back against the wall.

Dax rushed in again as my knee roseto his groin while I moved to the side. His fist smashed into the metal wall with a thud, his whimper at the groin shot buzzing in my ear. The bad news was the other three kids were up and coming right for me. Dax was crumbled down on top of me and my only move was to bring Brady’s bag around like a sling, smacking head-on-head with a sickening thud. Brady called out, and I immediately felt bad.

“My bad, buddy.” I pushed Dax off of me and into his friends, unzipping the bag and looking down at Brady, who was making a face at me. 

“Let me out!” he cried.

“Maybe later. Bit busy here.” I dropped the bag down to free up my arm and got into a fighting position. The remaining punks burst out laughing at a broken down, out-of-shape old man in a tattered up jacket posting up.

They rushed in as a group, their fists flying all over. In the heat of the moment, none of it mattered much. I still had those instincts and created space. Getting the hell outta there was what mattered. I staggered back at the sheer weight of them and my foot kicked the bag back. The waitress screamed and the old geezers muttered something. After a moment, the three punks backed up, and I looked back to realizeBrady had rolled out.

“For fuck’s sake, Jackie!” Brady yelled. 

“I-is… that…?” One kid gasped.

“That fucking McTavish’s severed head?” Dax cried out. “You sick fuck.”

“Lemme at these punks,” Brady said.

They were disgusted but not done yet as they formed a half circle around us. I stumbled back and did the only logical thing: I grabbed  Brady’s yapping maw by that ridiculous little bead on his chin and whipped him forward at the group. They screamed while Brady’s head careened through the air in an arc; growling and barking along the way like a rabid dog until he smacked into one kid’s chest, sending him crashing down against Dax. I scooped the bag up and ran forward, tucking Brady back into the bag and exploding out of the door.

“We didn’t even find the damned thing yet, and you messed this all up!” he shouted.

I ran to the van and grabbed the handle to the rear door, throwing it open with a groan. I again saw that glinting from underneath the tarp.I brushed it and my jaw dropped as I saw what looked. exactly like that baby carrier thing from the newspaper. Brady was still moving around inside the bag and screaming at me, but his words were mashing together while my head spun. 

“Shut up! I found it! I found it!”

“Found what?”

“I found the Longo…whatever this is!” I was almost in tears. “Holy shit, it’s shiny, and heavy.”

“Grab it and let’s get outta here,” he said. “Hurry up.”

“Shit, yer right.” I gathered it up in my arms and tucked it into the backseat of my car, tossing the bag onto the passenger seat and sliding into the driver’s seat. The punks realized what was going on and rushed for the door as  I gunned the engine and slammed the car into reverse, almost crashing into the car behind me and peeling out like a madman while they cursed at me. 

We raced down the street, and I couldn’t help but crack a smile and let out a victorious whoop. The golden carry-on bag sat in the backseat and I pulled the balled up photo from the newspaper out to make sure I wasn’t just seeing things. Sure enough, that case sitting in my backseat was one and the same. Once I was far enough away, I pulled back towards the railroad and down an alleyway, hoping the punks wouldn’t find me. Brady was clamoring for me to take a peek into the bag so we didn’t get into more trouble, and that we needed to call the client immediately so they didn’t think we were kidnappers or nothing. I hopped out and ran around to the backdoor, opening it up with a creak and a groan, imagining ditching this old hunk of junk when the reward money came in. My palms were sweaty and my pulse raced when I reached out for the carrier, looking for some sort of latch.

“What are you waiting for?” Brady called.

“Alright, calm yourself, sheesh,” I said.

My fingers traced along the smooth metal exterior until it found a button near the top. I pressed it and expected some sort of big reveal, a cache of jewels or valuables that’d been missing that we’d be returning to those litigious asshats who’d have to open their fat wallet for Uncle Jackie. Looking up at me was a pair of big brown eyes, a bulbous nose, and a square jaw. It was a face I knew all-too-well and almost made me pass out right then and there. Looking up at me was Pete fucking Longo, the man who drove me into the damned ground after I knocked his head off.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Spumoni?” Pete said.

“Pete? Pete Longo, is that you?” Brady said  from the front.

“You got McTavish with you?” Pete asked. “What a family fucking reunion this is!”

“W-wait a goddamned minute here,” I stammered. “You telling me I was rescuing your dumb ass? I thought I’d find a case of cash or something and give it back for a fat stack.”

“Oh fuck me,” he said. “Did they hire your fat ass to find me? I knew this was a bad idea.”

“Put a spread in the paper,” Brady called. “Photo of that carrier and all, didn’t say shit about you.”

“You ain’t gonna do shit, Spumoni,” Pete said, “other than mess everything up like ya always do. What a fuck up, eh, Brady?”

“You’re telling me,” Brady said. “What’re you doing in this thing, anyway?”

“My goddamned prick of a father has a vice grip on my money. It’s my frigging money, ya know? It’s my body that’s gone, but he treats me like a baby still. I called up a few friends and staged this here abduction, was gonna break off a piece for those punk kids who helped me out. At least I was, until this asshole here ruined everything.”

“Ain’t that the shit right there?” Brady said. “40-something and they’re still holding on to ya. But wait, you kidnapped yourself for the ransom money?”

“What’s Spumoni think he is over here? Some sorta private dick or something?” Pete sneered.

“Pretty funny, ain’t it?” Brady said. “Not that I’m doing much better, married to his sister and all. She always asks me to watch after him, takes the piss outta me.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“We can still get that money going,” I said, trying my best to salvage this mess. “Give ya a fat cut of the reward money, right?”

“Spumoni, you can fuck right off with that,” Pete said. “I ain’t giving you shit. You try to pull that shit and I’ll tell everyone you’re the asshole who kidnapped me. They’d believe it, too. I mean, look at you, you’re pathetic with that tattered up coat and that spare tire.”

“Right?” Brady said with a cackle. “You know he watches all these old detective movies all the time? Real sad sack, lives in Sissy and I’s basement. Can you believe that shit?”

I staggered back while both men prattled on, turning and facing the train tracks while a crossing alarm dinged, the sound whirling around the air. Their voices blended into the air while the engine roared past us. I peeled my torn up jacket off and tossed it to the ground, stomping on it and screaming out at the top of my lungs. God damnit. God fucking damnit.